Where the Blame Lies(15)

Marshall wiped the blade on a napkin, and then dropped both back in his bag. He cleaned her wound, Josie gritting her teeth as he poured alcohol over it, and then bandaged it up. “Casus belli,” he said, and she heard his mouth move into a smile. She looked at him blearily. “D-do you know what that means, Josie?”

She shook her head. Her thigh felt numb now. She was still trying to process that he’d cut words into her skin. And she hadn’t fought. She’d let him. But it was easier that way, wasn’t it? “It assigns b-blame. It will be a reminder to both of us of what you are. When I b-begin forgetting, all I need to do is look at what’s written on your s-skin.”

“Like the cigarettes,” she murmured. It’d been easier not to fight then, too. It was over more quickly that way, she’d learned. She felt sleepy. So incredibly tired. Or was she going to pass out? Maybe she’d lost more blood than she’d thought. Maybe she wouldn’t starve to death after all.

“The cigarettes?” Marshall asked, confusion in his tone, something else she couldn’t name. A . . . stillness. Don’t think of him as Marshall. You might slip and say it out loud.

“Mm,” she hummed, her eyes shutting. “My mother used to burn me with her cigarettes. Mark me.” Blame me. Had that been a reminder too? Yes of course. Her mother did it when she was drunk. Josie didn’t even think she remembered it later. She never said a word.

“Where?” Marshall demanded.

“My lower back,” Josie said, cracking her eyes open. His face was close. He was peering at her. He moved suddenly, pushing her forward and yanking up her tank top. She let out a surprised yelp, her chains clinking against each other as he maneuvered her. She looked over her shoulder at him and he was staring at her lower back where several round, pink burns marred her skin. It was why she never wore a bikini, why she preferred having sex in a dimly lit room. She hadn’t thought about those scars in a long time, other than to make sure no one else saw them and asked her what they were.

Marshall lowered her tank, stepped around her, gathered the things he’d brought, and left the room, the click of the lock echoing ominously. Josie closed her eyes but the burning pain in her thigh kept her from the escape of sleep. Casus belli . . . casus belli. Is it true, Josie wondered miserably. Am I to blame?





CHAPTER EIGHT


Josie used the wooden clothespin to pin the sheet to the line, wind lifting the heavy wet fabric and setting it back down with a soft thwap. Fresh air and the scent of clean laundry met Josie’s nose. A new dryer was on her second-tier list of things to buy for the bed and breakfast, but she had to admit there was a distinct pleasure in fresh line-dried—

A large shadow loomed behind the material and she sucked in a breath, taking a step back as her heart thundered. Oh please God, no. A hand reached around the white fabric, moving it aside as Josie’s muscles tensed in preparation for flight. “Sorry, Josie, Ms. Stratton, ah . . .”

A man in dark gray pants and a white button-down shirt stepped through the flapping material. “Cincinnati police, ma’am.” He seemed to register the fear on her face, the way her body was held rigid and stopped, unclipping something from his belt and holding it out in front of him. Her eyes darted to it. A badge. Her shoulders relaxed a fraction and she released a breath, realizing she was holding a wet piece of something clutched to her chest and that the wetness was seeping through her shirt. She tossed it in the laundry basket sitting on the grass and wiped her damp palms down her hips. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I, ah”—he pointed back over his shoulder—“I knocked on the door, but no one answered.”

“No,” she said, getting hold of herself, “I was out here.” The police. With a jolt, it suddenly occurred to her that he might have information about her son. She stepped forward. “Is this about—”

“No,” he said, flinching slightly, seeming to know immediately what she’d been about to ask. “We don’t have any new information about your son. I’m sorry about that.” Another slight flinch. He did look truly sorry, this stranger. He ran a hand over his short, dark hair. “I have a couple of questions about a new case if you can spare me a few minutes.”

She regarded him for a moment, confusion sweeping through her. Confusion and disappointment. For a brief second there, she’d allowed herself to . . . hope. “Sure, Officer.”

“It’s detective,” he said, stepping forward. “Detective Copeland.” Now that her heart had resumed its normal pace and she could think straight—see straight—she took the stranger in. Tall and handsome. Dark hair and eyes, bronzed skin. He appeared to be Hispanic, but the last name Copeland didn’t speak to that.

They stood there staring at each other for several long beats, a strange something simmering in the air between them. The way he was looking at her . . . It made her feel exposed, jumpy, so she picked up the laundry basket, moving beyond the flapping fabric and turning back to where he stood. “If you’ll follow me, Detective Copeland, we can sit on the porch.”

He followed her the short distance to the house, and she took a seat in the same chair she’d sat in a few days before when she’d talked to her bully of a cousin. Detective Copeland took a seat across from her. He smiled, squinting off into the yard behind her. “Nice place. Peaceful.”