New York to Dallas (In Death 33)

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.

Later, he promised himself, later he’d find some way to vent at least part of this terrible rage clawing inside him. But now, he only stood staring out the window until he heard her come out.

Pale as the white robe, he thought, and her eyes so big, so tired.

“I’m okay.”

He turned to bring her one of the brandies.

“Oh God.” First shock, then tears filled her eyes. She lifted her hand, fingers brushing the livid scratches on his chest, his shoulders. “I did that.”

“It’s nothing.”

She shook her head, eyes flooded, touched an ugly bite mark. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s nothing,” he repeated, taking her hand, bringing it to his lips. “You thought I was . . . You thought I was hurting you. I did hurt you. Drink some brandy now.” When she only stood, staring down at the glass, he touched her cheek. And still, she didn’t look at him. “I didn’t doctor it. I promise you.”

She nodded, turned away, sipped a little.

“Why won’t you look at me? I know I hurt you. I’m sick for it. Sick I reminded you, even for a moment, of him. Forgive me.”

“No, no, not you.” She turned back, met his eyes now. She hadn’t let the tears fall so they swam there, pools of sorrow. “Not you,” she said again, and pressed a hand to her heart.

She set the brandy aside. “I can’t drink it. I’m sorry.”

“Do you want water? Coffee? Anything? Tell me what to do for you. I don’t know what to do.”

She sat on the side of the bed. He always knew, she thought. Somehow he always knew what to do. Now, it seemed he was as lost as she. “I thought it was over. I haven’t gone back there in a while. I thought I was past it, that I’d resolved it, and it was done.”

Careful not to touch her, he sat beside her. “Being here, dealing with what’s happening here. It’s no wonder it triggered this.”

“It was more. It was worse.”

“I know.” He started to reach for her hand, then dropped his. “I know it was. Can you tell me?”

“At first, it was the same. The room, the cold, the light. So hungry. The same, getting the knife, eating the cheese. And he came in, drunk but not enough. And it starts. He hits me, so hard. So hard, and he’s on me. It hurts.”

He rose, had to, walked back to the window, stared out blindly. “You were screaming.”

“I couldn’t stop, and he wouldn’t. But . . . they were there, all around us. All the girls. The girls like me, all those eyes watching him rape me. So sad, so empty. All those eyes.

“And my arm.” Instinctively she wrapped it close to her body. “The snap and the pain when he broke it. And I’m crazy with pain and fear. The same, that’s the same. And the knife in my hand. And the blade’s in him. The blood runs over my hand. It’s so warm. So warm, a comfort. No, no, not a comfort. A thrill.”

When he turned, she’d gripped her hands together in her lap. “Not like it was, not like I remember. Not that mindless defense, not just survival. I wanted the blood. And so did they. The girls, all the girls telling me to kill him. To kill him. And his face—then McQueen’s—his then his then his. Kill them.

“I wanted . . . I felt . . . horrible, ugly pleasure. I don’t think I put those marks on you because you hurt me. I think, oh God, I think I fought you because you tried to stop me.”

She pressed a hand to her face, wrapped her arm around her body, and broke with a shuddering, wrenching sob.

She tried to turn away when he came to her, but now he knew what to do.

He held her, stroked her hair, her back, and when she went lax, lifted her into his lap to rock.

“Why do you suffer for that? Baby, why do you make yourself pay for that? A dream, a nightmare of the nightmare you lived. Only a child.”