Her voice didn’t waver. “I know her. I know she would not any more than I would. If she was with Vishenko, it was not by her choice.”
“Then why? If she was forced into prostitution and eventually escaped that life, why didn’t she go to the authorities? Especially if she had evidence against Vishenko. That’s what doesn’t make sense. And if she couldn’t bring herself to press charges—if she was afraid for her life—why didn’t she just come home?”
A long silence followed. “Caterina did not come home because she was ashamed,” Angelina said finally, and Alec knew she was swallowing back tears because she didn’t want to admit she was crying. Again. Tears from the woman who swore she never cried. “Because she blamed herself. Because she believed everyone would blame her for what happened. Because she believed I would blame her.”
Suddenly it all made sense to Alec. Rape victims weren’t to blame for what happened to them any more than robbery victims were, or victims of home invasions. And yet the perception persisted in the minds of many that they were to blame. Alec wasn’t naive. He’d been posted in countries where fathers and brothers of rape victims killed the victim—not the perpetrator—to salvage their family honor. Honor killings were still acceptable in many countries, countries with which the United States had diplomatic relations.
“I’m sorry,” he said now, wishing he were there with Angelina, wishing he could hold her and somehow convey that he understood her pain and shared it.
“That is why she did not come home,” Angelina said. “She did not want me to know. Her parents were dead before she ever disappeared, but they would have blamed her just as my parents would. She did not want anyone to know what she had suffered. She would rather live alone for the rest of her life than admit the truth.”
Determination grew in Alec. Hard. Cold. Not just to bring Vishenko down, but to rescue Caterina and help her understand she was the victim. That she wasn’t responsible for anything that had happened to her. The same way he’d helped Angelina understand she wasn’t responsible for the deaths of Sasha Tcholek and Yuri Ivanovitch. These things had happened, and they couldn’t be undone. They just had to be lived with. But the blame—the blame had to be placed where it truly belonged.
“We’ll find her, Angel,” he promised, his heart aching for what Angelina was going through. “We’ll find her. And when we do...” She’ll never have to feel ashamed again.
* * *
“Stop right there!”
Cate froze with one hand on the front door to the rooming house in Boulder, Colorado, where she’d moved in three weeks ago, waiting for the bullets that would tear her body apart. Vishenko’s men had found her again. She couldn’t escape as she had at the bus stop in Denver—there was nowhere to run this time.
Six years, she thought, not bothering to utter a last-minute prayer she knew wouldn’t be answered. At least I lived six years free from him. Even if it had only been a day, one day of freedom would have been worth it after spending two years as his prisoner, and I had six years.
“Put your hands up where we can see them. Then slowly, very slowly, turn around.”
Confused—because she expected to be dead already, or at least gasping out her last breaths on the ground—Cate obeyed, putting her hands up as she slowly turned around to face whoever was behind her. A man and a woman stood there, both wearing dark blue jackets and vests over beige pants, their guns drawn and pointed at her. Emblazoned across the pocket of the vests was the word POLICE. And underneath that word was another word, one she had no trouble recognizing. ICE. And though it wasn’t as bad as she’d first feared, it was bad enough.
Chapter 16
That night, Alec reviewed what Angelina had written down about her cousin. Every memory, every facet of her character, every motivation. Everything. “Okay,” he told her. “This is good. I can’t swear to it, but it might help find her. All we can do now is turn this over to Keira and see what she can do with it.”
He put the voluminous document—which Angelina had typed on her computer, organized and cross-referenced before printing it out—to one side. Then he took her hands in his and kissed them both before sitting her down on the sofa. “We have to talk about something,” he told her, settling himself next to her. Close enough so she could feel the warmth emanating from his body but just far enough away not to be touching her. And she knew instantly something was wrong.
“What is it?”
“Captain Zale came to see me today,” he began, but stopped. “There’s no way to say this except straight out,” he told her roughly. “Captain Zale knows about us. About you and me.”