New York to Dallas (In Death 33)

“Holy shit! That’s great.”

“She’s not giving anything up. Not yet. We’re on the clock, Peabody. If she doesn’t show at his place by six, he’s going to smell something off.”

“I got an update from EDD just a few minutes ago. They’re starting to pull transmissions off Stibble’s wiped ’link, and they’re digging out coms from his comps. You should have a report, including the data, pretty quick now. I know Roarke’s close on the accounts because he’s been keeping Feeney in the loop there. The dam’s breaking, Dallas.”

“It can’t be soon enough. He’s got transpo and running money, and we can be damn sure he’s got an escape route. If he gets wind of the partner, he’ll use them. Drain Stibble dry, Peabody.”

“He’s dust.”

Closing in, Eve thought as she rose to study the board again. But would it be soon enough?

Melinda stroked Darlie’s hair. She’d wrapped the g

irl in both blankets, but Darlie continued to shiver from the aftermath of the nightmare.

Melinda’s own throat raged with thirst. She’d risked drinking from the bottle of water the woman had tossed into the room, but after a few swallows she’d felt woozy.

Staying alert, staying aware was vital.

Darlie needed her.

He’d had the woman bring Darlie in the night—she thought it had been night—before. He preferred having the women he used deal with the chores. He’d think of the water, the blankets, snapping those restraints on trembling wrists and ankles as chores.

She’d done what she could for the girl—held her, rocked her, cocooned her in blankets while Darlie cried for her mother.

“Will he come back? Will he?”

Melinda couldn’t count the times Darlie had asked, so she answered the same way.

“I’m going to do everything I can to keep him from hurting you again. My sister’s looking for us. Remember, I told you about my sister, Bree?” She kept her voice soothing, like the stroke of her hand. “She’s a police detective. And there’s another. The other I told you about, remember? The one who saved me? Eve Dallas. They’ll find us, Darlie. We just have to hold on until they do.”

“He said I was a bad girl. He said I liked what he did, but I didn’t. I didn’t.”

“He lies, sweetie. He lies because he wants you to feel ashamed. But you didn’t do anything wrong. None of this is your fault.”

“I tried to stop him.” Darlie burrowed into her. “I tried to fight, but he hurt me so bad. I screamed and screamed, but nobody heard me.”

“I know.” Melinda had to close her eyes, close them tight to block off the memory of her own wild struggles, her own screams. “I’m here. Help’s coming.”

“He put the number on me, and now my mom’s going to be mad. She said—she and Dad said I couldn’t get a tattoo until I was eighteen. She’s going to be so mad.”

“No, she won’t.” Melinda held Darlie tighter when she started to weep again. “I promise she won’t be mad at you because it’s not your fault.”

“I said mean things about her. I was mad and said mean things. It’s bad. I’m bad.”

“No.” Firmer now to cut through the rise of grief and guilt. “No, it’s normal. It’s what every girl does sometimes. You’re not bad. You listen to me now. Don’t let him get in your head. Whatever happens, remember who you are, that it’s not your fault.”

“I’m not allowed to have sex.” Darlie wept.

“You didn’t. He raped you. That’s not sex. That’s attack, assault, abuse. It’s not sex.”

“Is he coming back?”

“I don’t know.” But she did. Of course she did. “Remember they’re looking for us. Everyone’s looking for us. Darlie, I’m going to do everything I can, but if I can’t stop him—”

“Please.” The shackles rattled as Darlie shot up in panic. “Oh please, don’t let him hurt me again.”

“I’ll do everything I can, but . . .” Melinda turned, cupped Darlie’s pale, wet face in her hands. “If . . . you have to, remember it’s not your fault. If you can, go somewhere else inside your head. Don’t let him get inside your head.”