In Her Sights (26 page)

Eleven bodies. Not counting the two from the gunshot wounds
she didn’t know about, there were eleven bodies unanswered for.

The doorknob to his office was cold. He still didn’t know
what to tell her. There was his gut and his heart saying one thing and
everything he always thought he knew saying something else. Just as soon as he
got this door opened, he’d have to face her. He counted to three and jerked it
open. He crept through the house, swept through the rooms with open doors, and
found nothing.

That just left the living room and the kitchen. He eased
down the hall, peeked out and found her stretched across the couch, fast
asleep. She’d changed to gray cotton shorts and a blue shirt. One of his couch
pillows was hugged to her chest, and her head was on the couch arm. He moved until
he stood at her side. For a moment, he just watched her sleep and tried to
piece the night together in a way that would make sense.

How could she? How could she do it? Kill people. Just kill
them. From the suspicious deaths Livingston had mentioned, it wasn’t always
self-defense. Assuming those were hers. And if they weren’t, who were all the
other people she’d killed. In all the years he’d been alive. The hours he’d
spent patrolling the streets in Georgia and he’d only used his weapon once.

But her, he couldn’t even been to figure her out. That
afternoon, she’d twirled a purple flower in her fingers—and she’d kept it. Even
took it with her when she got out of the car when he dropped her off at home.
And then that day at her house, with her best friend. She’d been damn near
motherly then.

How could she go from that to this?

He looked at her and shook his head. There just weren’t
enough pieces.

Show of faith
.

That’s what she’d asked out of him. He’d asked the same.
This was the moment to give it. Earlier she asked if he would let her answer
questions before he called the police. He could do that. He breathed. The knots
in his muscles didn’t relax, but the air came a bit easier.

Livingston said the media called her a crime fighter and a
hero. From everything he remembered of what had been whispered about this
Artemis, that was true. It lined up with her putting herself at risk to help
him tonight.

That was redeemable, wasn’t it? His eyes watered
uncontrollably as the memory settled in. She was a protector.

Someone who could have killed the bastard who lit his house
on fire and murdered his wife and little girl.

He stepped back, his arms and body heavy as he moved away
from her side. He stopped partway from the room. She was asleep, but he
needed to hear it in his own voice. Know he was making this decision. “I’ll
keep your secret.”

“Thank you.” Her whisper reached him with a long exhale.

He turned and found her eyes open and watching him. “If I
had decided to call the police, would I be next?”

“What?”

He glanced away. He didn’t know why he was asking. Maybe he
just wanted to know he was making the right choice. “If I had told the police,
would I have been next? I don’t know anything about you anymore. I don’t know
what to think. I just need to know something.”

Her brows pulled together and her eyes watered. A tear
leaked out the corner and streaked over her cheek. “No.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Lexie’s chest crumbled as he walked away. The sound of his
voice, the whispered words asking about his life. Tears welled up and spilled over
to the point she buried her face in the pillow.

Thank God she hadn’t left. When Mike had pulled up in the
garage, she’d met him for the bag and had nearly gotten in the car. It was her
chance to get home. She hadn’t taken it because she knew there was more she
needed to discuss with Clayton.

She’d already told him she wasn’t going to hurt him. Their
conversation on the couch had changed a lot. When he’d stood over her, she found
out just how much things had changed between them. In the time she’d known
Clayton, he never had to think about something. He always knew what he wanted.
She didn’t know if they’d ever be the same again.

All the while, she’d tried to remain still and let him think
about what he wanted to do. It was the hardest moment of her life. He could
have stood there an hour or two minutes. She didn’t know. It was ages and she’d
just lain still and waited.

To see if she’d pass his test.

And she had. Somehow. God, if she only knew how he’d
justified her actions in his mind. At least justified her history enough to the
point he decided against having her arrested. A good thing, but what led him to
that decision? Because she saved his life, did he find he owed her or was there
more? A door closed somewhere, and she breathed and got up. Leaving seemed like
the best idea, but they still had more to talk about. He would have questions
and she somehow needed to answer them. With Mike gone, she didn’t have a way
home anyway.

She headed toward his office, wanting to start that
conversation, but the open door to his workout room with the punching bag
stopped her. She glanced between it and Clayton’s closed office door at the end
of the hall. Being that he just got in the room, there was a chance he was
still trying to decide if he’d made the right choice. She stepped into the workout
room to give him more time.

Narrow windows were along the top of the wall, and they were
big enough to let in dim light from the rainy morning. A small roll of tape was
on the floor next to some boxing gloves. She lifted it, wrapped her hands, and
moved to the bag. She circled around it while rolling her neck and shoulders to
get loose. The clock in the corner read five-thirty. Lightning brightened the
room, and bellowing thunder followed. She put her back to the door and started
hammering away on the bag. Jab, jab, left cross. And repeat. She found her
momentum and went with it. Breathed hard and panted with each hit.

She incorporated kicks and elbows as the rain poured over
the roof. The sun should be rising. The day brightening. Instead the storm
clouds had it darkened and the sunrise muted. She punched harder, each hit
making her arms burn. The pounding downpour of rain washed all the noises and
lights of the room away as she punched and kicked. Threw knees.

Her mind flashed images. Sketchy at first, only flickers,
but then they cleared. She could see the brass knob on the dark, wooden door. She
was skipping down the hall. The image jerked and fuzzed in her mind. She
blinked, pulled in a breath, and tried punching through to get it to stop, but
it wasn’t enough.

“I have to ask,” she called over her shoulder to Gen.
Geez, they were sleeping late. Lexie banged on the door with the side of her
fist. “Mom! Dad!”

No answer. She sighed. She didn’t expect them to jump at
her yell, but an acknowledgement would have been nice. She banged again. “Can I
go shopping with Gen and her mom?”

Still no answer. She tapped her toe on the floor and
waited. Come on. She banged again, only to find no answer. She wished they
weren’t home. Julia said she could go, but since her parents were home, she had
to ask them.

She gave up on getting their attention and opened the
door. “Mom—”

Lexie didn’t move, didn’t know if she could. Her pulse
pounded through her head as she stared, unbelieving. Mom’s favorite yellow comforter
was streaked crimson. And there was Mom, stained the same color amongst the
covers.

Her arm dangled oddly off the bed. Her fingers, not
opened all the way, but not fisted closed, either, were covered in red so dark,
they looked black. Her silver bracelet hung from her wrist and was speckled
with…she swallowed. With blood. Her eyes and mouth were open. Daddy lay below
her hanging hand, sprawled face down on the floor in a black-cherry-colored
puddle. Other than the blood smeared across them, their faces were white.
Creepy and unnaturally white.

Lexie’s gaze lifted back to Mom, but movement caught her
attention. She jumped back, but it was just the curtains. The blood-splattered
yellow curtains blew in the gentle breeze coming through their open bedroom
window. They billowed out until they couldn’t hold air anymore and floated back
to the window. Scents of metal filled the room along with the banana muffins
that were freshly baked downstairs.

Lexie closed her eyes and shut the door, looking away and
trying to think. She gripped the knob to look a second time. That couldn’t be
right. What she saw couldn’t be right. She twisted the knob and peeked it. It
was all still there.

“Lexie, is it okay? Mom’s ready to leave now.” Gen was
walking toward her.

Lexie left the door closed and walked past her and didn’t
answer. It was real? It couldn’t be real. Julia stood at the stairs. A hand on
the banister and wearing her light gray uniform. A towel was in her hands. Lexie
looked up. “Mom and Dad are….”

She pointed toward their door, unable to finish the
words. “We need to call the Chief.”

Julia’s eyebrows pushed together. “Chief Montgomery? What
for? What’s the matter, Lexie?”

Lexie closed her eyes and shook her head. The picture
wouldn’t go away. “Call Chief Montgomery.”

“Lexie, I’m not calling the police unless you tell me
what is going on.” Julia cupped her cheeks and felt her forehead. “Sweetie, are
you all right? You’re awfully pale, and you’re sweating.”

Lexie walked away from her and sat on the floor in a
corner. Far enough away, but close enough to see Julia walk down the hall
toward Mom and Dad’s room.

“Don’t!” Lexie cried out and wrapped her arms over her
head. “Call Chief Montgomery.”

Lexie pounded the bag and shook her head, trying to push the
images away. She jabbed her knee up, felt a satisfying burn through her thigh,
but it wasn’t enough.

There were so many people in the house. This couldn’t
possibly be real with this many people, and none of them had stopped to talk to
her. If this was real, they would talk to her, wouldn’t they? She wouldn’t be
ignored, would she? People had never ignored her before. They always wanted to
take her picture.

Some of the people were dressed in uniforms of all kinds.
Blue ones. White ones. Other people were in regular clothes. They looked and
moved like they were important, but she never met them before. She’d met
everyone important. This so wasn’t real. It was a weird dream.

She sat in that same corner, watching and tapping her
toes. If this was real, then she wouldn’t be casually sitting there, tapping
her toes. This was one of those dreams where you get shot several times while
in a Wild West gunfight. Only, you never bleed and never feel the pain.

Where did Gen go? She looked around and couldn’t find her
friend.

Two men in a uniform, white shirt, and dark blue pants
pushed a gurney toward her. A black bag was buckled and covered the top of the
white pad. They rolled past. The man in front turned and started down the
stairs. The one behind followed the cart and stepped on her toe.

“Ouch.” She rubbed the sore spot.

The man with dark eyes and tanned skin mumbled sorry as
he continued down.

She watched him go and wiggled her toe. It still hurt,
but not so bad anymore. But it hurt.

It hurt. She looked up. The room lost focus. Water pooled
in her eyes and dripped over her cheeks. Her throat itched and chest squeezed.

It hurt. She hurt.

Her head fell forward. The sight, that bloody sight
haunted her mind. She screamed out and pulled at her hair. “This isn’t real!”

A man lifted her. She looked up, and he started when she
met his gaze. He stared at her for a long moment, and she stared right back. For
those brief seconds, she stopped sobbing. He looked so nice, familiar somehow,
and about Dad’s age. Her chest twisted in pain, and tears fell.

The man squeezed her. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m a
friend of your Dad’s. My name is Sam. But you know what? My nieces and nephews
call me Uncle Sammy.”

He carried her downstairs to the dining room. It was
empty, and he sat in a chair. He hugged her close and stroked her hair. “Let it
out. It’s not good to hold all of it in.”

She hammered at the bag. Punching. Kicking. Beating the ever-living
shit out of it. She shouted with each blow. Sweat stung in her eyes. Lungs
burned hard. She kicked and punched harder. Body numb, she kept on. Focused on
that
bag.

That
bag that had painfully killed her parents.

That
bag, who got away after changing her life. Put
her on this course to be this figure of a person. Robbed her of everything
every other child got to do. Turned her into this part of a person who fought
for one charity or another and brushed it off like it was no big deal.
Pretended that everything about her life was normal because she had no sense of
normal at all.

“Damn it!” She swung harder. Yelled louder. Planned to beat
the memories out until it was gone, but there were still the smells. Banana and
walnuts filling the air from muffins so fresh, steam had slithered out of the
one she’d split open just minutes before opening that door.

A cold sweat of fatigue and fear drenched her. Unable to
stop, she fought that bag with everything she had inside, determined not to
stop until there wasn’t any fight left in her. She punched. Her swings flew wildly,
slapping at the bag. She turned for a side kick and her legs gave out. She
collapsed to the floor. The hard wood was cold against her face.

Ragged pants of breath squeezed in and out of her chest. Pulse
pounded in her ears. The memories tried washing back. She flipped to her back
and sprawled out as the room spun. Her vision tunneled. Color on the walls and
in the room streaked. Her stomach rolled as she fought a round of vomit trying
to make its way up.