Merida vaulted off the table, scampered toward her clothes to grab something, anything, put it on, run away.
Because he was going to kill her … again.
As she moved, her mind sorted: no T-shirt, she’d be vulnerable if she pulled it over her head; no pants, she’d be vulnerable when she pulled them on; no shoes … she snatched up her hoodie, turned and held it in front of her.
Benedict sat on the table in the same position, unmoving, watching.
Of course. Why not? He could outrun her. Because of her paranoia, she had three locks on the door and a chain; they kept her safe, but she couldn’t easily get out. And he’d already proven tonight that her puny self-defense moves could not defeat him.
But bless him. He knew exactly what to say to bring years of pent-up fury roaring back. “Merry Byrd, I thought you were dead.”
She threw the hoodie aside and advanced on him. If she was going to die, she wouldn’t do it cowering behind a feeble piece of clothing. She was going to go down fighting. “You ought to know,” she signed. “You killed Merry Byrd.”
“No.”
“You arranged for that airplane to explode.”
“No.”
“When I woke in the hospital, I cried for you. You were nowhere.”
“When I woke in the hospital, they told me you were dead.”
“Who told you I was dead?” Wait. “What were you in the hospital for?”
He paused, studied her. “Do you not remember that explosion?”
“Yes!” Except not really. She couldn’t remember everything, and she didn’t want to. The noise. The fear. The explosion. The heat. Oh God the heat the pain the death now run now not fast enough. “I was to solo at last … I was doing the preflight check…”
He jumped off the table.
She took a compulsive step back.
Now uncaring of the cops, he flipped on a light. He pulled off his T-shirt and turned his back to her.
The skin from his neck to his buttocks was rippled with red scars, testimony to fire and pain.
She shook her head, little disbelieving shakes.
“When you want to talk, you know where to find me.” Pulling on his shirt and his pants, he opened the locks and walked out, slamming the door behind him.
The man knew how to make an exit.
Damn him! The coward, leaving her here alone when she wanted to fight. Picking up one of his shoes, she flung it at the door. She stomped over and fastened the locks. She sure as hell didn’t want to think. She had never wanted to think about that day …
The police lights flashed against the suits of armor like some freakish, silent music video.
Benedict had recognized her. He had made love to her and somehow, he had known who she was. How was that possible? Because of her body? No, she had been substantially rebuilt on Nauplius’s specifications. She had no voice, so it wasn’t that. Maybe because … because … of the way she made love? Because he had never forgotten her?
Merida, don’t go there. That way looms heartbreak.
But the fact remained that somehow, he had known her.
Somehow, he had been hurt.
Somehow, she had never known that.
She pulled on her T-shirt and pants, walked to the window and stared out at the street where the police lights flashed. An ambulance was parked at the curb—why? It was far too late for Carl. Men in uniform moved back and forth, and Kateri stood speaking into a radio, her gaze fixed … on the B and B.
Merida stepped away from the window.
She had never once opened the mental box that contained her memories. At first she had been too bound up in the fight for her life. Then Nauplius Brassard had come to her and offered the deal. She could have a life with the kind of face and form that made children cry and grown men turn away. Or she could become his perfect woman and live her life on his terms. He offered a contract.
She had nobly refused. Even then she couldn’t speak, but she had written that Benedict Howard would care for her.
Nauplius had laughed.
She had never forgotten that laughter, or the cruel truth he had thrust upon her. Benedict Howard had tried to kill her. If Nauplius hadn’t recognized that she was the woman he sought, if he hadn’t let the world believe she was dead, Benedict Howard would have already finished the job.
She hadn’t believed him.
He showed her the photographs online, of a smiling, debonair Benedict dating a smiling, glamorous model. Current photos! She had checked the dates. She had feverishly sought more pictures, pictures taken while she struggled in the hospital with pain, fever, infection, the loss of her face.
But that didn’t mean he had tried to kill her, only that he’d abandoned her in her time of need. Wasn’t that bad enough?
Then Benedict’s aunt Rose had visited. The fragile old woman confessed her shame for her nephew and his nefarious deeds. At the same time, she had refused to show Merry proof or turn Benedict over to the law. She said she loved him. She said she feared him. She said Merry was safe as long as he believed her dead, and advised her to take Nauplius’s bargain. As reparation, she offered to negotiate his contract and get Merry better terms. And she did: because of her, Nauplius paid Merry that annual salary.
The realization that the man she loved had betrayed her broke Merry. The woman she had been—optimistic, cheerful, helpful—disappeared. From that moment, she faced life as it truly was, and she tried never to remember. Not Benedict, not the circumstances of the accident. She had concentrated on the future, and revenge.
But tonight changed everything. Because he had the scars.
How? Why?
Without turning on a light, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom.
None of that helped her know what to do now.
She should shower. She smelled like sex and sweat and him.
She lowered herself onto the bed and shut her eyes … and tried to remember.
All her life, Merry Byrd had wanted to fly, and for her birthday, Benedict Howard gave her flying lessons. Everything about the experience lifted her heart and each flight was a gift. She embraced the adventure. She loved the freedom of soaring high above the earth. Her instructor, Bob, said he had never seen anyone who was such a natural at the controls. Benedict Howard rode along for every lesson, and every time they landed, he looked at her as if she was the most wonderful woman in the world.
Yes. She was really flying.
At last she was ready for her solo flight.
The message came. Benedict had been detained—business. He couldn’t wave to her as she took off, congratulate her when she landed. But he would be thinking of her every moment. She was disappointed. Of course. But he sent flowers, and Merry did as she always did—she took joy in his thoughtfulness.
Bob handed her the list and sent her out to the plane to do the preflight check. He told her he had to speak with his wife—she was ill, in the hospital for tests—but he would join her soon and give the plane the once-over, too, just to be sure. He seemed nervous, but Merida reassured him, told him she was ready to fly on her own and to go to his wife if she needed him.
Merida walked out to the plane sitting on the tarmac. She performed the visual inspection: fuselage, wings, empennage, power plant, the undercarriage. No nicks, dents, loose fasteners. Checked fuel levels, landing gear, wheels, ignition wires, fuel lines … Bob kept his plane in prime condition, and she didn’t stop until she had given a good mark to everything on the checklist. She was ready to climb into the plane, do the cockpit check, when she heard him call. She turned and waved, so happy to see him …
Him. Bob?
No. Not Bob.
Benedict loped toward her, carrying a gift box under his arm, calling, “Merry, wait!” …
Merida found herself lying stiff and breathless, straining to remember the following moments.
Nothing. She didn’t remember anything until she woke in the hospital, wrapped in bandages and hounded by pain.
The doctors had told her remembering that trauma might be something she could never do.
Once she knew the truth about Benedict, she hadn’t wanted to.
But she didn’t know the truth about Benedict. She only knew what Nauplius and Rose had told her, and what she’d seen online. After living with Nauplius, she now knew how well the wealthy could manipulate their stories.
Maybe after Merry’s “death,” Benedict hadn’t really been out partying.
Merida sat up.
Here in Virtue Falls, he’d had plenty of chances, but he hadn’t killed her yet.
So she might as well go ask him what had happened to cause those scars on his back.