The Third Victim Part 34

"You worry you could've been Danny O'grady?" Quincy asked.

She didn't say anything.

"You're not Danny," he said firmly.

"I know that! I'm a woman, and women don't displace rage. We don't become ma.s.s murderers or serial killers. We focus our anger instead, going after whoever hurt us, or self-destructing. It doesn't matter, though. That's not what this is about. It's the violence, I think.

Because it's a shooting and not an automobile crash or combine accident. I'm not sure. But it's bringing it back. Everything. Like it happened yesterday. And everyone was just so busy wondering that day if I'd killed her or not, no one bothered to ask me how I felt. I'm not sure I even bothered to wonder how I felt. All those times, all those nights, the screaming fits. But she was my mother, and it took so much bleach to get the blood out of the ceiling. I think I scrubbed for days and still you could see the pink stains and she was my mother, for G.o.d's sake. The only family I had." "Rainie, are you okay?"

"Yes, fine. Dammit, I need to shut up." He had taken her hand at some point. She didn't remember when, and the fact she hadn't noticed such a thing jolted her. She always noticed when she was touched. All these years later, she was very careful about physical s.p.a.ce. She took her hand back, raking it through her hair and discovering that she was more agitated than she'd realized. Quincy was looking at her again with concern. It made her want to laugh flippantly, but that would do no good.

"I'm sorry," she said shortly.

"I accuse you of treating me like a patient, then I treat you like a shrink."

"I'm not your therapist," he said evenly.

"Let's keep that straight."

"Of course not. I don't need a therapist!"

He raised a brow. She grew more fl.u.s.tered. He took back her hand.

His gaze was rea.s.suring.

"Rainie, listen to me. What you're going through is very real. It's called post-traumatic stress syndrome. Fourteen years ago you suffered a major trauma. And even though you've dealt with that trauma on many levels, it still affected you. Now you're going through a similar situation and that's bringing the first one back. It happens to everyone. When the Gulf War happened, the Veterans Administration had to set up hotlines for the Vietnam vets who were suddenly experiencing flashbacks to twenty-year-old firefights. Sadly, every time one of these school shootings happens, it puts all the other families in all the other communities through the wringer again. Flashbacks, nightmares, anxiety attacks. All part of the drill."

"I'm a professional. It's my job. Will attend homicide. Won't bat an eye."

"You're human." His fingers squeezed hers.

"You're an intelligent human. Your brain is going to work in spite of you."

"Well, take this brain back. It's stuck on instant replay and I've had enough."

He smiled faintly.

"The older the trauma, the sooner it will fade. In the meantime, it might help to talk to someone.

Does the sheriff's department provide any mental-health resources?"

"Our department doesn't even provide coffee."

"Perhaps some of the professionals flying in to help the kids."

"Yeah, perhaps." But her tone of voice told them both she'd never go.

Seeking out a real professional would be too much like admitting a weakness. She didn't do that anymore.

"It's getting late," Quincy said.

Rainie looked around. The music was dying down and tables had cleared out. He was right; they should both be going. Separate rooms, she knew. She had said too much, and you couldn't hook up for a one-night stand after baring your soul.

She rose on her own. After a moment Quincy followed suit.

"Quincy .. . Sorry about your daughter."

"Thank you. It doesn't help, but it does."

"I know." She hesitated.

"I'm also sorry for what I said earlier. The misplaced hero complex.

I'm not the best at playing nice with others."

"And here I thought it was part of your charm."

Quincy placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the door.

Outside, the night was cool and Rainie was back to watching him expectantly. His hand still rested on her back. His body was close.

She could smell his aftershave, subtle and expensive. She didn't know what it was about him. He was strong, intelligent, sophisticated.

She'd never tried finding someone who challenged her. She'd always just gone with the unquestioning young stud, the kind who wouldn't ask too many questions. It was safer.

Now she studied the exposed hollow of Quincy's throat, where a light smattering of dark hair rippled across it. Now she gazed at his other hand with those long, deft fingers. Now she looked up into his face and peering blue eyes that saw too much. She took an instinctive step back, confused and suddenly spooked. His head had already dropped forward and his lips brushed her cheek.

"I'm not your therapist, Rainie."

"I know."

His lips brushed her other cheek, warm, firm, dry.

"I don't know what I'm doing here. I have policies about these things." His lips fell to the hollow of her neck. Her head had fallen back. She knew better, but she didn't. The kiss was light. It teased her.

"No fraternizing?" she murmured.

He raised his head.

"No one-night stands. No pa.s.sing through. I'm too old for that s.h.i.t, Rainie. I've been to too many towns, spent too much time studying the worst that men can do. I've tried marriage and I've tried fatherhood and I have all the things I'm proud of in my life and all the things I wish I'd never done. I don't believe in one-night escapism anymore. I don't see the point."

She tried to open her mouth to argue, but he cut her off by brushing his lips over hers. She startled in surprise. He stopped, lingered, his mouth moist, seeking. His hands were splayed across her back. He held her lightly, giving her plenty of room, and that made her both grateful and disappointed.

She had just started to lean forward when he broke off the kiss.

"I'm interested in you, Rainie," he murmured against her ear.

"You're not what I expected. You're smart. You're complicated. And I already know you won't go home with me tonight."

"I won't," she whispered.

"You're going to torture yourself with the drive to the ME's office tomorrow. You're going to dream of your mother and dead little girls."