Cold Touch (15 page)

He nodded, not denying it. “I regret that, and I apologize. You caught me off

guard.”

She liked that he’d admitted it and apologized. And for the first time since

she’d opened the door, she realized what a big step it had been for him to

come here at al . A few hours ago, he’d looked at her like she was a lunatic;

now he was in her house, al big, tough cop.

He looked completely out of place surrounded by her late grandmother’s

fussy antiques, the dark burgundy wal s, gold drapes, and delicate china

figurines on some of the tables. She might have claimed title to the house. But

she hadn’t yet claimed clear possession of it, hadn’t put her own stamp on it.

Redecorating the whole thing would be a long, slow, expensive process; she

had to do it little by little.

While her father would have given her the money to do it, she preferred to

make her own way. Freeing herself from his financial support had been one of

the first steps she’d taken to declare her independence, physical y and

emotional y. She’d decided a few years back that the time had come to stop

letting what had happened to her as a teenager dictate how she would live her

life. Putting an end to her parents’ overprotectiveness had been step one.

“Let’s go in the other room,” she said, gesturing toward what had once been

a parlor and was now a nicesized den. It was the one area she had been able

to afford to redo since moving in, and she immediately saw his stiff form relax

a little as he beheld the big, overstuffed couch and solid, blocky wood

furniture. She sensed that, like most big, strong men, he didn’t quite know how

to act around fragile things . . . or women.

Hmm.
She wondered what he’d think if he realized she wasn’t nearly as

fragile as she looked. He wouldn’t be the first man to make that mistake. She

just wondered if he’d be the first to decide that was a very good thing, not a

bad one.

Men often wanted to change her, wanted her to go back to the wealthy life

she’d left behind. So far, none had liked her exactly as she was or accepted

what she could do. Might he be the exception to the rule? More important, why

did she care?

“Have a seat.” Playing hostess to someone who thought she was a few

cards shy of a ful deck felt a little strange, but she was, after al , Southern.

“Would you like something to drink? Sweet tea? I brewed some this afternoon.

”

“You regularly offer sweet tea to people who toss you out of police stations?”

he asked with a smal lopsided grin.

“Do you regularly toss people out of police stations?”

“I’m usual y more focused on keepin’ ’em in.”

“You pretty wel sucked at that today, didn’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am, I guess I did.”

“Was that a yes or a no on the tea?”

“No, thanks,” he said, sitting on the sofa. Then, with no further niceties or

preambles, he bluntly got to the point of his visit. “Tel me why you need to

handle the remains.”

“I told you, I think I can . . .”

He put up a hand, stopping her. “I know what you think you can find out. I

want you to tel me exactly what you plan to do and why you think it’l work.”

She sat down on a chair on the other side of the low coffee table and stared

at him from a few feet away. Olivia found herself looking at those flecks of gold

in his green eyes, seeking warmth, compassion. Wondering if she could trust

him.

A whisper repeated in her mind.
Olivia Wainwright: freak of nature
.

Sometimes it was an old lover’s voice saying it. Sometimes her former best

friend from col ege or kids she’d known in high school. They al pretty much

sounded the same. Revolted.

Fortunately, there were other voices in her life now, voices saying positive

things, tel ing her she wasn’t crazy and that the things she did were for a

reason, served an important purpose. Julia’s was a constant reassurance, as

were those of the other agents at work.

And then there was her own voice. She’d come to accept herself, what she

did and why, and these days the voice she most heard tel ing her to keep

going, that what she did was right and necessary, was hers. That knowledge

renewed her confidence. She doubted Gabe Cooper would ever be one of

her biggest fans. Stil , she had to try.

“Did you cal Agent Ames?” she asked.

“I left a message. Now, you gonna answer my question?”

She crossed her arms over her chest, rubbing her hands against her upper

arms. The room suddenly felt cold, even though it got the most late-afternoon

sunlight, being on the back of the east-facing house. “You won’t believe me.”

His eyes narrowed. “Try me.” When she stil hesitated, he grudgingly added,

“I want your help. I think I might
need
your help. But I have to understand.”

Sitting back in the chair, she replied, “If you want to know what I can do, you

have to know why I can do it. Which involves what happened to me that night,

the night I escaped.” Doubting it, she had to ask, “Did you read the whole file

after I left?”

He shook his head firmly. “I was going to, but my partner, who had read it,

suggested I hear the whole thing from your mouth first.”

His eyes shifted to the mouth in question. Her mouth. And she suddenly

realized something: He was aware of her, too. He didn’t necessarily like it or

want it to be, but at least some of his obvious tension came from the fact that

the attraction she’d felt for him wasn’t one-sided. That flirtation back in the

interview room hadn’t just been about putting her at ease and getting her to

relax. She’d lay money on it.

Olivia couldn’t help smiling just a little, suddenly feeling better about what

she had to do. Al because he’d stolen that quick, total y male look at her

mouth, as if wondering what it might taste like. A man who thought about

kissing her even after hearing what she wanted to do with a bunch of old

bones had promise.

“Okay, then,” she said, unable to help moistening her lips with her tongue.

“I’l tel you.”

After a quick flash of heat as he again gazed at her mouth, he gave her the

ful force of his attention. She saw nothing in his stare but interest. Keen,

unflinching interest. No derision, no immediate skepticism, though she didn’t

doubt he felt it. Mainly she saw patience—she suspected this man had a lot of

that.

Real y, she had no other choice. The detective wasn’t going to give her what

she wanted until she shared her deepest, darkest secret with him. Which

meant she had to go back in time. Back to that night, to that one moment, that

awful, hateful moment when her old life had stopped and her new one had

begun. Back to the five words that had changed everything she thought she

knew about the world: What was evil and what was good; what she could

survive and what she couldn’t; who she’d become.

Five little words.

Why don’t you drown her?

Olivia tried to run.

When she heard the boy’s brutal suggestion that her attacker drown her,

then heard the man’s answering laughter, her body reacted independently of

her brain. Panic sent her spinning wildly. Like a bird caught in a cage, she

tried to fly, oblivious to whatever was barring her, needing just to escape. She

threw al her weight forward, desperate, not even deciding to do it until it was

done.

To her surprise, her sudden lunge caught her captor off guard. Thinking she

was total y subdued, broken, he hadn’t realized she stil had real fight in her.

His firm grip broke and she plunged forward, free.
Free!

But not, of course. Her hands remained tied behind her back, her feet

lashed with rope, her face stil covered with the blanket. She was completely

lost and terrified.

Stil , she didn’t give up, driving forward into the blackness, the rope at her

ankles lax enough to al ow her to shuffle several inches at a time. The rough

ground stabbed at her bare toes, sharp sticks and rocks piercing her flesh.

Her long, filthy nightgown whipped around her legs, trying to trip her up. On the

third step, her feet tangled, sending her plummeting facedown to the ground.

Unable to put her hands out to break her fal , she hit hard, feeling sure she’d

broken her nose and a few of her teeth. Blood gushed in her mouth, dripping

over her lips, the salty, metal ic scent fil ing her nose.

Sobbing with the pain, she continued to move, desperate, stil in a blind

terror, needing to
go
. She started to crawl, propel ing herself on her torn-up

knees.
Inchworm, inchworm
. . . the childhood song screamed crazily in her

head. Or she screamed. Or the night did.

“Stop it, little bitch,” the man snarled, pouncing on her, driving a knee into

her back, before she got more than a foot or two.

She struggled, twisting, kicking.

“Stop wiggling or I’l make it worse on ya.”

How could it be worse?

He smacked her hard on the back of the head, then roughly ran his hand

down her hair, yanking a handful of it. Holding her head back, he tore her

tattered nightgown off her body, then thrust his other hand between her thighs,

yanking them apart. Thick, rough fingers groped at her crotch, tearing her

underwear off, too, leaving her naked to the cool spring night.

Olivia screamed, knowing what he meant by worse. “No!”

“I’l fuck you and then the boy’l fuck you and then I’l kil you anyways,” he

“I’l fuck you and then the boy’l fuck you and then I’l kil you anyways,” he

hissed. “Now shut the hel up and stop fighting.”

She shut up. She stopped fighting.

He rose, pul ing her by the hair. Her mouth throbbed, blood spil ing down her

chin, and she spat out something smal and hard that she suspected had once

been part of her front tooth.

Surreal. Everything, the whole world tilted and wobbled, up becoming down.

I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die
.

The horse blanket fel , but his fingers were twined so tightly against her

scalp that she couldn’t turn as much as an inch to see him behind her.

Blinking, she instead looked forward, dazed and confused. Everything she

saw told her it was useless to scream. Nobody was around, who would

possibly hear?

Beside them was the rickety old barn, its faded wood planks rotting and

dangling by broken hinges. Bleached with sun and age, thinned by bugs and

heat, it looked ready to fal down in a strong breeze. At any time during the

days she’d spent in there, she probably could have kicked her way out if she’d

tried, though, with her guard and the bindings, she probably wouldn’t have

gotten far. Stil , oh God, did she wish she’d tried.

Several yards away stood a banged-up pickup truck and a rusty mobile

camper, the top popped up. Other than the two vehicles, nothing but

wilderness. Not a building, not a vehicle, not another man-made thing as far

as she could see. Just enormous ancient trees blocking much of the cloud-

swathed sky. Whatever farm or plantation this barn had once belonged to had

been abandoned or reclaimed by the ground from which it had been birthed.

Al that was left were the barn and the woods. Nasty, thick, Georgia swamp-

woods, the trees heavy with moisture from a recent rain. Enormous

spiderwebs fil ed the branches, glimmering like freakish silver necklaces in

the pale, watery moonlight. She could practical y see their occupants, brown,

furry spiders as big as her fist, but she didn’t even flinch.

She’d once been deathly afraid of spiders. That had been before she’d

known what real fear was. Now, she’d grab them with her bare hands if she

thought it could help her escape. Nor did she hesitate at the thought of running

through the slimy muck beneath those ancient bent trees. The area was

probably fil ed with gators and snakes, yet if she had a chance, she’d take it.

But she was out of chances, and al three of them knew it.

Her captor said something, but she couldn’t hear it. Bul frogs croaked so

loudly she couldn’t have heard her own whimpers, and she couldn’t stop

thinking how strange the air tasted. Musty and damp, rich with muck and the

decay of rotting limbs and dead animals and turned earth. And blood.

She didn’t want her last breath to be of this air. Just as she didn’t want her

attacker’s face to be the last one she ever saw on this earth.

It won’t be. The boy’s will
.

Jack. She shifted her eyes, seeing him watching from a few feet away,

wondering if he felt her hatred. Her rage.

He flinched.

Yes. He felt it.
Good
.

“Get over there. I’m gonna need you to help hold’er,” the man snapped.

Jack stared at her, hesitated. Then, when the man barked something else,