Die Again (Rizzoli & Isles, #11)(81)

I hunch at the table, saying nothing. Of course I know why she’s told me her story, but it doesn’t work on me. You can’t force a person to be brave if they don’t already have it in them. I’m alive merely because I was too terrified to die, which makes me a coward, really. The woman who kept walking and walking, past elephants and crocodiles, the woman blessed with a sturdy pair of legs and more than her share of luck.

She yawns and stands up. “I think I’ll head back to bed. I hope we can talk more about this tomorrow.”

“I won’t change my mind. I can’t come to Boston.”

“Even though you could make a difference? You know this killer better than anyone else does.”

“And he knows me. I’m the one who escaped, the one he’s searching for. I’m his unicorn, the creature doomed to be hunted into extinction.”

“We’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

“Six years ago, in the bush, I found out what it’s like to die.” I shake my head. “Don’t ask me to die again.”

DESPITE ALL THE SCOTCH I downed, or maybe because of it, I dream once again about Johnny.

He stands before me, reaching out to me with both hands, begging me to run to him. All around us are lions closing in for the kill, and I must make my choice. How I want to trust Johnny, as I trusted him once before! I never truly believed he was a killer, and now he stands before me, broad-shouldered and golden-haired. Come to me, Millie. I’ll keep you safe. In joy I run to him, hungry for his touch. But just as I step into his arms, his mouth transforms into jaws that open wide, baring bloody teeth ready to devour me.

I lurch awake, screaming.

I sit up on the side of the bed, my head in my hands. Chris rubs my back, trying to calm me. Even as the sweat cools, chilling my skin, my heart is still hammering inside my chest. He murmurs, “You’re fine, Millie, you’re safe,” but I know I am not fine. I am a cracked porcelain doll ready to shatter apart with the lightest tap. The passage of six years has not made me whole again, and it’s clear to me that I will never be whole. Not until Johnny is in prison—or dead.

I lift my head and look at Chris. “I can’t go on like this. We can’t.”

He gives a deep sigh. “I know.”

“I don’t want to, but I have to do this.”

“Then we’ll all go with you to Boston. You won’t be alone.”

“No. No. I don’t want Violet anywhere near him. I want her right here, where I know she’s safe. And you’re the only one I trust to take care of her.”

“But who’ll take care of you?”

“They will. You heard them say they won’t let anything happen to me.”

“And you trust them?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because you’re just a tool for them, a means to an end. They don’t care about you. They only want to catch him.”

“That’s what I want, too. I can help them do it.”

“By letting him catch a whiff of your scent? What if they can’t capture him? What if he turns the tables and follows you back here?”

That’s a possibility I hadn’t considered. I think of the nightmare I just awoke from. Johnny beckoning, promising safety, just before his jaws open wide. It’s my subconscious warning me to stay away. But if I do stay away, nothing changes, nothing heals. I will always be that cracked porcelain doll.

“I have no choice,” I say. “I have to trust them.”

“You can choose not to go.”

I reach for his hand. It’s a farmer’s hand, large and callused, strong enough to wrestle sheep to the ground and gentle enough to comb a little girl’s hair. “I need to finish this, darling. I’m going to Boston.”

CHRISTOPHER HAS A LIST of demands, and he presents them to Detective Rizzoli and Agent Dean with the glow of brimstone in his eyes.

“You will check in with me every day, so I know she’s fine,” he orders them. “I want to know that she’s healthy and safe. I want to know if she’s homesick. I want to know if she sneezes.”

“Please, Chris.” I sigh. “I’m not going to the moon.”

“The moon might be safer.”

“You have my word, we’ll look after her, Mr. DeBruin,” says Detective Rizzoli. “We’re not asking her to strap on a gun. She’s merely consulting with our team of detectives and our forensic psychologist. She’ll be away for a week, maybe two at the most.”

“I don’t want her sitting alone in some hotel room. I want her to stay with someone. A proper home, where she won’t feel isolated.”

Detective Rizzoli glances at her husband. “I’m sure we can come up with some sort of arrangement.”

“Where?”

“I need to make a phone call first. Find out if the home I’m thinking of will work out.”

“Whose home?”

“Someone I trust. A friend.”

“Before Millie gets on that plane, I want you to confirm it.”

“We’ll have all the details arranged before we leave Cape Town.”

Chris studies their faces for a moment, searching for reasons not to trust them. My husband is innately skeptical of people; it comes from growing up with an unreliable father and a mother who abandoned him when he was seven. He always fears he’ll lose the people he loves, and now he’s afraid of losing me.