“Sadly, no. She’d been a drug addict for years—she could be dead, or she could be so strung out she doesn’t know her name. But they did find her maternal grandmother, who’s overjoyed to take custody of the girl.”
The child would need counseling and love, but Lucy was confident that with enough of both, and a strong will, she would survive and lead a normal, happy life.
Normal. Was anyone who’d been abused considered normal? Victims never truly forgot their abuse. But they could develop strategies to live with it, to tolerate the pain and the memories—never easy, but essential if any of them were to find even a modicum of peace in the future.
Fran gave Lucy a spontaneous hug. “We need to celebrate our victories. If Prenter contacts you, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow night, okay? Go home and rest.”
“I will. Thanks.” Lucy gathered her bag. She glanced out the window and noticed the sun was gone and a chill wind tore down the street. She was so tired and drained from her near-sleepless night, she decided to grab a taxi.
The fucking bitch hails a taxi.
I watch Lucy open the rear door. She pauses and looks across the street, right at me. She doesn’t see me; I am in the deli—the same deli she ate at earlier this afternoon.
That ignorance angers me, yet somehow I am thrilled. I cannot explain the exhilaration rising in my chest. I despise being ignored, yet she doesn’t truly ignore me, does she?
I know Lucy Kincaid. I know where she lives. I know where she works, where she gets her coffee, where her brother lives, where she runs in the park.
She gets into the taxi and it drives off. Taking her home? Taking her to dinner? I do not know, but I am patient.
Her family makes me nervous. A brother who is a private investigator. A sister-in-law who is an FBI agent. This is why I am cautious—I cannot afford to make a mistake.
Should I walk away and wash my hands of Lucy Kincaid? I could easily kill her and run, but would they hunt me down? Her family? The organization she works for? Can I defeat them? I want to believe I can, but I’m not an idiot.
I am patient, but my time is valuable. I keep a log of the time she has cost me. That time will be repaid.
No one understands the concept of time as I do. I sleep exactly six hours every night. No more, no less. I exercise for twenty-two minutes each morning, followed by four minutes in the shower. And while I understand the need for flexibility, if I am not disciplined, how can I expect my females to be disciplined?
I am the keeper of truth, and I will not forget her betrayal. I will forget no betrayals. They will all be disciplined in turn. They will all be nothing, not even a speck of DNA. Which seems appropriate since they are merely females; worse, females who do not obey.
But Lucy Kincaid is by far the most disobedient woman I have come across. I need to act wisely or else I should disappear.
But walking away from her is not an option. What kind of man would I be if a female scared me off?
I consider my options. I can take her almost anytime I want. I let two good opportunities pass me by because I do not want to be hasty. Rash action leads to mistakes, and because of her family, I cannot afford to err. I need a plan.
No woman will defeat me. She started this game. She is the mightier-than-thou female who does not know her proper place.
I do not fear Lucy Kincaid. She is no threat. The men in her life are potential threats, but by the time they figure it out, if they can, I will be gone.
This situation presents a certain challenge.
I exit the deli and walk to my car. Ideas flood my brain: how and when to take her. I must have as much time with her as possible to teach her. All the time she has cost me will be repaid with her obedience, or it will be repaid with blood.
TEN
There was a time when Sean could have gone either way—become a criminal mastermind or choose the law-abiding road. If he’d ever doubted that staying more or less on the side of the law was the right choice, he didn’t now.
Sean drove to the east side, the most depressed part of D.C., with his notes on known Morton and Scott associates who lived in the greater D.C. area. Their criminal enterprise had lasted nearly two decades, and while several of their associates were dead or in prison—and a few appeared to have cleaned up their act—most were still criminals ranging from petty to Mafia.
He had time to hit at least one today. Because she was the easiest to track down, he chose the lone female on the list.
Former prostitute Melinda Winslow had been released from prison six months ago after serving three years for possession of heroin with the intent to sell. It was her fourth conviction in eleven years. According to the information Jayne sent to Sean, she’d been a regular “star” at Trask Enterprises. When Trask closed up after Scott and Morton went underground following the murder of federal agent Paige Henshaw—Kate Donovan’s partner—Winslow lost control of her addiction and had spiraled farther downward.
When she answered the door of her hovel, Sean nearly left, certain he had the wrong person. Melinda Winslow was thirty-six; this woman looked fifty on a good day.
It was not a good day. If drugs didn’t kill you outright, they certainly sucked the life out of you.
“Well, fuck me, you pricks can waltz in here whenever you fucking please? Pig.”
“Hello, Ms. Winslow,” Sean said, mildly amused. “I have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Like I can? Last time one of you tossed me back in jail because I wouldn’t give you a blow job, and fuck that.”
She thought he was a cop, and Sean did nothing to dissuade her. He didn’t always see eye-to-eye with law enforcement. Some cops were just fine; others were too black-and-white for his taste. And some were, as Ms. Winslow so ungraciously stated, simply pricks.
“I don’t want to see you back in jail.”
She snorted, then rubbed her wet nose with the back of her hand. Sean wouldn’t be touching her or anything in her filthy apartment.
“I have only a couple questions, like I said. May I?”
“Like you need to ask.” She flung the door open, knocking a teetering stack of yellowed tabloid newspapers off a sagging bookshelf. She didn’t seem to notice, stepping over the fallen rags.
Sean stepped in, keeping his hands to himself. “You had a business relationship eleven years ago with two men—Adam Scott, also known as ‘Trask,’ and Roger Morton.”
At the mention of the names, her pasty face paled even more, then she thrust her chin out. “I haven’t seen them. Trask is dead, I heard. Roger in prison. I wouldn’t talk to him if he were the last john on the planet.”
“You were an employee of Trask Enterprises, correct?”
She cackled. “Employee. You know what I was. They paid me for sex tapes. It was legal, all legal—at least on my end it was.”
Sean highly doubted she reported her income to the Internal Revenue Service, but he didn’t say anything.
“I didn’t know what they were doing on the side. I fucking swear to God.”
“You associated with them for how long?”
“A few months. And then—a few times here and there when I needed the money. They paid more for hard-core action. But—shit, Trask nearly killed me once while getting off. Roger gave me two g’s to keep silent. Told me I was lucky I wasn’t dead, and not to come back or call. I didn’t. That was years ago. I went to jail after that, in Minnesota, for drugs. Cleaned myself up.” She nodded in pride. Sean noted the plethora of empty wine jugs around the apartment, and the stale smell of human body odor and spilled alcohol. Maybe she didn’t shoot heroin anymore, but she was still slowly killing herself.
“Did Roger contact you within the last six months?” he asked.
“No. And if he tried, I’d tell him to go to Hell.” She glared at Sean. “I thought he was in prison.”
“Yes, ma’am, he was. He was released on probation in July.”
She laughed, a hearty laugh, and Sean saw for a
brief moment that she had once been a beautiful woman. “Probation? After the shit he did? I got three fucking years for drug possession, and he got what? Five? Ten? For prostitution, murder, drugs, and fuck knows what else.”
She pulled down the collar of her T-shirt, revealing her neck. “See this scar?”
Sean saw a two-inch scar at the base of her throat. His jaw tightened as his protective instincts surged.
“Roger did that to you?”
She shook her head and let go of her collar. “Trask. I thought I was dead. But Roger watched and then later he paid me. I heard they made a fortune on that tape of Trask fucking me. Roger did everything for that bastard. We all knew Trask was a psycho, and Roger covered for him. So why’d he get out?”
“Because the justice system is fucked.”
Sean dropped fifty dollars on her sofa and left, unable to stay another minute.
To say what happened with Morton was due to a messed-up justice system was the world’s greatest understatement. Winslow wasn’t a saint, but no one deserved to be treated as she had been, nearly killed in such a vicious manner. Adam Scott was the psychopath, but Morton had watched from the sidelines, helped clean up Scott’s messes, kept the damn trains running on time.
Sean slid into his black GT, shooting a glance at the teenage boys eyeing his ride. They didn’t bother him, and a glance in the rearview mirror showed him why. He looked ready for a fight.
He squealed into the street, maneuvering the muscle car as if it were an extension of himself. Driving usually gave him peace, but right now he felt nothing but deep, acid-building anger.
When Melinda Winslow showed him her scar, he pictured Lucy. He didn’t want to, he had never seen any scars on Lucy, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there under her clothes.
Sean found the nearest Beltway on-ramp. He needed to get on the highway and floor it. Right now, he sorely missed Northern California where he knew all the back roads he could virtually fly on when he needed to let off steam. Here, there were too many people, too many cars, in too small an area. He headed south toward Virginia in search of a long country road.
Winslow had spoken bluntly of her attack, but she hadn’t considered it an attack. She hadn’t been raped. Stupidly, she’d gone into the situation willingly, for money. Sean pitied her after seeing the fear in her eyes as she recalled nearly dying. Eleven years ago and she was still terrified.
It was the matter-of-fact answers, her language, her acceptance of the shit life handed her and her own culpability in her situation that had Sean’s head spinning. Lucy was the exact opposite. She had been kidnapped and wasn’t a willing participant in Adam Scott’s sex games. She’d been tortured, tormented, raped, and nearly killed because Adam Scott was a sadistic bastard who got off by hurting women.
Lucy hadn’t spoken of her ordeal with more than a few vague details, but he hadn’t expected her to. The murder of Roger Morton was bringing it back up to the surface. He could see that in her eyes, in the tension that filled every muscle. But he hadn’t put her in the role of a victim because Lucy never once acted like a victim. Until last night, when she’d cried and he’d held her. Sean would do anything in his power to take away her anguish.
He hit 395 south and moved smoothly around traffic, grateful that the intermittent sunshine had dried the roads from the snow earlier that week. It was three in the afternoon and rush hour was just starting, but he would stay ahead of it. He picked up speed, trying to block Winslow’s words from his mind, trying to stop picturing Lucy in her place.
Lucy was the strongest woman he’d ever met. She had to be to accomplish so much in such a short time, with the weight of her past sitting on her shoulders. But dammit, she shouldn’t have had to suffer at all! No woman should have suffered at the hands of Scott and Morton. The justice system was fucked, and Sean wanted to hit something.
But he wouldn’t. His release was driving, and he drove until his heart rate slowed back to normal, until he’d calmed himself enough to remember that both men were dead, they couldn’t hurt anyone again, they’d never touch Lucy.
The radar detector hidden in his dashboard beeped rapidly, and he instantly slowed down—shit, he was going ninety-five?—to seventy, maintaining complete control of his GT. But it was too late. The trooper came up behind him and flashed his lights.
Sean pulled over, not holding his breath that he’d be able to talk himself out of a ticket.
But he would have fun trying.
ELEVEN
Lucy had avoided Kate last night and this morning, but her sister-in-law was waiting for her when the taxi dropped her off at four-thirty Friday afternoon.
“Lucy—” Kate said as Lucy started up the stairs.
Lucy didn’t want to talk about yesterday or Morton or her FBI interview or Kate’s lies, not right now. Her raw emotions could easily spill out and she didn’t want a fight almost as much as she didn’t want to cry. She was so drained from her confrontation with Kate yesterday, she didn’t want to say anything she couldn’t take back.
“Can we do this tomorrow?” Lucy was already thinking of ways to avoid Kate all weekend. She would have to talk to her; she couldn’t live here and expect to evade the inevitable conversation. She simply didn’t have the energy at this moment.
Kate tucked her straight shoulder-length blond hair behind her ear, tilting her head up to look Lucy in the eye. “Lucy, I just—”
“The FBI interview went fine. I’m not a suspect. That’s what you want to know, right?”
“I know, I spoke to Noah.”
Lucy felt like an outsider, that once again Kate was working behind her back and keeping information from her.
“Terrific.”
“He didn’t tell me anything, just that you did great and weren’t considered a suspect. I need to talk to you about something; it’s important. Please. I have to leave in ten minutes—and I want you to have all the information I have.”
Lucy frowned, torn, but reluctantly followed Kate to the kitchen, her curiosity stronger than her sense of betrayal.
Kate’s jacket, laptop, and keys were all on the table. “I’m heading to Quantico to process evidence in the Morton case.”
“They’re letting you work on it? Isn’t that a conflict of interest or something?”
“Denver FBI found a computer and files at Morton’s apartment, and on the surface it appears that he was recreating Trask Enterprises. Everything has been boxed up and sent to Quantico. Noah got clearance from headquarters to let me process the computer data and create a timeline of Morton’s activities. I’m supposed to figure out whether he had a partner, what he was specifically up to, and to assess the data to determine if there is anyone in jeopardy.”
Lucy sat at the table, unsure of how she felt about Kate’s news. Relieved that strangers weren’t involved. Angry that Morton had the freedom to exploit women and children. And a hint of fear at one word: partner. Kate pulled out a chair and sat across from her. “Lucy, I will not let your name out. If there is anything in those files related to you, I will take care of it.”
Lucy knew exactly what she meant. For years, Lucy had known—though her family never talked about it—that Kate had been sending viruses to computer servers that hosted a digital copy of Lucy’s attack. She had a program running that could find and identify the file based on size, name, or date and when she verified that it came originally from Trask, she uploaded the virus. Though the virus destroyed only that specific file, it was highly illegal and would get Kate fired and likely prosecuted. No one had given Lucy any details, and if questioned, Lucy couldn’t truthfully answer that she knew what Kate was doing.
It wasn’t the risk to Kate that had Lucy tense; it was the sudden realization that this would never end. That her rape could come back any time, not just in her thoughts and nightmares but publicly, on the Internet. That each time it did, she became more desensitized to her own pain and suffering. As if that girl wasn’t her, she hadn’t lived through it. Her
emotions were already suppressed in nearly everything she did. Kate had long ago told her it was compartmentalization, something that most cops did when confronted with a tragedy or a case that was emotionally disturbing. Child murder, a grossly violent crime, any number of things that were difficult to process without losing control. And Lucy had done the same thing by being able to detach herself from her kidnapping and attack.
But the lack of emotion had transcended into other aspects of Lucy’s life. She emotionally distanced herself from relationships, from friendships, and even from her family much of the time. The biggest problem with her relationship with Cody was that she didn’t feel anything. She enjoyed spending time with him, she liked him, but she didn’t feel anything inside, love or pleasure or commitment. It was as if she were a puppet acting and reacting the way she thought she was supposed to, but watching herself from the outside, a director, not able to truly live free and enjoy life.
“Lucy?” Kate reached out, her hand inches from Lucy’s but not touching.
“I want to help,” she said. “I can go through the files with you. I know how it works, I can—”
Kate was shaking her head. “No.”
“Dammit, stop trying to protect me!”
“It’s not my call. My assignment is limited to Morton’s computer and digital files. Noah Armstrong is the lead agent on this case and I’m not going to make waves, because he’ll pull me and then I’ll have no inside information. And you’re not an agent yet, Lucy. I refuse to jeopardize your chances.”
“I don’t care,” Lucy said, knowing it wasn’t true. She did care about being accepted into the FBI. “Some things are more important.”
Kate smiled. “Lucy, you’re good with computer data tracking—really good—but I’m still better.”
Kate was trying to lighten the conversation.
“I feel helpless.”
“You are the least helpless person I know. Other than me,” Kate said.
Lucy sighed. “I understand. But please, Kate, promise me one thing. This is important.” She wanted Kate to know how absolutely serious she was.
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