It's a statement, but he takes it as a question. "None of the women I've--"
"Open your eyes, Dallas. It's not one of your bimbettes."
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the woman sending the letters. I'm saying it's obvious who she is."
The Usual Suspects
"Obvious?" Dallas repeated, not entirely sure he was comprehending her words. Because it sure as hell wasn't obvious to him. "Just from glancing over the letters, you know who's sending them? Fiona?"
"No." She shook her head. "Not Fiona."
The tightness of her voice belied the way she perched casually on the edge of his desk. And he couldn't help but notice that her hands were clutching the mahogany desktop so tightly her knuckles were white.
Not Fiona, he thought, as a chill crept up his spine. And not good.
"Who."
Her throat moved as she swallowed, then glanced toward the door. "Does Liam know what happened to us inside? What the Woman did to you?"
He frowned, trying to follow her thoughts. "No. I've told him enough that he knows they fucked me up. But only you know what she did."
She shook her head, then looked back at him with a sad smile. "Some, maybe. But not everything. Not yet."
He pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering how the hell they'd gotten back on this topic. "It's not because I don't trust you, or because I don't want to tell you. I do. Hell, I need to." He hoped she knew how much he meant those words. But it was so damn hard, because every time he thought about what happened in that dark room with that psychotic bitch, he got pulled back in. Lost the little pieces of himself that he'd reclaimed.
Remembered just how fucked up he was--and why.
"Dallas, we--"
"Christ, Jane," he snapped. "Why are we talking about this? What the hell does the Woman have to do with--"
He cut himself off and stared at her. "The Woman? You can't possibly think that the Woman is sending these letters?"
But she was nodding, so clearly she did think that. Which would be absolutely ridiculous except for the fact that it actually made some sense.
"It's been seventeen years." He realized that he was simply stating a fact, not raising the years as an argument against her theory. Because, goddammit, if he weren't so close to it--if the Woman hadn't messed with his head so damn much that he'd do anything to keep her the fuck out of it--maybe he would have seen the possibility, too.
"I know how long it's been." She spoke softly and steadily, as if she knew that every word hurt him. "But we were both in that cell, Dallas. We both know these people. They were cold. Calculating. Tenacious. Smart. Prepared. More than that, she was a psycho. A seventeen year wait is nothing to someone that warped."
"I don't know," he said, but the words were only for show. He knew, all right. Even if she was wrong, it was a damn good guess.
"We need to at least consider it," she said. "And--and we need to talk about her, too. About what happened."
"No." This time the protest was real. "Not now. I don't want her in my head."
"You need to talk about it."
He thought of the memories that had been haunting his dreams since Liam gave him the news about Colin. "I said no."
She threw her hands up, her fingers curled like she wanted to punch the air--or him. "Dammit--you always do this. Anytime it looks like I'm winning an argument you dig in. It drives me nuts."
"I dig in? You're the one pushing and pushing."
"God, you're infuriating."
"Are you talking to me as my lover or as my sister?"