6

You never realize how loud silence can be, until no one is willing to say what needs to be said. It just hangs over you like an ominous rain cloud, and you wait with apprehension for the storm to break loose.

I could feel the unspoken words between us, pressing on me as I sat in the chair beside Marx’s desk.

I had finally caved to his pleas for me to get in his car, and he had driven us to the precinct, but all of his questions had been met with silence.

I tugged at the wool blanket he had wrapped around my shoulders shortly after we arrived, and took a sip of my hot chocolate.

I flinched in surprise when he spoke, breaking the long stretch of silence. “If you’re still cold, I can get you another blanket.”

A fine tremor in my body sent tiny ripples across the surface of my hot chocolate, but it wasn’t from being cold. I gripped the cup with both hands and tried to will calmness into my body. All my anger and panic had drained away, leaving my nerves trembling with the echoes of fear.

He sighed when I said nothing more and returned his attention to the file he was reviewing. His expression was carefully blank, but his agitation was apparent in the quick, quiet tap of his pen on the desk.

I drew my knees into my chest and surveyed the abandoned squad room, scrutinizing every shadow. I half expected Collin to materialize outside one of the windows or come striding through the stairwell door.

My eyes snapped to a room behind us when I heard a man clear his throat. A pale glow illuminated the blinds of an office, and the plaque on the door read Captain McNera.

My attention trailed back to Marx, who was jotting down notes on a pad of paper. The tense quiet between us had stretched on for too long, and it was making me uncomfortable.

Okay, he wasn’t going to make this easy. I tried again. “The drive-by shooting that killed your informant?”

His pen paused midword. Without lifting his eyes from the page, he asked, “How do you know the victim is my informant?”

I pressed my lips together. Maybe reminding him I had disobeyed him twice when he told me to stay in the car wasn’t the best idea given his mood. “Mmm . . . the Star of David tattoo on his neck. I kind of also know his name is Ruiz.”

“Why am I not surprised,” he muttered. “And yes, that case.” He resumed working without further elaboration.

I tapped my fingers on my cup. My body was exhausted and anxious at the same time, and I was having difficulty sitting still. “Do you want some coffee?” It was late, and I knew he must be worn out. “Or a doughnut?”

I sighed and stared down at my hot chocolate. It needed marshmallows. Big, fat, fluffy marshmallows that would make me feel better. “I don’t wanna talk about . . . what you wanna talk about.”

“Well, then it’s gonna be a long night, because I’m not lettin’ you out of my sight until we discuss what happened this evenin’.” Despite the frustration in his tone, he kept his voice soft. “And then we’re gonna come to an agreement.”

“The kind where you agree never to run away again.” He set down his pen and looked at me.

A door slammed somewhere, and I almost jumped out of the chair. My gaze flickered wildly around the room, but I didn’t see anyone.

I relaxed a little when I saw a man in overalls emerge from the bathroom with a bag of trash. He hummed to himself as he went about his work.

It took a moment for my heart rate to return to normal. If I wasn’t so terrified that Collin was lurking around every corner, I might have had enough energy left over to feel embarrassed by my jittery reaction.

That might be comforting if I could move into a police station. My phone made quiet water drop noises, and I pulled it from my coat pocket. Jace had sent me a text message:

Sam bailed on our movie. Said sumthing about an unwanted visitor at ur place. Am I missing sumthing? Everything ok?

I exhaled a shaky breath and texted back:

Fine. Talk later.

I snapped the phone shut and slid it back into my pocket. I could feel Marx watching me, and I chanced a quick look at his face. “Are you mad at me?”

The tightness in his expression eased. “No, I’m not mad at you, but I am upset. I’m upset that you didn’t trust me enough to protect you.”

“You got scared,” he said, when I fell quiet. “I know. I realize that comin’ home to find him standin’ on your doorstep was a shock, and after everythin’ that man has done to you, I don’t blame you for tryin’ to protect yourself the only way you know how. But—”

“Can we talk about something else now?” I asked, scratching anxious patterns into my Styrofoam cup with my thumbnails.

“No, we can’t. Because I need you to understand that no matter how scared you get, you’re safe.”

“Safe.” A small choked sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob escaped my throat. I wasn’t even in the same hemisphere as safe. “You don’t understand.”

He leaned forward in his chair and rested his forearms on his knees as he looked at me. “Then talk to me.”

“Why do you always wanna talk about everything? I don’t like . . . talking about him.” Even thinking about Collin made me feel sick to my stomach.

“I know you don’t like talkin’ about him, but he’s here now and we can’t just pretend he isn’t. I need you to tell me everythin’ you can about him.”

“You promised you wouldn’t ask me anymore questions about him, or about what he did to me,” I reminded him. That was the bargain we had struck last autumn.

“I made that promise under the condition that he wasn’t an immediate threat, which he now is.”

He clenched his jaw in frustration. “Why does everythin’ have to be a battle of wills with you?” When I just stared at him, he sat back in his chair and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Okay,” he exhaled, wrestling with his Southern temper that seemed to flare up every time it collided head-on with my stubborn resolve. He crossed his arms over his chest and said with deliberate calm, “I’m not mad.”

He uncrossed his arms and returned his elbows to his knees, his insightful green eyes studying me, no doubt trying to unravel the threads of emotion I was fighting to keep wrapped up tight.

“Look, Holly,” he began, his voice low and gentle. “I realize that talkin’ about the man who hurt you is painful. I’ve also learned that when you’re scared or hurt, your defenses come up. But you don’t need to hide behind those defenses with me.”

“I promise you, sweetheart, I will put that man behind bars or in the ground if it’s the last thing I do, but I need to know who I’m dealin’ with.”

Experience taught me that no one could protect me from Collin, and I would have a better chance of survival on my own. But the determination in Marx’s voice made me want to believe him.

I drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “He has this . . . fascination with pain. He gets some sick satisfaction out of hurting other people.”

“He’s a sadist,” Marx said matter-of-factly, as if he dealt with people like that every day. Maybe he did.

“He would always find new and creative ways to scare and hurt us. If one way didn’t get the reaction he wanted, he would . . . try something else.”

My mind offered up graphic images and sound bites of crying children, and I tried to blink them away.

“I . . .” The words caught in my throat, and I nearly choked on them. “I was his . . . favorite.”

I could only guess why: because I fought to deprive him of a reaction when he inflicted physical pain, because he was determined to find a way to break my spirit, because . . .

“Because you were a teenage girl?” Marx asked, his words echoing the next thought in my head.

Tears clung to my eyelashes when I looked at him. “Maybe.” Maybe if I had just given him what he wanted, if I had cried the way the other children had, he never would’ve—

“Okay,” Marx exhaled, derailing that painful thought. “He enjoys hurtin’ people, specifically people who are younger or smaller than him. What else?”

I watched the agitated rhythm of the pen as he bounced it off the desk. “When he was hurting us, he would ask us how it felt. He wanted us to describe it to him.”

I tried not to shiver at the memory of Collin’s voice whispering in my ear, “How does it feel, Holly?”

A muscle ticked in Marx’s jaw. “He likes mind games. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“In the beginning, I think he asked because he was curious about something he’s never experienced, but after a while I think he just did it to taunt us.”

I tried to prepare myself for the blatant disbelief that would inevitably follow my explanation. “He bleeds and bruises just like everyone else, but he can’t . . . feel pain.”

The pen abruptly stilled, and I glanced at Marx’s face, trying to gauge his reaction. His eyebrows were pinched together in confusion or doubt. Maybe both.

Why had I bothered trying to explain? The only other cop I had told about Collin hadn’t believed me either. But that man’s disbelief hadn’t stung so deeply.

I started to climb out of the chair, but Marx caught my arm. “It’s not that I don’t believe you. I’m just havin’ a hard time wrappin’ my mind around it.”

I slipped my arm from his gentle grip and asked suspiciously, “You don’t think I’m making it up or misunderstanding?”

The lack of hesitation in his answer surprised me so much that I plopped back down in my chair. “Really? Why?”

“Because I know you would never lie to me; withhold information, yes, but never lie. And you lived with the man for eleven months. That doesn’t leave a lot of room for misunderstandin’.”

I let out a breath and felt my shoulders sag in relief. It meant a lot to me that he believed me.

“I looked it up once, but I don’t remember what it’s called. I know it’s rare. People who have it aren’t expected to make it to adulthood.”

The pen started tapping again as Marx tried to work out the facts in his mind. “I assume he didn’t just volunteer this information about his condition.”

I shook my head as I looked down at my feet on the edge of the chair. “I figured it out when I tried to fight back.” Fresh tears gathered in my eyes. “I tried—I did—but he’s . . .”

“Holly.” The softness in his voice drew my eyes back to his. “You were a fourteen-year-old girl, and he was a grown man. It wasn’t a fair fight.”

“I wasn’t fourteen when he came after me again in Pennsylvania.” Anger and frustration sharpened my voice.

Marx sighed. “I know what you’re thinkin’. That maybe if you’d tried harder, fought harder, you would’ve gotten away. But the world doesn’t always work that way. No matter how hard you fought, he had the advantage. He’s bigger and stronger and he can’t feel pain.”

“When I got free, I stabbed him with a pair of scissors that I kept under my bed. And I pushed him down a flight of stairs after . . .” My throat constricted against the words. “After he—”

The bitter taste of bile on the back of my tongue was my only warning. Marx plucked the hot chocolate from my shaking fingers and thrust an empty trash can in front of me a split second before everything in my stomach came back up.

He held my hair back with a sigh. “I had a feelin’ that was comin’ at some point. I’m surprised it waited this long.”

I dry-heaved into the trash can until I was so weak I thought I might fall headfirst into it.

When my stomach spasms finally subsided, I curled back into the chair and hugged myself. “I’m sorry I threw up in your trash can.”

That was twice in the time we had known each other that he’d had the unfortunate pleasure of watching me vomit, only this time there had actually been something in my stomach.

He offered me a tissue to clean up with, and I took it, my fingers still shaking.

“It’s just a trash can, Holly. And I’ve seen people’s insides on their outsides before. An upset stomach doesn’t even compare.”

“I know that talkin’ about what he did to you is hard,” he said. “But if it helps you to share the details with somebody, I’ll gladly listen.”

I shook my head and wiped at the few silent tears trickling down my cheeks. I had never told anyone those details, and I had no intention of doing so now. Some secrets—some nightmares—weren’t meant to be shared.

“I won’t.” I drew myself up in the chair, trying not to appear as brittle as I felt, and said, “I’m gonna get you some coffee now.” He didn’t object as I unfolded myself from the chair and walked away toward the break room, but I could feel him watching me.

I flipped on the light and looked around the small room. I twisted the sleeves of my shirt anxiously between my fingers as I shuffled over to the coffeepot. It was empty. That was fine; I would just make some.

I snooped through the cabinets for the filters and coffee grounds. It had been years since I made coffee, but I was pretty sure I remembered the basics. I found the coffee grounds and popped open the lid. No scoop.

I shook a heaping mountain of dark granules into the coffee filter, filled the pot with water, and hit the brew button. I stared at it expectantly, but nothing happened.

When a low, male voice rumbled through the squad room, I stiffened and looked through the vertical blinds.

A uniformed officer strode toward Marx’s desk, and some of the tension melted from my shoulders. It was only Sam. I hadn’t realized it was already time for him to come on duty.

He looked around the room, searching for something, and it took me a moment to realize it was probably me. He spotted me in the side room and gave me a brief nod before sitting down in the chair I had just vacated.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I remember you mentioning a few months ago that this guy was a threat, but you never gave me any details.”

Sam stared at him, as if searching his unreadable face for more information. “What I saw out there today in that abandoned building—she was terrified beyond rationality. She was ready to go nowhere with nothing just to get away from this guy. Who is he?”

“Oh, he’s here for a reunion, but I don’t intend on lettin’ him get close enough to her for that to happen.”

Sam drew in a breath to speak, hesitated for a beat, and then asked, “I know he hurt her—she as much as said so when I confronted her about it—but did he . . .”

Marx gave him a look I couldn’t interpret, and Sam let his question trail off with a heavy sigh.

“All I can tell you,” Marx began, “is that she was abducted three months ago by a man who tried to kill her, and she barely blinks an eye at the mention of him. But you mention Collin, who hurt her two years ago, and it makes her physically ill.”

Sam glanced at the trash can I had vomited in and grimaced. “I’ve known the guy for five minutes and I already wanna pound him into the floor.”

Marx grunted, then asked, “You find anythin’ when you went back to her place?”

“I wanna know where he’s stayin’, and I wanna know everythin’ he’s done since he’s been here. He’s been in town at least since her birthday. Why show up on her doorstep now?”

“See what you can find out on the street. If there’s a way to make him legally disappear, I wanna know about it.”

The coffeepot made a horrible noise—like rocks in a blender—and my eyes widened as I took a cautious step back. Was it going to explode? Black liquid began to filter down into the pot, and I relaxed. The dreadful odor of coffee filled the room.

I grabbed two mugs from the cupboard and watched the coffee drip painfully slowly into the pot. Some people, like Jace, weren’t morning people, and they had two personalities: pre-coffee and post-coffee. I had seen Jace pre-coffee, and that person was short-tempered, hopelessly clumsy, and prone to irrational fits of tears over the smallest things—like a missing sock.

If this was the pace that all coffeepots brewed, it was a wonder pre-coffee people didn’t smash them to bits in a hulking rage. The grinding finally came to a stop and the pot leveled off.

“It isn’t,” Marx replied. I glanced at him as he flipped through the file. “It looks like your average drive-by shootin’, but the timin’ is too coincidental. And not a single person on that street would give a statement. Apparently they’re all blind, which leaves me exactly nowhere.”

My hands still shook a little as I poured the coffee, but doing something normal helped to ease my nerves. I puffed out a breath as I picked up both cups and walked carefully back into the squad room.

Marx gave me a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes as he took the mug I offered. “Thank you, Holly.”

I offered one to Sam, and he hesitated before Marx gave him a look. “Um, thanks,” he said, accepting it begrudgingly. He stared into the murky liquid as if it were poison. Well, in all fairness, I had served him roofied punch once, but that hadn’t exactly been my fault.

Marx took a sip, grimaced, and swallowed with some difficulty. “That’s”—he cleared his throat—“flavorful.”

Sam choked on his sip and pounded a fist against his chest. He set the mug down on the desk. “Flavorful is one way to put it.”

I slid my hands into the back pockets of my jeans and sighed. “It’s awful, isn’t it?”

Marx forced down another swallow of his, but I suspected it was just to spare my feelings and not because he enjoyed it. “It’s a little bitter,” he admitted. “But it was very thoughtful of you to make it.”

I bounced on my toes as I stared at the folder next to his coffee cup. “About your case. I heard . . . a rumor, I guess you could call it, that your informant was killed because he talked. I assume because he talked to you.”

There was a silent moment of surprise before Marx asked, “Where did you hear that?”

I lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I don’t know her name. It was a Latino woman who lived on the street. If it helps, she went into the house two sidewalks to the left of where the snake guy was standing.”

“One of Holly’s afternoon admirers,” Marx muttered as he flipped the folder closed and dropped the pen into a cup on the desk. “If we drive through the neighborhood before headin’ home, can you point out the house to me?”

The trace of anxiety in my stomach expanded at the word “home,” and I shook my head.

“No, I can’t go home.” If sending me home was his plan of protection, I couldn’t stay. I wouldn’t be safe there.

The two men exchanged a look, and then Marx clarified, “Not your home, sweetheart. Mine.”

“That’s the idea,” he replied with a shadow of a smile. “I know you practically live in a bunker and you’re the only one with keys to it, but I’m not comfortable entrustin’ your safety to a few dead bolts and panes of glass. Not with Collin knowin’ where you live.”

The thought of him rekindled my instinct to flee while I had a chance, and I found myself staring at the stairwell door as possible escape routes raced through my mind.

“And I don’t want you disappearin’ again when he tries another surprise visit,” Marx said, drawing my attention back to him. His gaze flickered to the door and then back to me, letting me know that my thoughts hadn’t been as private as I would’ve liked. “I’ll feel better if you stay with me. I have a guest room and it does have a lock on the door. You think you’ll feel safe enough?”

I knew what he was asking: would I feel safe enough not to run? Truthfully, I didn’t know, but I was too tired to run anywhere tonight. “Maybe.”

“I’ll take it. Let’s call it a night.” He shrugged on his coat and grabbed his gun from his desk drawer before the two of them escorted me out of the building.