Provoke

I’ve saved three women from rape.

I had to look at it that way. Three women saved from rape, and if I could get to those guys, I could save a hell of a lot more. I couldn’t go to the cops, because they’d never believe me. Not with my family background. Besides, these guys were mine, and they were going to pay.

I was doing this for Anna.

Chapter Nine

Leeta

For the tenth time since I’d gotten home I was over the toilet bowl, heaving my guts up. It was a vicious circle: I’d throw up, feel sick, and re-watch the videos, convinced I’d missed some vital piece of information that cleared Mace. Then, when that didn’t come, I’d throw up again.

This had been going on since the day before. I had no freaking idea how I’d made it through work that day. I’d honestly thought the distraction would do me well.

I had to stop this; I was driving myself mad. Pull yourself together. You’re helping nobody like this.

I needed a plan. I couldn’t avoid him forever, and crying wasn’t going to make it go away. If he was really messed up in . . . whatever the fuck that was, then I needed to do something. I couldn’t just sit back and let it happen.

Okay, Leeta, you’re a god-dammed prosecutor. Put your fucking skills to use.

The first step was to sit through both videos again and pick up anything that I could use—anything that looked familiar. If I did take this to the cops, I needed to be sure I had some hard evidence.

Who could I trust down at the precinct? Lewis had always been nice to me—a little too friendly at times, but nice, all the same. Did I trust him to look at this fairly though?

No, probably not.

He would enjoy getting Mace out of the picture. No doubt he thought Mace belonged in jail with the rest of his family. A shiver ran through me. Maybe he did.

Unwrapping my brand new laptop, courtesy of Target, I set it open on the coffee table. My phone was vibrating again, but I ignored it. He had tried calling ten times already. That worried me. Had I left something open? Some kind of hint as to what I’d seen?

God, what if I was next?

What if this was some sick, twisted game to him? Maybe that’s why he had been so quick to approach me that day when we’d met. I jumped up and raced toward the door. I knew it was locked, but I needed to double-check. Unzipping my jacket, I threw it over the back of a chair. I then abruptly smashed my knee into the back of it.

“Shit,” I cried, clutching my leg. Fuck, I was completely losing the plot. I couldn’t even keep my thoughts straight. Next I’d be seeing little pink elephants dance around the room. I limped back over to the couch and sat down.

Gripping the laptop with both hands, I brought it onto my thighs. My breathing was shallow, as though my body knew what it was about to be put through and wanted no part of it.

The first video was already on the screen, ready to play. I had to block out the emotional response. Watch it as though it is someone else. I was a god-dammed lawyer. If I couldn’t sit through this without judgment, then I was in the wrong field.

Subjective thoughts, Leet. You can do this.

I watched both videos from start to finish—all thirty-seven minutes and fifteen seconds of them—while Marcus sat beside me, oblivious to everything.

By the end, I was damn proud of myself. No breakdowns, no tears, but still no closer to anything concrete. When were the videos taken? Was it before we got together? Did that even matter?

But it did matter. Because regardless of how disgusting these videos were, I was looking for a reason to forgive him.

Slamming the laptop shut, I threw it on the floor and stretched out on the couch, my arms curled around my stomach. My eyes stared into nothingness as I struggled to hold back another rush of tears. No. No more. I refused to waste any more tears. It was time I toughened up and dealt with this like a fucking adult. I had to deal with it myself or call the cops, but for God’s sake, I had to stop dragging it out.

Did I trust him enough to consider the slightest possibility of an explanation?

#

I opened my eyes and groaned, reaching for my neck, which felt like it had been folded in half and packed into a briefcase. I sat up and stretched, my hand fumbling for the lamp on the side table behind me. I switched it on, and—

“Holy fucking shit!” I literally screamed—a high-pitched, old lady scream.

Mace was sitting in the armchair opposite the couch, his leg crossed over his knee. He looked tired, as though he hadn’t slept for days. Yeah, because he was too busy fucking unconscious women.