Thirty minutes later, I drop the last of my personal belongings from the totaled Jeep into a box. There is not one inch that's not dented or damaged. Reyes cues up a video from the security camera of a Walmart parking lot where the Jeep was found. It shows the Jeep being rammed into the cement barriers at the base of the light posts. It looks more like a game of vehicular pinball. Over and over, the driver crushes all sides until smoke rises from the engine, and the Jeep ceases to move. A hooded figure emerges from the driver's side and walks away from the scene.
I recognize him instantly. "It's John. I can tell by the way he walks. He always swings one arm but not the other."
"He totaled the vehicle," Carter says. It's not a question, but the implication that he's seeking an explanation lingers in the air. "Apparently, he wanted to make a statement, but it reeks of overkill."
"He knows I love my Jeep." My voice is flat, void of any reservation. I follow the figure on the screen. "I've wanted a Jeep like this since before I could drive. It was the first brand-new vehicle I've ever owned."
Reyes has been quiet, observing me. He crosses his arms over his chest. "Any relevance to the place?"
I shrug. "His way of telling me I'm low-class white trash? A common theme when he was upset with me. A reminder of where I came from." I glance over at Alex for his reaction.
I haven't really talked to him about my childhood. He has no idea of the rat-infested places I've called home while my father drank us out of rent money.
"John prided himself in never having set foot in Walmart, never needing to get things at a discount, and he would hassle me about going there."
As we're talking, a woman wearing latex gloves comes in carrying a brown paper bag. She whispers to Sergeant Reyes before placing the bag on the table. Written across the front in wide black marker is my name with the distinctive K in John's handwriting.
"We found this under the front seat. Forensics examined it, but we need you to identify the contents since it was clearly left for you." The gloved woman carefully opens the bag and pulls out the one object I never wanted to see again.
I take a jagged breath and a step back, but my eyes are locked on the flogger.
"Damn it, Reyes!" Alex bellows, pulling me to him and possessively wraps his arm around my waist.
Sergeant Reyes ignores Alex's increasingly aggressive manner and focuses on me. "Is this the object that made the marks on your back, Miss Tate?"
"Leave her alone, Reyes," Alex hisses.
I place my hand over Alex's heart. This can’t hurt me… "I can't be sure if it's the actual flogger he used, but yes, Sergeant, that's the same type he used on me."
Reyes narrows his eyes, and I feel as if I'm being interrogated.
"And he left it for you? Why?"
"Because he knows it scares the shit out of me. Maybe it's some kind of threat, like he can always get to me and hurt me. I don't know. But this particular item—he wanted me to feel fear, to relive the pain. To be ashamed." My voice is calm, and even I'm amazed that I haven't crumpled to the floor in a blubbering heap.
What has passed as Alex's patience is completely gone. "Are we done here?"
Sergeant Carter resumes his post between Alex and Reyes. "Yes. We'll let you know if we find anything out."
I take Alex's hand, and we make our way out of the evidence room, down the hall, and out to the waiting SUV. The last thing we need is for Alex to push it too far and get arrested. I need to work on Trevalis, not spend the weekend bailing Alex out of jail.
Jake drives us home in uneasy silence. Alex is looking out the window, withdrawn, and runs his thumb across the back of my hand. I'm confident he's not upset with me and probably not Reyes, either, although he is an easier target for Alex's anger. Alex blames himself. For what exactly, I'm unsure. It could be for Reyes pulling out the flogger, John burning down my house, or the fact that I've been hurt at all.
Rational or not, Alex takes my safety personally. Whatever happened in his past to make him this way, it was substantial enough to give him a sort of God complex. Not in the usual sense—not like John, who has no ability to have compassion, but believes himself to be better than everyone. There's a sense of culpability with Alex. He's empathetic, almost to a fault.
Alex turns to me, and deep creases across his forehead mar his handsome features. "I'm sorry, Kylie. I should've stopped them earlier. I could've killed Reyes for putting you through that. He fucking knew what that was. He just wanted your reaction, the sick fuck."
I twist in my seat and face him. "I love that you want to protect me from everything and everyone, but I'm okay, Alex. I mean it. I'm stronger now." He opens his mouth to speak, or more than likely, protest, but I place my fingers to his lips. "You've made me stronger. Because of you, I can face this without falling apart. I'm not saying I won't ever go to pieces again, but I know none of it—not even that fucking flogger—can hurt me anymore. You provide me a safe place and allow me to open up and talk without any judgment. You lift the burden, so I can breathe again. I'm stronger because of you."
"Kylie..." Alex sighs heavily and shakes his head in protest.
I rest my head on his shoulder and hug his neck. "Sorry, Stone. That's how I feel, and you're just going to have to accept it."
We have a quick dinner, and I set about organizing for the weekend trial prep. The open area of the family room is big enough to set up the poster board exhibits of evidence pictures, blown up to obscene sizes so the jury will be able to easily see them. Mine are fairly mundane, with only a couple of pictures of the victim's body at the crime scene. The prosecution is restricted to only ten pictures of the dead body. They wanted thirty-five various adaptations. I argued overkill, and the judge agreed.
A long white wall stands between the TV and couch, perfect for projecting my laptop program. Thank goodness Lisa knows how to run it. I hate that thing and have never been able to use it successfully at trial. Technology and I sometimes have a love-hate relationship—mostly hate.
Alex relegates himself to his study, answering emails and tying up some loose ends, but I can sense he's upset I'm not spending one-on-one time with him. I can't blame him, really. Even I've been feeling detached. We haven't had any real together time since earlier in the week when he asked me to live with him.
That's another source of angst. The thought of losing my identity scares me so badly I refuse to address it. Being with Alex feels so right, and I love going to bed with him at night and waking up with him in the morning. I just can't seem to get past the part where I'm giving everything up for him. I have relied on myself and taken care of those who were supposed to take care of me for most of my life. Suddenly, the lack of control and independence feels like a stranglehold, and I fear I'll suffocate.
Unless there's a way for me to live with Alex without giving up my independence. The thought hits me, nearly leveling me. I cannot believe I didn't think of this earlier!
The spark of clarity excites me enough to put off what I'm doing and find Alex. The study is dimly lit. The desk chair is empty, and his laptop closed. Peering around the door, I see Alex sitting next to the small lamp, reading The Wall Street Journal. I slide next to him on the couch, and he folds up the newspaper and places it on the side table.
Despite being sure of what I am about to do, my heart thumps hard in my chest. "Okay, I have an answer to your question—request. The invitation? The thing you want me to do." I'm stalling before spilling my very atypical, un-thought-out response. "But I need something in return."
A thin line appears across his mouth, and the stress lines on his forehead become more prominent. He is a man used to getting his way, and I'm guessing I might be the only woman in the world who balks at living with him.
"I'll move in with you. I'll live here, even after the construction is done on my place, but—" I take a deep breath while Alex exhales loudly—"I want to keep my place."
And here it comes...
He shifts and drops his head to the side. I didn't think it was possible for the grim line of his mouth to be more prominent, but his lips have taken on an eerie white, and all the blood's been extricated from pursing them so tightly.
His eyes darken as he peers at me suspiciously.
Dang, where are his thoughts taking him that is evoking such a scary response?
I speak quickly, before the vein in his neck explodes. "Not because I want it as an escape or a place to run to. In fact, and this is not as well thought out as I would like, but maybe we can rent it out. Use it as investment property. It's just—God, you're not going to understand this—I grew up poor. Dirt fucking poor. I bought the townhouse all on my own. Just me. No one helped. I did everything. I made all the decisions, secured the loan, and made the down payment. I dreamt all my life and worked my ass off to get to the point where I could buy property for a million dollars. And yes, that was my demarcation. Where I predetermined I had 'made it on my own.’ I know this probably seems like nothing to you, but it's huge for me, especially if you'd seen where I came from—which you never will, thank God."
I take a breath to calm my nerves a bit. "I'm just not ready to let it go. I know it's just property, but it's a defining moment in my life, and I don't have many of those that were actually positive. I feel like I've lost so much of myself over the years, and I want to hang on to it a little longer."
I brace myself in anticipation of Alex blowing up, his hurt feelings and inability to control me reaching its boiling point. Instead, he takes a deep breath. His eyes soften, and the blood rushes from the vein in his neck back to his near-dead lips.
He turns and caresses the side of my face. "First of all, of course I understand how you feel. I didn't just wake up one morning with all of this. And you have every right to be proud of your accomplishments. I don't know much about your childhood—I hope that changes soon—but I'm extremely proud of you. Every time I learn something new about you, I’m astounded. I'm in awe of you. And you should never apologize for wanting to be successful.
"Second, I like the idea of making your townhouse a rental property. It's in an excellent location, and I think if we do this right, we can make some good money for you with it. Besides, I'm always looking for a good investment, and you are an excellent investment. And, third—" He pulls me toward him, his eyes smoldering. He slides down the couch, and drags me on top of him. "Welcome home, roomie." His voice is sensual and seductive.
I nestle into his chest.
In three weeks, I've met a completely unavailable man and made him unavailable in a whole new way. I lost my house but gained a home. Been stalked, harassed, beaten—and saved.
What the hell will the next three weeks bring?