Naked in Death (In Death #1)(89)

She swallowed hard on the nausea rising in her throat. “Let’s get out of here. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Sheer force of will kept her steady until she got to the plane. It kept her voice flat and expressionless as she reported in to her superior. Then she stumbled, and shoving away from Roarke’s supporting arms, rushed into the head to be wretchedly and violently ill.

On the other side of the door, Roarke stood helplessly. If he understood her at all, it was to know that comforting would make it worse. He murmured instructions to the flight attendant and took his seat. While he waited, he stared out at the tarmac.

He looked up when the door opened. She was ice pale, her eyes too big, too dark. Her usually smooth gait was coltish and stiff.

“Sorry. I guess it got to me.”

When she sat, he offered a mug. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

“What is it?”

“It’s tea, a whiff of whiskey.”

“I’m on duty,” she began, but his quick, vicious eruption cut her off.

“Drink, goddamn it, or I’ll pour it into you.” He flipped a switch and ordered the pilot to take off.

Telling herself it was easier than arguing, she lifted the mug, but her hands weren’t steady. She barely managed to get a sip through her chattering teeth before she set it aside.

She couldn’t stop shaking. When Roarke reached for her, she drew herself back. The sickness was still there, sliding slyly through her stomach, making her head pound evilly.

“My father raped me.” She heard herself say it. The shock of it, hearing her own voice say the words, mirrored in her eyes. “Repeatedly. And he beat me, repeatedly. If I fought or I didn’t fight, it didn’t matter. He still raped me. He still beat me. And there was nothing I could do. There’s nothing you can do when the people who are supposed to take care of you abuse you that way. Use you. Hurt you.”

“Eve.” He took her hand then, holding firm when she tried to yank free. “I’m sorry. Terribly sorry.”

“They said I was eight when they found me, in some alley in Dallas. I was bleeding, and my arm was broken. He must have dumped me there. I don’t know. Maybe I ran away. I don’t remember. But he never came for me. No one ever came for me.”

“Your mother?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember her. Maybe she was dead. Maybe she was like Catherine’s mother and pretended not to know. I only get flashes, nightmares of the worst of it. I don’t even know my name. They weren’t able to identify me.”

“You were safe then.”

“You’ve never been shuffled through the system. There’s no feeling of safety. Only impotence. They strip you bare with good intentions.” She sighed, let her head fall back, her eyes close. “I didn’t want to arrest DeBlass, Roarke. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to kill him with my own hands because of what happened to me. I let it get personal.”

“You did your job.”

“Yeah. I did my job. And I’ll keep doing it.” But it wasn’t the job she was thinking of now. It was life. Hers, and his. “Roarke, you’ve got to know I’ve got some bad stuff inside. It’s like a virus that sneaks around the system, pops out when your resistance is low. I’m not a good bet.”

“I like long odds.” He lifted her hand, kissed it. “Why don’t we see it through? Find out if we can both win.”

“I’ve never told anybody before.”

“Did it help?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Christ, I’m so tired.”

“You could lean on me.” He slipped an arm around her, nestled her head in the curve of his shoulder.

“For a little while,” she murmured. “Until we get to New York.”

“For a little while then.” He pressed his lips to her hair and hoped she would sleep.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

DeBlass wouldn’t talk. His lawyers put the muzzle on him early, and they put in on tight. The interrogation process was slow, and it was tedious. There were times Eve thought he would burst, when the temper that reddened his face would tip the scales in her favor.

She’d stopped denying it was personal. She didn’t want a tricky, media blitzed trial. She wanted a confession.

“You were engaged in an incestuous affair with your granddaughter, Sharon DeBlass.”

“My client has not confirmed those allegations.”

Eve ignored the lawyer, watched DeBlass’s face. “I have here a transcript of a portion of Sharon DeBlass’s diary, dated on the night of her murder.”

She shoved the paper across the table. DeBlass’s lawyer, a trim, tidy man with a neat sandy beard and mild blue eyes picked it up, studied it. Whatever his reaction was, he hid it behind cool indifference.

“This proves nothing, lieutenant, as I’m sure you know. The destructive fantasies of a dead woman. A woman of dubious reputation who has long been estranged from her family.”

“There’s a pattern here, Senator DeBlass.” Eve stubbornly continued to address the accused rather than his knight at arms. “You sexually abused your daughter, Catherine.”

“Preposterous,” DeBlass blurted out before his attorney lifted a hand to silence him.

“I have a statement, signed and verified before witnesses from Congresswoman Catherine DeBlass.” Eve offered it, and the lawyer nipped it out of her fingers before the senator could move.