New York to Dallas (In Death #33)(54)

She was eight.

She shivered in the cold, squeezed her eyes shut because he’d left the lights on when he went out. She couldn’t make them go off. Bright, bright and cold with the dirty red flash from the sign coming through the window.

LIVE SEX. LIVE SEX. LIVE SEX.

He’d forgotten to feed her before he went out. Business. Places to go, people to see.

She never had places to go, and never saw anyone but him.

Maybe he’d forget to come back. Sometimes he did, and she was a long time alone. It was better alone, mostly better alone. She could look out the window at the people, the cars, the buildings.

She had to stay in the room. Little girls who tried to go out or talk to anybody got taken by the police and tossed in a dark pit or sometimes a cage with snakes and spiders that ate through their skin to their bones.

She didn’t want to get thrown in the pit. Didn’t want to have to pay hell. But she was so hungry.

She knew there was cheese. If she got just a little cheese—like a mouse—he wouldn’t know. Eyes darting around the room, she scuttled over in the flash of red light, got the little knife.

She meant to cut off just a tiny bit, but it was so good.

If he didn’t come back, she could eat all the cheese. And when he did come back, he’d be drunk, probably. Maybe he’d be drunk enough not to notice her, not to hurt her. Not to care that she ate the cheese.

The door opened, a crash of sound that startled her into dropping the knife.

She saw, with a terror that ate the bones like spiders, he wasn’t drunk enough.

She tried to lie, to pretend—and for a moment, just one moment, thought he’d leave her alone.

He hit her so hard. As she fell, the blood she swallowed into her yawning belly roiled there.

Please don’t. Please. I’ll be good.

But he hit, and hit and hit no matter how she cried or begged. Then he was on her, the brutal weight of him. On her, smelling of whiskey and candy—the terrible smell of father.

She knew, knew, knew it was worse when she fought, but she couldn’t stop the screams, the wild struggles as he pushed himself into her.

The pain ripped, tore, and still she begged.

And all around in the cold, bright room with the red light flashing were other little girls. Dozens of eyes watching as he panted and grunted, those terrible sounds mixing with her screams as he raped her.

She clawed his face, felt his skin tear as he tore hers. Over his shocked howl came a sudden harsh snap, and the agony followed like a flood.

No thought, all pain, and the eyes watching, his face twisted over hers. Her fingers found the little knife on the floor.

No thought, all pain. She struck.

The sound of his cry—his pain, his shock—rose through hers, and sounded in her desperate mind like triumph. She brought the knife down again, felt the warm wet on her hand as she crawled out from under him.

She fell on him like an animal, hacking, slicing while the blood splattered on her face, her arms, her body.

Red, like the light. Warm against the cold of her skin.

And the other girls chanted in one feral voice.

Kill him.

Kill him.

Her father’s face, eyes wide. The other face, smeared with blood.

Kill them.

The girls, all the little girls, closed in around her as she plunged the knife into him. Into them. Hands stroked at her, arms tried to lift her.

She fought, snarling.

“Stop! Eve, stop!”

Roarke knew he hurt her, but the gentle, then the firm hadn’t pulled her out of the nightmare. Fear clutched at his throat that this time she wouldn’t come back.

“Eve. My Eve. Goddamn it, wake up.” He pinned her arms, held on even when her body arched on a wild, high scream.

“No. No, you come back to me now. Eve. Eve.”

He kept saying her name, a fierce repetition he prayed would get though whatever hell had her. “I love you. Eve. I’m right here. You’re safe. Lieutenant Eve Dallas.” He pressed his lips to her hair, her temple. “My love. A ghra. Eve.”

When she began to tremble, relief left him weak.

“Shh now, shh. I have you. You’re safe now. You’re back now.”

“Cold. It’s cold.”

“I’ll warm you.” He rubbed her arms, like ice against his palms. “I’ll fetch a blanket. Just—”

“Sick.” She pressed a clammy hand to his chest. “I’m sick.”

He picked her up, carried her quickly to the bathroom. Felt helpless while she was viciously ill. But when he started to soothe her face with a cool cloth she took it from him.

“Give me a minute.” She didn’t meet his eyes, but sat, knees drawn up, her face pressed to them. “Please. Just give me a minute.”

He rose, took the plush hotel robe from its hook. “Put this on.” He laid it over her shoulders, wanted to bundle her into it. Hold her. But she wouldn’t look at him. “You’re shaking with cold. I’ll . . . I’ll get brandy.”

Walking out of the room, leaving her there, tore him to pieces.

His hand shook when he poured brandy into snifters. He wanted to heave the glasses against the wall. Break them, break everything he could reach. Beat it, rend it.

He stared out the window, imagined the city in flames, consumed to ashes.

And still it wasn’t enough.