A Merciful Silence (Mercy Kilpatrick #4)(63)

“I hate this. I don’t feel like myself. I don’t want to go home because I can’t bear to face Kaylie and see his things. That’s not like me.”

“You’re not Wonder Woman. Stop trying to be. Others are here to help you.”

“Truman is supposed to help me!” Fresh tears, and she grabbed another tissue.

Bolton didn’t answer but tightened his arm on her shoulders. “Let me drive you home. Your niece can bring you back tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to go home!”

He dug in his jacket pocket for something and shook a pill out of a bottle. He took her coffee cup, sniffed it, shook his head, and then handed her the pill and cup of wine. “Take this.”

“What is it?” she asked, holding the tissue to her nose.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s safe. Trust me, it’ll give you some temporary peace until you can gather your strength.”

Finally she met his eyes, the eyes that were usually resigned and empty, but now she saw that they reflected her pain.

Temporary peace?

Her brain had been moving at train-wreck speed for days. Peace was appealing.

She took the tablet and stared at it. Am I really going to take an unknown pill?

She looked at Bolton again; she trusted him.

After popping it in her mouth, she swallowed some wine and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “I suspect that wasn’t to be taken with alcohol.”

“Nope.”

A short choke of a laugh bubbled out of her. “I won’t die, right?”

“No. You’ll thank me tomorrow for a good night’s sleep. Let’s go.”

He helped her stand, grabbed her things, and led her to the front door.

A thought struck her. “You don’t drive by my office. You had to go out of your way,” she said flatly.

“True.”

She turned, halting him with a hand on his chest. “Thank you, Evan.” He’d grounded her and kept her from spinning out of control in her self-pity and sorrow.

He met her gaze, and his neck moved as he swallowed. “Anytime.”



Truman’s visions of a bed and hot food had been crushed.

Once they’d gotten deep into the trees, he’d asked the boy if he had any food. The teen shoved a half-eaten granola bar in his hand. It wasn’t hot, but it tasted damn fine.

Beggars can’t be choosers.

His rescuer didn’t have water but had said they’d come to some soon. Soon felt like five hours later, and water meant a meager, muddy creek spilling over a dirt bank. Truman didn’t care. He cupped his hands and drank and drank, the single handcuff still around his wrist. He’d asked the boy what time it was, and he’d shrugged and replied, “Nighttime.”

Okay.

He and the teen continued to push hard through the forest. A lot of it was uphill, with the boy half carrying him. The rain was persistent, and Truman was thankful for his coat. The captors had emptied all his pockets, taking his badge, gun, and wallet. His head was uncovered and soaking wet. Water dripped under the back of his collar, slowly soaking the lining of his coat and the shirt underneath. He considered putting the coat over his head, but that would mean maneuvering his left arm out of the sleeve. At the moment Truman would prefer to have a tooth extracted.

“What’s your name?” Truman asked during one brief break as he sat on a big rock under some pines. The water and granola bar had renewed some of his lost energy, but he still struggled with the pain in his arm and head. The rest he could ignore. Sort of.

The teen, crouching against a tree, looked away. In the poor light, Truman estimated him to be about fifteen. He needed a haircut and he had dirt on one cheek. Body odor hovered around him, but Truman suspected he smelled just as bad.

“Ollie.”

“I’m Truman.”

Ollie nodded but didn’t make eye contact.

“What’s your dog’s name?”

“Shep.”

“He’s a good dog.” The hound had stuck close to the two of them the entire trek. No leash. No barks. Now Shep sat next to Ollie, eyeing Truman with caution.

At least the dog will look at me.

“He is. He’s saved my life two times,” Ollie said gruffly.

“That’s amazing.” Truman wanted to hear more, but Ollie’s body language said he was done talking. “I have a cat. I like to think she’d wake me up if an intruder came in the house.”

“Cats are stupid.”

“I think of them as independent.”

Ollie stood. “We need to keep moving.”

“Will you tell me where we’re headed now?”

“My place.”

Truman sagged in relief. A phone. Heat. A bathroom.

“Lead the way.”



Truman estimated three hours had passed. Although it could have been ten minutes. “Are we almost to your home?”

He sounded like a little kid on a long car ride. But the pain in his head had tripled in the last few minutes, and his vision was getting narrower and narrower. “I need to stop for a minute,” he told Ollie.

In front of him, the teen whirled around. “We just stopped a little while ago.” Panic was apparent in his voice and posture.

“I didn’t have food or water for a long time,” Truman said, coming to a full stop. “That can be hard on a person.” Truman didn’t dare share all his symptoms or confess that he’d considered flopping under the next tree and telling Ollie to go on without him. The teen had amazing night vision and sense of direction. He’d set his course and never wavered about which way to go.