Race the Darkness (Fatal Dreams, #1)(39)
Kent laughed, his features softening. “That’s his Achilles’ heel. I’ve done everything I can to get that stink under control. Mint charcoal doggy mouthwash in his water. No go. Doggy breath mints. No go. Brushing his teeth—that traumatized us both and still didn’t work.”
Killer settled back in her lap, his dark-chocolate eyes staring up at her. She didn’t need to be the dog whisperer to know he wanted her to pet him. She scratched his ears, and he let out a doggy sigh of total contentment.
“I picked him up at the Humane Society about a year ago. I went in there looking for a dude’s dog—you know, a Lab or German shepherd. I ended up with Killer. Just couldn’t walk away from that face with those ears. It’s taken him a while to adjust. At first, if I raised my voice—you know when you watch a game on TV or something—he’d start shaking, slink off, and hide like he thought I was going to beat him. He used to hoard his food too. He’d go to his food bowl, get a mouthful, then go spit it out in the corner of his bed, stockpiling it like one day I might stop feeding him or something. That’s gone now.”
“I can’t believe someone could be cruel to him. He’s the sweetest thing.” Killer stood, turned two circles on her lap, then lay down, curling up in a tight ball. His eyes fell shut and he was out. “I’m in love with him.”
“Told you. He’s a lady-killer.”
They sat quietly for a while, both watching Killer sleep.
“Isleen, I know it isn’t going to be easy, but I have to ask you a few questions. Is that okay?” He removed a small recorder from his pocket and placed it on the seat next to her.
“No, it’s not okay.” Her voice came out soft and weak. She hated that. “I appreciate visiting with Killer, and I would like us to be friends.” She harrumphed a feeling-sorry-for-herself sound. “I don’t have any, other than Row. But I can’t, Kent. I can’t talk about—”
Kent scooted his chair closer, until only a few inches separated their knees. He reached out to her, covering both her hands with his. His grip was warm and dry and pleasant, but not the same as when Xander touched her. There was no electricity. No zing or zip. Only the comfort of human contact.
“Let’s just start out with basic information. Like your full name, date of birth. You can stop this at any time. You’re in control.”
What did it hurt to give him her name? “Isleen Gale Walker. July Fourth—”
“You have a birthday in a few weeks. Let me be the first to tell you happy birthday. What kind of cake do you want?”
“Cake? It’s been so long since I thought about cake.” She paused, thinking back to the time before everything. “Gran used to make a chocolate cherry cake with chocolate frosting. Oh my gosh. It was incredible.”
“Sounds amazing. All I ever got growing up was store-bought clearance cake. The crazy flavor of the week that no one wanted to buy. One year it was prune spice cake. Prune cake shouldn’t be in the same sentence as birthday.”
Isleen giggled.
“You laughing at my childhood trauma?” Kent asked in mock hurt. His eyes met hers and she saw something. It was more than the way the edges of his eyes tilted downward, lending his features a sadness; it had to do with the truth behind his joke. The light mood disappeared. “You still don’t want to answer any of my questions?”
She shook her head.
“Okay, I won’t ask you anything then.” His hands covering hers tightened, his fingers stretched out to cover the insides of her wrists. “Here’s what I know. I know that sometime between your junior and senior year at Prospectus High School, you vanished. When the truant officer finally got around to checking on your lack of attendance, he assumed you’d moved because the home you shared with your grandmother was empty.”
Isleen’s heart beat as swiftly as sparrow’s wings.
“I know that you were starved, beaten, and drained of blood. I know that you’ve been enduring that for the past eight years.”
Her insides shook, the sensation traveling outward on waves of fear until her entire body trembled. Deep in the grave of memories, Isleen felt the soil shift, felt for the second time today the memories trying to rise up. No. She was stronger than them. She would not let them take her over.
“Is…is Queen dead?” Isleen’s voice shook when she said the name.
“Yes.”
“Then none of it matters. It’s over. It’s done with. She can’t hurt me or Gran anymore.” The grave dirt stilled.
“Hey.” Kent’s tone was soft. The kind of tone a person used on a wounded animal. “I have to follow every lead. I have to make certain that you really are safe. That everything you’ve been through really is over. But, if you’re not ready to talk about it today, we don’t have to talk about it.”
“I intend never to talk about it.” She held his gaze, hoping he could see the promise in her eyes.
“Isleen, I’ve been doing this job for a while now. I have experience dealing with people like you. People who’ve experienced the worst life has to offer and survived. So I can tell you, holding it all inside is dangerous. It’s a wound, and when you don’t talk about it, it becomes infected. If not treated, the infection takes over and the nice life you want to build gets poisoned.”