The Third Victim Part 53

She was a fighter, and he had so much respect for that.

Her face relented a fraction. Yearning burgeoned in her soft gray eyes. A need to share. A need for connection. He wished he could reach out and touch her. He was too afraid she'd bolt at the first sign of movement.

"Rainie ' "I should go."

"I'll listen."

"I don't have anything to say! I just need a little time."

"Another fourteen years? Or maybe just five, until the next homicide comes along? It's eating you up inside. Get it out! What happened with your mother? What did you do with that shotgun?"

She stood abruptly. He was stung by the fire in her eyes, the sudden hard set of her chin.

"Don't bring up my mother again."

"No dice."

"It's not your business ' "Too late. You should've stuck with dating rednecks, Rainie. Because you have a real man now and I'm not going anyplace."

"You arrogant son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"Yes. Now, tell me about your mother, Rainie."

"The number one line most abused by psychologists. That's what I am to you, aren't I, Quincy? A very interesting case study. Something you can write up for the American Society of Shrinks otherwise known as a.s.s -later on in the year."

"Shut up, Rainie."

"Oh, good comeback."

Quincy frowned angrily. Then he shocked them both by striding forward and grabbing her arms.

"Brute force?" she whispered, and her lips parted. He saw something dark come into her eyes.

"It's what you want, isn't it?" he countered levelly.

"A pattern you recognize, a way to bring me down to the level you think you deserve. If you can keep it physical, then you'll never have to feel. Right?"

She stared at him mutinously. He brought her even closer, until her lips were a mere inch from his.

"Let me go," she muttered. "You're only going to leave here to pace your house all night long.

You're terrified of sleep. You're terrified of nightmares. You want them to end, but you still won't do what it takes to make them go away."

"Let go of my arms or you'll never sing baritone in the church choir again."

Talk to me, Rainie. I want to listen. I might even understand."

She shuddered in his arms. He saw the conflict in her eyes again. Some part of her wanted to talk. Some strong, fierce part of her took good care of herself even in spite of herself. But he also saw the layers of fear and doubt and confusion. Years of baggage, acc.u.mulated every time her mother opened a fresh bottle and turned on her daughter with an open fist.

Her face shuttered. One moment he thought he might be on the brink of discovery, the next she was gone. Her jaw settled, her eyes went flat, and he knew the battle was over. He released her. She stepped back, shaking out her arms.

"Not bad," she drawled with a clear edge in her voice.

"I wouldn't have picked you for a tough guy, SupSpAg."

Quincy didn't bother with a reply. She had retreated behind her brittle sh.e.l.l. From here on out, all he'd get from her would be att.i.tude. Her mother had taught her well.

"I'm leaving," she said defiantly.

"Good night, Rainie."

She faltered, then scowled.

"You can't stop me."

"Sweet dreams, Rainie."

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," she told him flatly, and stalked to the door.

She opened it with more force than necessary. He didn't interfere. She slammed it behind her. He didn't move.

Long after the sound stopped ringing in the room, he was still standing by the bed, thinking of Rainie Conner and all the things that could've happened fourteen years ago. He thought of shotguns and Danny O'grady and his own daughter, whom he loved with all his heart.

The world needed more kindness, he thought not for the first time. The world needed more faith.

"Isolation is not protection," he murmured. But he wondered sometimes if his epiphany hadn't come too late.

Rainie's house was dark when she got home. She never remembered to turn on the patio lights before leaving for work, and now her tiny house was hard to see as it sat nestled in the woods. She parked outside on the dirt driveway and fumbled with her keys.

When she finally stepped inside, no one came to greet her. This was the way she wanted her life, but tonight the emptiness deepened her mood.

She went around the two-bedroom ranch, turning on lamps. The s.p.a.ce still seemed oppressive. She couldn't get Quincy's words out of her head or the scent of his cologne off her skin.

"Why didn't you tell me about the shotgun, Rainie? Why didn't you tell me it disappeared from evidence?"

She entered the kitchen and opened the fridge. She was the proud owner of twelve bottles of Bud Light, one pound of Tillamook cheese, and an expired quart of milk. She closed the refrigerator.

She went out to her deck.

The woods were dark around her. The moon was in its waning phase, and it was hard to see where the tops of the pine trees ended and the velvety night sky began. The bracing air brought goose b.u.mps to her skin, and she hugged her middle for warmth.

She walked around her deck, then walked around her deck again.

"Why didn't you tell me about the shotgun, Rainie? Why didn't you tell me it disappeared from evidence?"

She couldn't. She'd been an idiot to go see Quincy in the first place.

He just radiated such strength. All those lines in his face. It made her believe there was nothing she could tell him that he couldn't handle. And she was so very tired these days.

But there were things she couldn't tell him. She'd been naive to think it would be enough to talk around the issue. She'd forgotten that