The Little Grave (Detective Amanda Steele)

His dark eyes met hers, but he said nothing.

“Are you the one who called me?”

Still he remained quiet. The silence was more disturbing than his outbursts of anger. At least then she knew what emotion was taking the lead. “What do you want?”

“What do I—” He bared his teeth, bent down, and slapped her across the face with force. Her neck torqued to the right and she heard her bones crack. Pain crackled down her spine and she sucked in air through clenched teeth. But before she could catch her breath, he struck her again and her vision became a wall of exploding white fireworks. She clambered to get off the floor. He grabbed her hair and yanked so hard she felt her scalp rise from bone, and he dragged her down the hall toward her bedroom.

She spat blood, her tongue coated with the coppery taste. She kicked her feet, bucking against him with all her strength, but it was like a kitten taking on a mountain lion. And the more she resisted, the more pain fired through her. She clawed at his hand, sinking her nails into his flesh until finally he let her go. Built-up momentum caused her to lose her balance and she fell to the floor; this time her head didn’t hit.

She snarled and asked again, “What do you want?”

He was occupied staring at the blood that stained the back of his hand as if it were unexpected. He didn’t look at her when he spoke. “You should have died.”

His words didn’t refer to right now, and his gaze was distant, as if he were raptured in the past. Then she saw it, in just the slight contortion of his lips, in the arch of his brow, in the spacing between the eyes. The man before her had been in the photo with Palmer as a boy. “You’re Chad’s cousin. Rick Jensen.”

He flared his nostrils and came at her with murderous rage, though she didn’t know why. She closed her eyes, expecting the next thing she’d feel would be the cold blanket of death. But he twisted her hair around his hand again as he positioned himself behind her—then he started dragging her down the hall.

She screamed—the physical pain was blinding—but she hoped and even prayed that a neighbor would hear and call for help. She stopped fighting him though. If he was taking her to the bedroom, he was getting her closer to the gun in her dresser.

Once in her room, he set her next to the end of the bed on the floor and clambered over her. Her brain was stuck on one fact: there was no way she was going to let this shit rape her. She slapped at him and bit his upper arm, sinking her teeth through his shirt, tasting the coppery flavor of blood again.

But her assault didn’t stop him or slow his actions. He pawed around until he found her handcuffs around the back of her waistband—it figured they were the one thing she’d forgotten to hand in—and slapped one on her right wrist. He then adjusted her so that she was sitting against the leg of the bedframe and wrapped his arms around her, taking her right and left wrist and snapping them together behind the leg.

She bucked, but there was no place for her to go without taking the bed with her.

He stood up and stared down on her. Mirrored in his eyes she saw the hatred she felt toward Palmer and for this man right now. Her head was pounding, and with every breath the pain intensified.

“You have no right to investigate Chad’s death,” he spat.

Now all the pieces aligned, and it was clear that his love for Palmer had driven him to this point. “That’s what this is about?”

“Shut up!”

“I’m off the case!”

“Liar!” he bellowed.

“No! Please! I have no badge and no gun.” She blinked heavily, grateful again that she’d had the courage and tenacity to leave them behind. Maybe, if she convinced him, it could be what saved her life.

“Courtney called me. Said you were looking into Chad’s murder.” He scrunched up his face in a knotted ball. “You have no right,” he seethed.

“You’re… you’re right, I don’t, and I’m not. I’m off the case.”

“You’re probably happy he’s dead,” he kicked back, as if her words hadn’t even hit his ears. “But you don’t know what kind of a man he really was. The childhood he had.” Tears buffeted his cheeks as a torrential downpour.

She moved, trying to figure out her range of motion. It wasn’t much. Nothing she could really work with. Her legs were free, but she’d have to time any defensive kicks with precision. Really, her best chance of living another day was getting him to talk and open up, and then relate with him. “Tell me about him,” she requested, the words rubbing against the grain of her being. She didn’t see Palmer as human—he was the monster, the boogieman who had taken her family.

“And I had to find out about… about…” Rick knotted up his face and his chin quivered as the tears continued to fall. “I found out about his murder from Courtney. I hate that bitch.” His gaze steeled over.

“You’re right. You should have been notified.”

“By you,” he barked. “What a joke! You probably celebrated when you found out he was dead.” Rick sobbed into his hands.

She had to find a way to get the hell out of here. The situation was breaking down quickly. Rick’s heightened state of emotion was more volatile than outright displays of aggression. If she didn’t muster some genuine empathy—at least some that Rick would buy—she’d have no hope of walking away. But from where would she pull the strength?

Twenty-Eight

“You’re right,” Amanda repeated. “I should have told you. For that I apologize.”