Best Laid Plans(58)

She took a long, hot shower and wanted to cry. But she didn’t. She rarely cried. Another deficiency in her psyche, another scar left over from her forty-eight hours of hell. That her life could change completely, irrevocably, over such a short time …

Stop.

She was feeling sorry for herself. Yet again. For the past year she’d thought that she was truly over her rape. Not over it in the sense that she could forget it completely, but that she’d compartmentalized it in such a way that the past could no longer hurt her. She’d come a long way toward healing and acceptance before Sean, but it was Sean—proving to her that she was lovable—who closed the book on the past.

Yet here it was. Again. It had been haunting her for the past two months and she didn’t know why.

Some cases did that to her. Some cases brought on a panic attack, but her last one had been nearly a year ago, and she’d managed it. Not perfectly, but she’d controlled it enough that she calmed herself down. Some cases reminded her of being tied up, like when she’d found the young women in cages on a farm in Virginia. Some cases reminded her of the humiliation, like the serial killer in New York who’d nearly killed Sean’s cousin. And some cases brought back the pain, a phantom ache that felt all too real—like the brutal murder of a prostitute in D.C. It was like she could feel the knife cutting into her flesh, in all the places it had cut through the victim.

As her brother Jack had told her in Sacramento when they’d gone to visit Sean’s baby niece, maybe rescuing the boys as well as seeing the dead had triggered grief she needed to purge.

“Like you, Lucy, they were innocents who were held captive and brutalized.”

“It was worse for them. They were children. Little boys. They suffered for months. None of it was their fault.”

“Look at me,” Jack said.

She did.

“I thought so.”

“What?”

“You think you deserved it.”

She slapped him. “Fuck you, Jack.”

She rarely swore. She certainly didn’t use the F word. But Jack didn’t flinch. He’d just stared at her until she turned away. Because he was partially right.

She didn’t think she deserved to be gang raped. But it had certainly been her fault.

She’d thought she was so smart, so clever, to meet her online “friend” at a public place. But her “friend” wasn’t who she thought he was. He wasn’t his picture, or his name, or his background. He was an imposter, and she’d never seen it coming …

“What are you too scared to face, Lucia?” Jack whispered.

“I’m not scared.”

“You’re scared.”

“I don’t know,” she finally said.

Jack relaxed. “Honey, that’s the first step.”

“What?” She almost cried. Almost.

“Admitting the fear is inside. You’re strong, Lucy. We’ll figure it out.”

But they hadn’t figured it out the week she was in Sacramento, and when she’d returned to San Antonio, the nightmares had come back, too.

She hadn’t been lying to Sean completely. She really didn’t remember most of her dreams. They were flashes of the past, confusing and disconnected, mixed with things that never happened but seemed all too real. Of her past, of dead bodies, of Sean almost dying, of her brother’s coma, of the boys they’d found in Mexico, of Brad being tortured and Michael Rodriguez killing Trejo. So many acts of violence, so many victims. All those truths interspersed with vivid images, twisting everything around, so that the people she loved were dead and those who preyed on innocents celebrated.

She almost went downstairs to apologize for walking out, but she wasn’t ready to talk. And Sean wouldn’t let her just say I’m sorry and go on as if nothing had happened. That’s what she desperately wanted to do, turn back the clock and find a way to lock down her emotions before she’d talked to Sean about the case. Then he would never have known.

Maybe.

She rubbed her aching head. Sean had always been good at reading her, at knowing what she was thinking and feeling, even when she didn’t want anyone inside her head. It was wonderful and intimidating at the same time.

Instead of talking to Sean, Lucy crawled into bed and snuggled under the blankets even though the house was warm. She didn’t expect to fall asleep.

Lucy was naked. And cold. Very, very cold.

“Open your eyes, Lucy,” the voice said. The voice that haunted her in sleep. Trask.

“No.”

“Do it.”

“You’re dead. I killed you.”

He laughed. “I’m alive, Lucy. I’m alive because you think about me every day. Even when you’re not, I’m here, an itch you can’t scratch.”

Hands on her, everywhere. Touching her. Hurting her. And Trask laughing through it all. He knew he was dead, but so was she. She was dead inside. She had no life in her. She was a shell, a phony.

She would never forget. She would never be whole again. He’d torn her up, gutted her.

I wish he’d killed me.

No, no, no! She didn’t want to die. Fight back, survive. It’s only your body, he’ll never have your mind. He’ll never take your soul.

“I have a reward for you because you’re doing so well. Open your eyes, see your prize.”