by J. Dallas
I recognized the feeling.
That sense of dread had chased me for months, years after I’d left and it had taken me years to shake it off completely. I wasn’t going to let it pull me down again.
All of this was supposed to free me of my past, not drag me down further.
I headed toward the door, practically desperate for escape, but halfway there, I passed by the mirror and the sight of the woman there made me pause.
Going still, I faced her, saw the pallor, the shadows under her eyes.
Sighing, I closed the distance and reached up, touched the reflection. “I thought I’d buried you,” I murmured.
It was a shattering revelation, standing there and realizing I could still see her. Still see echoes of the scared, tired girl I’d been ten years ago. Oh, I looked older and the naiveté was gone. But the fear, the vulnerability was still there. That uncertainty and lack of confidence. Naïve, no. I wasn’t that. But I was still unsure. I looked like the timid girl the police had pulled off the streets that day.
I looked like a victim.
It wasn’t acceptable.
Curling my hands over the edge of the hand-carved bureau, I breathed, held it. Took another, slow, steadying breath. You aren’t who you used to be. A few bad dreams, a knock on the head, that’s not enough to send you back there, Shannon.
My head throbbed, pain emanating from a spot just above my right ear, but I ignored it, focusing on the way air moved in and out of my lungs, the soothing lull of my own heartbeat. After a few minutes, I felt steadier. Almost calm.
When I looked back at my reflection, I looked almost like myself again.
Tired, yes.
But I could live with tired.
I’d just had the sense knocked out of me. Tired was acceptable.
Weak wasn’t.
* * * * *
The lights were low when I opened the door.
But I had no trouble seeing him.
He sat before a slow-burning fireplace, the glow from his MacBook casting light on his face, while the fire cast amber glints off the whiskey gleaming in the glass a few inches from his hand.
He wasn’t working, though.
He sat there, just staring at the fire.
Until he heard me, that is.
Then he turned his head, his lashes low, shielding his gaze from me.
He reached out a hand, caught the glass and I watched as he lifted it to his lips. His throat worked and it was just insanity that I still wanted to go to him and press my lips to the strong muscles there. My mouth watered just thinking about it.
He put the glass down and looked away, focusing on the MacBook with an intensity that would have completely fooled me had I not seen him staring at the fire blankly just a moment before.
“How’s your head?” he asked.
“Sore.” I moved a little farther into the room, looking around. The place was huge, practically the size of the condo I’d been renting in Philadelphia. Off to the side, I caught a glimpse of the kitchen, lost in shadows. “You haven’t been in to make me practice my counting skills.”
His hands stilled on the laptop, then he shrugged. “It’s been twenty-four hours.”
“Twenty…” I blinked, freezing in my tracks as I did the math. It was completely over, then. I’d hit my head and slept through the final hours of the anniversary. Turning away, I pressed my lips together while tears burned my eyes. The ache in my throat was massive, like I’d swallowed a boulder. “I need to call my mother.”
“She’s called you.”
Slowly, dread curdling inside me, I turned back to him and watched as he reached out a finger, nudging the phone toward the edge of the table where he worked. “I let it go to voicemail the first few times, but then she started calling every hour, thought she might be worrying so I took the call. Told her you’d hurt your head and I was just watching you while you got some sleep.”
A fist grabbed my throat. “Did you…” Oh, no. This…This was bad. “Did she ask who you were?”
“Yes. I told her my name was Mike, that I was a friend of yours. She accepted it.”
“Mike…” The relief slammed into me and I sagged, collapsing on the low chair a few feet from the couch. “Michael—that’s your middle name.”
He didn’t respond. His expression was like stone as he focused back on whatever he had been working on.
I fought the urge to apologize. I’d left him in the lurch. I was a selfish bitch, and I knew it.
Guilt and shame knotted inside me and I wrapped my arms around my middle as it all twisted and stormed inside me.
A hand touched my knee and I looked up as he wrapped a blanket around me. “You’re shaking,” he said softly.
“Am I?”
My teeth were chattering. Distantly, that struck me as odd. I wasn’t cold—was I?
He went to turn away and I reached out a hand, catching his arm. “Sit with me,” I said, the words coming out before I even knew what I wanted.
I didn’t want to be alone.
Alone, as I’d been for so many years. Mom and I had tried to pull each other through, but I’d blamed myself, she’d blamed herself, and then…we’d drifted. Eventually, she started to heal, but I just stayed where I was.
Alone. Lonely. Miserable…and deep inside, the anger grew.
Only I’d focused it on the wrong person.
As Drake reached up and brushed my hair back, I stared at him.
“I don’t think that’s wise,” he said, softly.
“Why not?”
“Because there’s too much we haven’t said to each other.”
Licking my lips, I fumbled for a smile. It felt fake, awkward on my face. “I…I just want to sit here. I’m not up for anything else.”
“That’s just it. You’re not up for anything else, and that’s what I want.” His hand slid down, curved around my neck and I froze as he moved in, pressed his lips to my brow. That pounding that had gripped me, nauseating me every time I woke up faded, eased, under just that light touch. “I want everything from you, Shannon. I’m not talking about now. You’re hurt and I know that. But in general? Yeah. I want everything. I always have. Ten years didn’t change that. You walking away didn’t change that. But you’re angry with me, you’re keeping secrets and once you heal up, you’ll walk out that door again…won’t you?”
Oxygen seemed to die inside me. Barely able to breathe, I sat there, watching him. His thumb stroked down my neck, rubbing over my skin in a gentle caress. “I…” I licked my lips. “I don’t know, Drake. I don’t know what I want, or what I want to do. I can’t answer that.”
He nodded and then rose, moving back to the couch.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
His eyes closed and then he dropped his face into his hands.
A moment later, he surged off the couch and started to pace.
“Don’t.”
The word, bitten off like he was chewing glass, caught me off guard.
I sucked in a breath, staring at him as he stopped in his tracks and turned to stare at me. The green of his eyes all but glowed. “Don’t you fucking apologize to me. I don’t want to hear it.”
“I…” I stopped, snapping my jaw shut as words jumbled and caught inside my throat. “Okay. What do you want me to say?”
He opened his mouth, closed it. Then turned away, staring at the wall. Under the fine material of his shirt, I could see how his muscles tightened and bunched, like he had to fight to remain still, just to stand there.
“Drake?”
I couldn’t even explain it, but dread curled inside me as he slowly turned around and stared at me.
“Tell me,” he said, his voice frozen, artic.
I swallowed, my hand tightening in the blanket. “Tell you what?”
Even before he said it, I knew.
“Tell me about Florida.”
“What the fuck do you mean, you don’t have the money here?” he roared, lifting a hand.
&nb
sp; I stuffed a fist against my mouth, determined not to scream. Every other time I’d screamed, they’d struck out. Not at me, though. They always hit my dad—or my mom. They didn’t leave marks on her, but they’d hit her in the stomach, used their belts on her thighs. Anything to hurt her in places that couldn’t be seen.
Dad, though, he was so battered, I couldn’t even recognize him. Except for his eyes. Those wide gray eyes, just like mine. Before this had happened, those gray eyes were usually absent as he thought about this daydream, or that. Or they’d gleam with humor. Now they were stark, with fury or fear, as he watched the two men who were likely to kill us all.
The man brought his hand across my father’s face and I let myself scream—in my head. Aloud, I didn’t make a sound and I stared into the eyes of the man who had come over to watch me, smiling just a little like he hoped I would cry. He liked it when I did because he liked to hit my father just so I’d beg him not to. As I fought to silence it, he crouched down and looked at me. “Come on. Scream, little girl. Just once.”
I stared into his eyes, terrified. And I bit the inside of my cheek until it bled. I wouldn’t scream, not again. I ached all over and something low in my back hurt—I’d never hurt like that before. But I wouldn’t scream.
The other man just stood in front of Dad, his chest heaving, his eyes bright with rage. “You stupid shit. You got money. We heard you bragging about it and we did some digging around. You sold some piece of shit hotel for two million dollars. Why the fuck can’t you get it?”
“Our bank is in Boston,” Mom said, her voice cool, almost scathing…but not quite there. My throat closed up as I looked at her, pride flooding me, love swamping me. She was so beautiful, so brave. Twice that man had started to hit me and she’d drawn his attention—he’d attacked her instead and I’d crouched on the floor, hating myself for making him want to hit me, and for Mom taking the blows instead.
He never left a mark on me. My stomach hurt from how many times he’d pummeled me, how many times he’d jabbed a fist into my side.
I hurt all over. Mom…I swallowed the moan in my throat and forced myself to be quiet. If she could do this, I could. Stonily, I watched as she raked her eyes over him, like he was something nasty she’d found on the doorstep. “We can get money from the ATM, but if you want a lot of money, we’d have to get it wired.”
“Then tell me how to do that.” The first man—his name was Peter, I think—came over to her, smiling a little. It was like he wanted her to help him out. He’d told us that. Help me out, I’ll let you go. But he wouldn’t. I knew that. If he let us go, we’d go to the cops. He’d have to kill us. “Tell me what to do and we’ll wire the money down.”
“You can’t.” My mother tipped her head back, staring up at the ceiling. “It has to be my husband and me. It’s a joint account and anything over a certain amount requires both of us to be present.” She gave them a thin smile. “I put that precaution in place because my husband is notoriously bad with money.”
She was lying…
I flinched as Peter started to yell.
The other one swore and went to my father, a hand lifted. But Peter caught him. “Stop it! We gotta think. If she’s telling the truth and we need both of them, he can’t go in there looking like that.”
“Yeah, yeah. We need money now, though.”
His eyes came to me, an appraising look in his face.
My skin started to crawl.
Jerking myself out of that hellhole of memories, I sucked in a breath and turned away. My legs were wooden and moving felt impossible. I managed to move the few feet to the chair, but that was it. Slowly, I sank down and stared at the fire, watching as the flames danced, flickered. “What do you mean, what happened?” I asked softly.
“Your father was murdered.”
A second later, a tablet was tossed down on the leather ottoman in front of me. I knew the article. It was one of the many that had plastered the newspapers for several days after we were rescued. Bittersweet end to tragedy. Father killed. Mother and daughter rescued from kidnappers.
Bittersweet end. They thought that touched on it.
There was no mention of my name. My mother had fought, tooth and nail, to keep my name from being mentioned. Since I hadn’t officially turned eighteen yet, she managed to win, but just barely.
I reached out and touched a fingertip to my father’s image, there in the article. They lauded him as a hero, him and Mom. A few people did figure out who I was, but I’d left as soon as I was able, going back only for the hearings and the trial. The men accepted a deal from the DA and I still refused to talk, so the reporters moved on to greener pastures.
“Every time I cried, they hit him.” The words slipped out of me before I realized I was going to say anything.
A shadow fell across my hand and I looked up as Drake sank down in the chair across from me, his face so rigid, it could have been cut from stone. Looking back down at my father’s face, I swallowed. “If I screamed, if I didn’t do what they asked, they beat him, or they’d hurt Mom. They never left marks on her face, but they had other ways of hurting her. Punching her in the belly, using a belt on her legs. Anything to hurt her, and they’d watch me, let me know it was my fault. They hit me some, especially at first, but it was always in the belly—like they didn’t want to leave any bruises or anything. They loved to hurt my parents, though, no matter what I did, no matter how quiet I was. I learned fast not to do anything. Not to say anything. And to do what they wanted.”
“They wanted money.”
I nodded. “Dad had been…well, talking. They didn’t know all of his money was in a bank in Boston and it wasn’t like he could make a huge withdrawal out of an ATM.” I shrugged and pulled my hand back, curling it in a fist and tucking it inside the blanket. That cold chill had settled inside me again. Frozen. I felt frozen solid. “But they needed money immediately…they had people breathing down their necks for something. Once a day, they dragged me to an ATM. That’s why they never hit my face. They didn’t want the attention. I’d go to the ATM and when I was there, in front of those little cameras, I’d sign out Help. Please.” Absently, I signed it out as I spoke, staring off at nothing. “My grandmother was deaf. That’s how I knew sign, although I’d forgotten most of it. One of the security guards had seen it. Figured out what I was doing and called the cops. The men who grabbed us had been waiting until Dad healed up enough—Mom had told them that they would need a wire transfer. She’d convinced them that they couldn’t get the money any other way and that they’d need both of them present to make the transfer. Dad was so messed up, he couldn’t go anywhere without attracting attention. But they kept taking me to the ATM.”
I rubbed my hand down my thigh, trying to warm myself as I talked. “That last day, I signed again. We were walking back. I fell. I was tired. Hungry. Hadn’t eaten in days. It’s a blur, what happened. There were cops. Before I fell? After? He told me that I’d killed my parents and…”
I stopped, shook my head.
Rising, I moved over to the window, staring outside.
“He had a radio. I remember hearing him shout through it. I heard my mom. Heard her say my name. She told me to run. My dad—his voice.” I had to stop, leaning forward, pressing my head against the window as I waited for the ache in my throat to ease up, so I could get the rest of it out. “He said he loved me. Then…” I licked my lips. “The guy who had taken me out—his name was Todd. Todd Young. He jerked me back up, and hit me. I fell again. Everything went blurry but somehow I got to my feet, started to run. He was screaming. Then there were cops everywhere and…”
Heaving out a sigh, I turned and looked at him. “That’s it. I don’t remember anything until I woke up in the hospital. My mom was there. They’d shot her, but it went in and out. She was crying when I looked at her, holding my hand. They’d killed my dad. As soon as that bastard who took me out called back in, the other one—his name was Peter—turned and looked at my parents. He told t
hem, You can thank your daughter for this. Then he lifted the gun. My mom had gotten free, somehow. She rushed him. The bullet went through her side—she lost a kidney, but it hit a window, broke it. Police had already been searching the area and they got there…too late. After he got up, he pointed the gun at my dad and just like that, my father was gone.”
Just like that.
Memories slammed into me and it was too much. Unable to take the stillness anymore, unable to take his grim silence, I forced myself to move. One foot in front of the other, until I was in the bedroom. There, I curled up in the middle of the bed and wrapped my arms around my knees.
Just like that.
Chapter Four
Can’t breathe—
Pain exploded through me.
Staring through the tears burning my eyes, I struggled to see. Mom…Dad…
Don’t talk, some small voice in the back of my head told me. Brutal hands fisted in my hair, jerked my head back. A voice, ugly and amused, whispered in my ear, Scream, little girl. Scream so I can hurt him.
Not right. Even through the pain, I knew it. That wasn’t right.
A hand shoved me to my knees, still holding me tight. Look at him. Look!
Through my tears, I stared. I tried to see him, but—
A light fell across his face just as the second man, Peter, moved up to stand behind him. We’ll get out. We’ll come after him. And you. Your mother. You’ll never be free—
He swung out with a tire iron, the same one he’d used to smash into my father’s stomach the very first day they’d grabbed us. And I watched as he smashed it into Drake’s head.
Blood exploded, so much blood. It flowed and flowed until it flooded the entire room.
I woke up screaming.
Screaming and trapped in Drake’s arms.
Even though his scent cued me in as to who was holding me, panic flooded my body and I swung out.
My elbow caught his throat and I heard the choked noise, dimly, as I scrambled free.
Crouched on the floor, in the middle of the room, light hurting my eyes, my befuddled, confused brain struggling to catch up, I sat there and stared.
