The Law of Moses (The Law of Moses, #1)(92)

I stared at him, oddly touched and more than a little freaked out. I couldn’t decide what emotion to go with when I suddenly remembered what Moses had said about Tag being Molly Taggert’s brother. It was so bizarre, that connection, that I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten about it.

“Molly Taggert?” I prompted.

“Molly, the girl named Sylvie, and you! You fit the profile, Georgia,” Moses stood abruptly and began to pace. “I got scared tonight. It all started coming together! I’m seeing her—Sylvie—I’ve seen her twice now. She won’t let me cover her damn face! I’ve sanded that wall three times and it will be good for two or three days and then the paint puckers right there over her face! And I’m guessing it’s because of Lisa. The thing is . . . Lisa didn’t live here when I did. I didn’t know Lisa. So I had no reason to paint Sylvie. I had no reason to paint Molly either, for that matter. I didn’t meet Tag until after I left Levan! And I have no idea who the other girl is. Or was!” Moses was ranting and pacing, and my head was spinning.

“So what do you think it means?” I asked. He stopped pacing and scrubbed his hands over the stubble on his skull. I imagined it was soothing and wished I could hold him close and do the same, but he wouldn’t hold still.

“The only thing I can think of is that I came in contact with the person who killed them. The connection is to the killer. Not to their family members. Their family members just bring them back . . . so to speak,” Moses mused, and he looked at me desperately. “And that person wanted you.”

“Maybe . . .”

Moses shook his head adamantly. “No. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.”

“Or maybe it was just Terrence Anderson,” I finished flatly. Time for the rest of the story.

Moses stopped pacing and eyed me warily.

“I was at the mill tonight, back in the corner, looking at your paintings, feeling more than a little freaked out when I realized I knew that girl, when I heard the door open. The door I’d just come through. I squatted down, turned off my flashlights, and crawled along the wall toward the entrance, thinking I could kind of circle around.” I looked down at my hands and realized how filthy they were. My knees too. In the soft lamplight, my legs looked like Eli’s used to look every single night when I’d put him in the tub.

“Who was it?” Moses wasn’t pacing anymore.

“Terrence.” I shivered. And it had freaked me out until I had a chance to think it through. “His family owns that mill. They have for 100 years, actually. Terrence’s dad inherited it from his father when Mr. Anderson Sr. died a few years back. From what I could tell, they are just using it for storage. They have a generator in there though, and when Terrence flipped a light on, one of those tall free-standing things they use at construction sites, I was completely exposed. But he was facing another direction and stacking stuff in the opposite corner and I crawled out while his back was turned. He left the door propped open and his pick-up running outside. His truck is one of those big diesel trucks, and it’s loud. That, combined with the propped open door made it easy to walk right out without him hearing me. Otherwise the door would have given me away. It squeaked like the gates of hell.”

Moses swore under his breath and squatted down in front of my dirty knees as if to inspect me for injuries. I was probably looking pretty scary now that we were inside and there was no moonlight to soften my edges.

“Do you think Terrence would have hurt you if he’d seen you?”

“No. I don’t. I just didn’t want him to catch me trespassing. And he still gives me the willies. Always has.”

Suddenly Moses stood and scooped me up in his arms, making me squeal and wrap my arms around his neck as he strode through the kitchen and climbed the stairs exactly the way John Wayne scooped up Maureen O’Hara in The Quiet Man, my favorite movie of all time, and I protested just as loudly as she had.

“Moses!” I yelped, “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to run you a bath.” He said simply, and plopped me down on the toilet seat as if I wasn’t a 5’9”, 140 pound woman, entirely capable of running my own bath. In my own house. He leaned over and started the water in what appeared to be a brand new tub. It was deep and free-standing with curving sides and big brass legs. The whole bathroom was new and decidedly feminine. It didn’t look like what Moses would choose at all.

“That is a great tub,” I blurted out, my eyes on the steam and the bubbles building beneath the heavy flow as Moses dribbled something in the water.

“I thought you’d like it,” he answered simply. “It’s yours, you know.”

“What?”

“The whole house. It’s yours. If you want it. If you don’t, I’ll sell it, and you can use the money to build something you like better.”

I stared at him numbly. He stared back and then straightened from the tub, shaking the water from his hands and wiping them on his jeans. He gently began unwinding the elastic that held my hair off my face, though pieces were already falling free. My hair was heavy and the elastic was tight, so when he pulled it loose and ran his fingers through the strands, releasing the tangles and soothing my scalp, I sighed gratefully and closed my eyes.

“I want to take care of you, Georgia. I can’t take care of Eli. But I can take care of you.”