Wicked Torture (Stark World 3)

I suck in air, trying to rearrange my thinking. Honestly, what difference does it make? She's out of his life. And I'm not in it, either. Not like that, anyway.

"Do you have custody of the child?" I realize I have no idea if he'd had a boy or a girl.

"Diana." He swallows, and an expression that looks like pain cuts across his face. "She's dead, too."

"Noah . . ." I take his hand and hold it tight. "I'm so sorry. Was it an accident?"

"She was murdered. They both were."

A cold feeling washes over me, so intense that for a moment I actually think that a November cold front has blown in. "That's horrible." The word is completely inadequate. "I--I don't know what to say," I admit.

"I almost didn't tell you. It shouldn't be your burden. But . . ."

"Yes?"

"I meant what I said. I want us to start over. That's in my past. That's a huge part of my past. And like it or not, it's tied to you, too. So you needed to know."

"I'm glad you told me. Do you want to tell me what happened?" I'm not sure I want to know, but I'm glad I asked, because he tells me the story, and I think it's cathartic. For both of us.

He lays out the whole thing, his voice monotone, and I tremble as the story turns worse and worse. The trip to Mexico. The afternoon that Darla and Diana didn't come back to the hotel. His fear. The news that Diana had been found.

"I shut down, that day," he says. "For a long ti

me, I was sure I'd never heal. Honestly, I'm not sure I ever did."

I don't know what to say, so once again, I just hold his hand as he continues talking about the investigation and how helpless he felt. About the search for Darla. And how, much later, he got involved with a covert vigilante-style organization called Deliverance that helped locate and rescue kidnap victims. Not because he thought he would find Darla--he looked, yes, but by then, he was almost certain she was dead--but because he wanted to help other families. Other victims.

And, ultimately, about how he had to quit Deliverance. Because even though he knew he was helping others like himself, the constant memory was making him feel dead inside.

"I never had a chance to let the wounds heal," he told me, and I tried to imagine what it would be like to constantly relive your pain.

"And they never found Darla's body? That must make it so much worse."

He nods. "She's been pronounced legally dead, so that's some closure. But it's hard." His eyes meet mine, then cut away quickly. "It wasn't a great marriage." His voice is low, like he's sharing a secret. "But we were both trying. And it was getting better. Diana was like a talisman that made us closer. We'd gone to Mexico so I could go to a conference, but they came with me because we'd been doing so much better, and we wanted to be a family."

He looks back at me, and I see the apology in his eyes, as if that confession hurts me.

"Don't." I clutch his hand tighter. "Do you think I wished a horrible marriage on you? I didn't, I swear. I told you I understood, and I meant it. I felt sorry for myself, and I was angry, but I never wished that you were stuck in a bad marriage. And I sure as hell would never wish something like this on you. On anyone."

"I know," he says, then reaches out and brushes my cheek, wiping away tears I hadn't even realized I'd shed.

I manage a watery smile. "You know what? I'm hungry. You want to just cede my victory and let's go get some lunch?"

"You're clearly the victor," he says, standing and holding out a hand to help me up. "The victor gets to decide on lunch."

"Good," I say. "Then we're going to Sandy's. Burgers and fries and custard for dessert. It's the perfect meal to brighten a day. In case you're feeling a little blue at the way I just destroyed you on the golf course." I add the last with a smile, and am rewarded with his smile in return, full of understanding and appreciation for my not-so-subtle efforts to turn our mood around.

Sandy's is just a few blocks to the east on the same road. It's another Austin institution that's been around since the 40s. It has the look of a dive, and the food to match. And by that, I mean cheap and awesome.

It has a drive-through, but we park and stand in the line at the window, then take our burgers and fries to the picnic tables in the back to chow down. This time, the conversation is lighter, with me waxing poetic about my hometown, especially this area that's so close to the river, which has always been one of my favorite places to spend a weekend.

"I'm getting to know this area pretty well," he says, pointing to his building on the other side of the river, which flows just about a block away. "But this place is a new find." He holds up the remnants of the burger he's wolfed down. "It's pretty life-changing."

"I know, right? Come on," I add, finishing my own food. "We need ice cream."

It's actually frozen custard, and we each get a cone, then eat it as we walk the relatively short distance to the river. We spend another hour on the path before returning to his car, which fortunately wasn't towed from Sandy's parking lot.

"I'll get you home," he says, as the afternoon winds down. "From what you've said, you have some writing to do."