“You sure about this?” Bruno braked outside the wrought iron gate that marked the entrance to the luxurious Parrish home in Beaverton. He looked uncomfortable. “I’m not. I think this sucks.”
“Completely sure,” she assured him. “I have to go to my sister.”
“You’re aware of what this will cost me, right? Kev will redesign my skeleton. I’ll be short a head, or missing a couple of limbs the next time you see me. And I loved being bilaterally symmetrical.”
She appreciated his attempt to lighten the moment, but any laughter would tip her down that slippery slope into a hysterical fit. “Don’t make me laugh, or I’ll freak. I can’t cry in front of these people.”
Bruno looked puzzled. “But aren’t they family?”
She thought of the embarrassment that had always greeted any displays of emotion in her family. The pills she’d taken over the years, to medicate those embarrassing feelings away.
“No,” she said quietly. “I can’t. It’s complicated.”
A tall, uniformed black man came to the driver’s side of the car. Robert Fraser. She liked him better than any of the others on her father’s security staff. He was always courteous to her, in spite of the example set by both his boss and his direct supervisor.
Robert murmured into his walkie-talkie. Bruno rolled his window down. Robert peered in at her. “Miss Parrish? You all right?”
“As far as I can be, under the circumstances,” she replied.
“I’m sorry about your loss,” Robert said.
She nodded. “Thank you.”
Robert scrutinized Bruno. “Who is this person?”
“He’s a friend of mine,” she replied. “He gave me a ride home.”
“My name’s Bruno Ranieri,” Bruno supplied. “I’m going to put my hand into my coat pocket to get my wallet and show you my ID, OK? So don’t get all twitchy and shoot me with that SIG of yours.”
“Do it slowly,” Robert said.
Bruno plucked a wallet out of his pocket. He flipped it open to the license. Robert studied it. “Wait here,” he said.
He muttered into his walkie-talkie, walked to the front of the car, studied the plates, recited them.
Oh, for God’s sake. Edie leaned out the window. “Robert, can’t he just take me up the drive?”
“He can’t go into the house without a body search and a background check,” Robert said.
“He’s not staying,” she said. “He won’t come inside.”
“I’d be terrified to,” Bruno commented dryly.
“Really, it’s OK,” she urged Robert. “He’s a friend. He’s safe.”
Another muttered exchange, and finally Robert nodded. The gate began to grind open. Robert leaned to the window and met Bruno’s eyes. “Do not get out of your car,” he said.
Bruno drove through. “It’s like visiting a maximum security prison,” he said. “Where’s the razor wire and the control towers?”
In my mind. She cut the words off. They were only true if she let them be true. She stared at the house as it came into view, chilled by it. It had never been home, like the rambling Victorian in Tacoma where she’d grown up, near Helix’s previous headquarters. She’d never bonded with the modern, glassy house her parents had chosen. It seemed cold, lacking in a human dimension.
Maybe that was why her parents had liked it so much.
Guilt stabbed deep, for thinking spiteful, unworthy thoughts at such a time. A suite had been designated as hers, though she’d never slept in it. Her bathroom alone in this house was larger than her entire Flanders Street apartment.
And yet, she felt so cramped here, she could hardly breathe.
Bruno braked when two members of the security personnel stepped out into the road. His brow creased with worry. “You have my number, right? Call me if you have problems.”
Right. What had she ever had but problems with these people? She forced a smile. “Don’t worry. Tell Kev I’ll be in touch.” Which was an understatement. She was going to have some choice words for Kev Larsen, when he finally crawled out of the woodwork. For not telling her and Bruno he was OK. If he was OK. She pushed that thought away, and waved at Bruno as he swung the car around the circle that bounded the big cluster of exotic ornamental shrubs.
He drove away, disappearing around the driveway’s curve. She turned to face the house, and whatever she might find there.
Tanya was in the dark, mahogany paneled foyer. Her face looked gray, her eyes pink. Genuine grief sliced through Edie’s numbness. Her throat seized up. She hurried towards Tanya, arms out.
Tanya stepped back, chin jerking up. Don’t touch.
Edie let her arms drop, breathing down the sting. So there was to be no coming together in grief, then. Her father had mandated her status as in the doghouse, and that status would endure.
Not important. She was here for her sister. Not comfort, support, or acceptance. The rest of them could go to hell. “Where’s Ronnie?” The voice coming out of her was so cool. Remote-controlled robot girl.
“In the solarium. Nice, that you finally decided to show up.”
That didn’t even penetrate. Edie walked past her cousin, and toward the solarium, the only room of the house that she liked. It was faced with warm, rosy cedar, and had banks of high windows that let light stream in over plush beige couches, cream wool rugs. Outside was one of the two huge, magnificent spreading oaks that adorned the sloping lawn, carefully pruned to let light into the huge windows.
Ronnie was slumped on a couch, head limp against the cushions. Aunt Evelyn’s head turned as Edie walked in. Ronnie’s did not.
Edie immediately understood why not, when Dr. Katz stood up. Her belly clenched with instinctive dislike. He’d drugged Ronnie.
The man seemed harmless, with his round face, graying hair, round glasses, impeccable credentials. But he loved to medicate. He was always ready with pills, so that the powerful people that paid him would not be bothered by unpleasantness, like tears, anxiety attacks, depression, psychic episodes, bad grades. Dr. Katz had the solution always ready in his hand. She hated his guts. “How is she?” she asked.
Evelyn’s mouth flattened at Edie’s hard tone. “She’s resting. She couldn’t stop crying.”
“I gave her something to help her rest,” Dr. Katz added.
“Of course you did.” Edie walked around to the front of the couch and knelt. Ronnie’s tearstained face was pressed against the cushions, her mouth squashed open. She grabbed Ronnie’s hands, squeezed.
“Baby?” she whispered. “Are you still awake? I’m here.”
But Ronnie was out. Edie stared at her sister, fighting her anger.
“She kept asking for you,” Aunt Evelyn said.
“I told you I was coming,” Edie replied. “You could have waited.”
“You could have hurried,” Evelyn countered.
“Before letting him bash her over the head with his pharmaceutical baseball bat?”
Evelyn gasped. “Edith!”
“It’s all right, Evelyn,” Dr. Katz soothed. “It’s normal for her to feel this way. In fact, I expected her to react with hostility. Anger is an integral part of the grieving process. It shouldn’t be suppressed, or—”
“Shut up.” Edie chafed Ronnie’s cold, clammy hands in her own. “I don’t need to hear it. Not from you.”
“Edie, you’re shocked and grieving,” Dr. Katz said. “I’m here for you, any time you need to vent. Or cry. Don’t be afraid to let it out.”
“Yeah. Right,” she muttered. Fuck you, too. She stiffened when he laid his hand on her shoulder.
“Relax,” he soothed. “Let me give you something for the—”
“If you want to keep that hand, get it off my shoulder.” Edie’s voice was not loud, but something in it made the room go very silent.
Dr. Katz lifted his hand away, very slowly. “Ah. There’s, er, no need for that kind of language.”
“Edith!” Evelyn’s voice cracked with horror. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I just no longer give a shit what anyone thinks. I’m here for Ronnie. How long will the junk you gave her last?”
Dr. Katz’s chest puffed. “It’s hardly junk! Just a mild sedative that will help her to—”
“Just answer my question.”
“An hour and a half to two hours,” he said, tightly.
Edie headed toward the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Evelyn demanded.
“I don’t know,” she said. “To the kitchen, for a glass of water. To the bathroom to pee. I’m improvising, here. Leave me the hell alone.”
She slammed the door behind her on their indignant muttering, and set off, wandering at random until she stopped in front of a family photograph her mother had commissioned many years before.
It was an old-fashioned composition; her father in a chair in the front, as hawk-nosed and patrician as a founding father from an old daguerrotype. Her mother stood at his side with the adorable little baby Ronnie in her arms, looking beautiful and perfect in her pink twin set and pearls, dark hair gleaming in a perfect bob. And Edie, curled up at her father’s feet, looking like she wanted to disappear no matter how the photographer had posed her. That had been two years after the Haven. Back when she was horribly convinced that she was going crazy.
The photo had been one of her mother’s desperate attempts to sculpt the outward appearance of a perfect family. Often she’d thought that her mother’s decision to have another baby was an attempt to, well, just try again, from the top. With fresh materials. Not that it made her love Ronnie any less.
Her younger face in the photo looked pinched, big eyes haunted.
She’d come a long way since the bad old days, she thought. She was making real progress. Just look at her. Threatening Dr. Katz with dismemberment. That had to be a step in the right direction.
Another few steps took her to the door of her father’s study, the scene of so many lectures, so many admonitions and ultimatums. All of them useless in the end. They couldn’t change who their daughter was.
Nor should they have wanted to. She was fine. She liked herself the way she was. And Kev liked her, too.
Thinking of Kev sent a knee-weakening stab of fear through her. She breathed it down, pushed on the door of the study. Went in.
It was a dark room, wood paneling, leather furniture, teak desk and bookshelves, teak filing cabinets. She wondered at the heavy, nervous feeling, as if she might be caught, scolded, punished. But by who? The only person whose opinion mattered had died that day.
Somehow, his murder had to be related to what was happening to her, and what had happened to Kev. Osterman’s lingering legacy.
So why not start looking? What else was she going to do with herself while Ronnie snored away a haze of sedatives? Chat with Aunt Edith? Play Parcheesi with Tanya? She might as well get off her ass.
The computer was on. Edie slid into Dad’s leather upholstered desk chair. Some part of her expected at any moment for him to burst in on her, furious at her for invading his privacy.
She clicked on his daily appointment log, scrolling through it.
Wow. For a man who had been discharged from the ICU one day before, he hadn’t cut himself much slack. He’d canceled the raquetball match at the health club with one of his colleagues, but that was his one concession. He was booked solid with meetings, from eight o’clock on. At ten-fifteen, he’d typed in DES.
Ten-fifteen? Wasn’t that when Des was meeting Kev? And wasn’t it…
Oh, God. That was right about when Dad had been killed.
That made it so horribly real. She shuddered, and leaned down onto the desk, trying not to see it in her mind’s eye. But she had an excellent capacity to visualize.
Her eye fell on the dagger-shaped letter opener, the one her mother had commissioned from Cartier, for her father’s sixtieth birthday. It gleamed in the box. She picked it up, turned it over in her hand. Remembering. Fifty guests, and her parents watching her like a hawk lest she blurt out something shocking and wreck the party.
She pulled herself together, wiped her eyes, and kept poking. Nothing seemed interesting or significant in her father’s e-mails of the last couple of weeks. Neither was anything else she clicked on in the desktop. She left the computer, and set to looking at the hard files in the cabinets behind. Helix stuff, Parrish Foundation stuff. Reams of it.
In the Parrish Foundation stuff, she found lots of correspondance generated by her mother. Linda Parrish’s graceful, flowing signature made Edie’s throat seize up. There was a sheaf of files dedicated to the Osterman scandal. Memos to the Board of Directors of the PF. Many hysterical iterations about the necessity of rigorous control measures in place for every penny of research money to prevent such a disgrace from happening again. All in the months leading up to her mother’s death.
Edie’s eyes stung as she read them. That was Mom, all over. So rigorous, so upright, so self-righteous. Both her parents had been so proud to be part of a charitable organization that helped the world to combat pain, disability, and disease. They had considered themselves the good guys, the white hats. Crusaders, on a holy quest.
Both of them had been horrified by the Osterman scandal. They had done everything they could to distance themselves from it, to safeguard the Parrish Foundation from future disgrace. Stiff necked as any wild-eyed religious zealot. It was their best quality. And their worst.
Then she found an unlabeled file just stuck into the drawer. It was a sheaf of memos, notes, scraps, business cards, thank-you cards, invitations to events, publicity materials, magazine subscriptions, printed out e-mails. All dated around the time of her mother’s death.
Edie leafed through them. This was the result of her mother’s secretary going through her boss’s desk after the funeral, throwing everything she didn’t know what to do with into a catch-all file. Her eye stuck on an e-mail from Des Marr. The text read:
Linda,
Last night, I read through your new protocols to increase scrutiny and accountability for PF’s future research spending. Congratulations for being as tough as nails. It’s exactly what this board needs. You’re just the woman to shake them up.
I want to drop by and discuss a couple of points before we go into the board meeting. Free at eleven? It’ll only take a second. Des.
Edie looked up at the date of the e-mail again. A cold skeleton hand snaked around her vital organs…and squeezed.
It was the date of her mother’s death.
Ah, come on. No need to get the willies. What was so strange about that? It had been a day like any other day for Linda Parrish. E-mails, protocols, meetings.
But her mother had collapsed at that board meeting. She’d been dead before she reached the hospital.
Edie realized that she was doodling on the the e-mail from Des. Covering it with tiny hearts. Like she’d done on the napkin, at the restaurant. With her mother, the last time she’d seen her.
Edie’s little closet full of compulsions. Her mother’s voice sounded in her head, so vivid, she felt as if she’d heard it with her waking ears.
“Ah! So you’re home from your little sexual adventure? And now you’re spying for him?”
Edie leaped up, her heart pounding. Marta was framed in the doorway. She was almost unrecognizable, with her hair down, no makeup on her face. Her eyes were red and hollow, but they still glittered with intense dislike.
Edie forced herself to slow her panicked breaths. “No,” she said. “I have a right to be here, looking at anything I choose to look at.”
“Do you? More than I do? Is that what you’re saying?”
“You said it, not me.” Edie gazed at the other woman. Marta’s haggard face indicated that she might have cared more about Dad than Edie had given her credit for. But perhaps she was grieving the prospect of marrying a multibillionaire. Those were scarce on the ground.
A thought flashed through her mind. “Marta, were you there that day at Helix in Tacoma, when Kev’s brothers visited Dad?”
Marta’s face tightened. “Yes, I was. I met the McClouds, and they were animals. They physically attacked your father, did you know that?”
“McClouds?” She was startled. “Was that their name?” So her father had known Kev’s real name and background all along.
“God, Edie, is that all you care about? I said they attacked Charles! Physically! He had bruises! Aren’t you listening to me?”
Edie thought about the marks that Kev carried on his body, and then quickly concluded that any comparison would be both irrelevant and offensive. “And they were asking about Kev?”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Marta muttered. “They wouldn’t give up. They just could not accept the fact that they’d killed the only two people in the world who might have possibly given them the information that they wanted. It was their own goddamn fault, and they thought that we should clean up their mess? Idiots.”
Edie was bewildered. “Killed…how? What two people?”
Marta made an impatient gesture. “Osterman, of course! And Gordon, his…oh, I don’t know what you’d call him. Osterman’s wet-work man. The mess was kept as quiet as those McClouds would allow. They would have destroyed Helix completely, if they’d had their way.”
Edie was at a loss. “But…but the fire in the lab…?”
“It happened, but not before these McClouds slashed Osterman’s throat and bashed in Gordon’s skull,” Marta said harshly. “That’s the evolutionary level of people we were dealing with, understand?”
Edie sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh. Ah…wow.”
“Yes, I told you. Wild animals. I still cannot believe that in this day and age, that an organization like Helix or a man like your father could be held hostage by violent thugs like those McClouds.”
As if the McClouds had been the ones systematically killing runaway kids for decades. But Edie kept that comment to herself.
“And now, the worst animal of all has finally gotten his revenge. I guess it was just a matter of time,” Marta said.
Edie stared at the other woman. “What do you mean? What revenge? They already know who killed Dad? Have they got the guy already?”
“Don’t be disingenuous,” Marta snapped. “Don’t tell me you don’t know. You were in on the whole plan. His little brainwashed errand girl and fuck buddy. You practically poisoned Charles to death at the banquet the other night, so don’t pretend to be sad that your lover finished the job! You should be in jail! You disgust me! How dare you come here, and pretend that you didn’t know what he was going to do?”
Edie’s mouth opened and closed, helplessly. “I…he…but what do you…how can you even—”
“Marta.” Des stepped into the office. He looked pale, weary. “I know that you’re grieving, but this is not how I wanted to tell her.”
“Tell me what?” Edie’s voice cracked. “What are you talking about? If it’s what I think it is, then don’t bother. I don’t want to hear your poisonous bullshit! I am done, hear me? I am done!”
Des and Marta looked at each other. Des beckoned. “Edie. We need to talk. And I need to show you a couple of things that are going to open your eyes.”
“My eyes are wide open!” she yelled. “I am going to Ronnie now! Everyone else just shut up, and leave us alone! Go to hell!”
“We can’t, Edie. Not yet.” Des took her by the arm.
Edie jerked it violently away. “Do not touch me!”
“Edie.” He sounded exhausted, and sad. “Let’s get this over with.”
Oh, whatever. She could go humor them, listen to their lies, and tell them to fuck off afterwards. When she knew exactly what she was dealing with. Whatever they said would not change reality. They could not change what Kev was. They could not destroy him with lies.
He was too strong, too real. Too pure.
She followed Des out of the room, her arms wrapped across her chest. Protecting her heart, and what she knew was true.
Something crackled in her hand. She was still clutching the crumpled printout of the e-mail that she’d taken from her mother’s catch-all desk file. Another thought occurred to her.
“Des, what about this morning?” she asked. “Did you meet with Kev? Did you show him the archives? Did you guys find anything?”
Des’s eyes slid away. “That’s part of what we have to talk about.”
“So? Talk, then!”
Des opened the door to the library. “There’s someone you need to meet,” he said.
A thin, graying woman in a severe navy blue suit sat at the table, scribbling on a legal pad. She stood up when they entered.
“Edie, meet Detective Monica Houghtaling, of the PPD. Detective, Edie Parrish.”
Edie shook the detective’s hand, accepted her murmured condolences, and stared at the chair that Des pulled out for her, as if sitting down in it would give them some obscure power over her.
“Des.” Her voice felt high, thin. A cord about to snap. “What happened this morning? With the archives?”
“Nothing happened. With Larsen, anyway. He didn’t show.”
“Didn’t show? What do you mean, he didn’t show? He told us that he’d arrived. He said—”
“I waited at the meeting place for him for an hour. Then I had to leave, because I had an appointment, at ten-fifteen. With Charles.”
“This morning? You were…there?” Her voice choked off.
Des passed his hand over his face. “Yes.” His voice was gravely and thick. “I was there, Edie. When it happened. I saw it all. Me, and my colleague, Dr. Cheung. She’s still in shock.”
“But that’s…but—”
“We’d just finished presenting a new project to him. Discussing funding possibilities. And then he lights up a cigar, and walks over to the window as he’s talking to us…and…” He stopped, swallowed. Looked away. “I can’t…talk about it.”
The room was silent, but for Marta’s hitching sniffle behind them.
“Edie, we have to talk about some hard things now,” Des began.
“Don’t start,” Edie held up her hand. “Don’t even start.”
“We have to,” Des said, heavily. “We don’t have the luxury of denying reality. Detective, can I show her the film footage?”
Houghtaling pulled a slim silver laptop toward herself, and typed into it, her narrow mouth tight and grim. “This is security footage from outside the Parrish Foundation building this morning, at nine-nineteen A.M.,” she said. She spun the laptop so that Edie could see it.
The image was stationary, just tree branches waving gently outside the door of the new Parrish Foundation building. For a few moments, nothing happened. Then, a tall, familiar form strolled into view. Kev. Edie stopped breathing.
Kev stopped, turned slowly in a circle, eyes narrowed as he studied his surroundings. Then he went on into the building.
“There’s an eight minute gap,” Des said. “May I?” he asked the detective. She nodded. Des fast-forwarded, and set it to play again.
Kev walked out of the building again, brisk and purposeful.
“There’s a three minute gap.” Des leaned to fast forward again. “Now, watch carefully here.”
Kev appeared again, this time carrying two large, metal-sided suitcases. He shoved the door open with his shoulder, turning to sidle the cases inside. She saw his scarred face very clearly.
“Your father was killed one hour later,” Des said. “From an unfinished suite on the eighth floor, one that faced your father’s office suite across the grounds. This was the time it took for him to set up his gun, and wait for his moment.”
Edie shook her head. “No. You’ve got this all wrong,” she protested. “How could he have possibly known where Dad would be?”
“He knew, because I told him,” Des said heavily. “I told Larsen he had to be on time, so I could make my meeting with Charles. At his office, at the Helix complex, at ten-fifteen. He knew exactly where Charles would be. And when.” Des passed his hand over his face. “I told him,” he repeated. “I am going to have to live with that for the rest of my life.” He dropped his face into his hands.
Marta made a choking sound, laid her hand on Des’s shoulder.
Edie felt horribly cool, cut out of the sob fest.
Des lifted his head, grabbed her hand. She was too numb to shake it off. “Edie. I know this is terrible for you.” His voice broke. “But I have to ask. Can you think of any place the police might be able to find him? Anyone they could question? Who was the man who brought you to the house, for instance? Was he one of Larsen’s associates?”
She shook her head. “Just a friend.”
She was doodling again. Without knowing it, she’d pulled the pen from her pocket, laid out the e-mail, and was scribbling frantically, as if the contact of pen to paper was a lifeline to her sanity. “I can’t think of anything,” she said, as she felt the eye open up. Her pen moved faster.
“Edie! Stop that!” Marta snapped. “You’re acting like a child! Drawing your little comic book pictures at a time like this?”
Edie stopped, feeling vulnerable and exposed as she looked into the closed faces, the staring eyes of the people in the room.
Des reached out to hold her pen hand still. “Edie. Stop drawing, and concentrate. Consider this. If he’s innocent, he has nothing to worry about. By helping the police find him, you clear his name that much faster. Fingerprints can’t lie, Edie. And if he’s guilty, then who are you protecting, Edie? And why?”
“Stop repeating my name,” she said.
He blinked. “Huh? Excuse me?”
“I know they probably taught you in some people management seminar, that people like to hear the sound of their own name, but I just find the repetition incredibly annoying,” she said.
Des’s face hardened. “Edie, that’s not very…” He stopped himself. “So. You can’t help, then? You can’t think of anything?”
She shook her head.
“I can’t believe the staff just let the guy who brought her here go without questioning him,” Des grumbled.
“We have his name and plate number,” Houghtaling said.
“He has nothing to do with any of this!” Edie protested.
“I hope that you’re right,” Houghtaling said. “And that you won’t end up charged with aiding and abetting. Accessory to murder. Think about that, please, while you see if you can remember anything else.”
“Please, Detective, don’t put it in those terms,” Des pleaded. “She’s fragile, and she’s been through a harrowing experience.”
That annoyed the piss out of her. Kev hadn’t harrowed her. These days with Kev had been the best days of her entire life, bar none, until three hours ago, with that cell phone call on the bluff. “I am not fragile,” she snapped, staring at the freeze frame of Kev’s thoughtful frown, looking up. Her heart cramped with love for him. “Des,” she said. “What do you mean he never showed up for the appointment?”
Des looked confused. “I mean what I said. He never showed.”
“But here he is,” Edie said. “Right here. On the video.”
Des hesitated, blinking rapidly. “Oh! The Foundation building wasn’t our appointment location. We were supposed to meet in a warehouse over at the Graystone Business Park, where the boxes are being stored. There didn’t seem to be much sense in moving them, so I was waiting for him there.”
“That’s not what he told me,” Edie said. “He told me he was meeting you at the Parrish Foundation. He texted us about the pile of boxes.” She turned to the detective. “Did you see the library? “
“Edie,” Des’s voice was long-suffering. “Of course he told you that. Think about it. He knew you would see that video sooner or later.”
“Did you see the library?” She repeated the question to Detective Houghtaling, her voice wobbly and high.
Houghtaling’s lips pursed. “We did not have any reason to look on the fifth floor. The sniper’s perch was on the eighth floor. I was under the impression that those floors weren’t even finished.”
“They’re not, but I just gave you a reason to look there,” Edie said. “Kev sent us a text. He saw the library. He saw the pile of boxes.”
Des dropped his head into his hands. “Edie. Don’t make this harder than it is. There were no boxes of files. There never have been.”
“Send someone.” Edie directed the plea at Houghtaling, ignoring him. “Please. Send someone to check. Right now.”
“I’ll put someone on it, as soon as possible,” Houghtaling said.
Edie got to her feet. “Thank you,” she said.
“One moment.” The detective dug in her pocket, and handed her a card. “Just in case anything else comes back to you.”
Edie stuck it in her pocket, and stumbled through the house like a sleepwalker. Ronnie was no longer in the solarium. She went up the curving staircase, down the corridor to Ronnie’s suite.
Her sister lay on the antique four-poster bed. Edie sat down on the bed, stroking her sister’s tangled hair.
Edie kicked off her shoes, and climbed onto her sister’s bed. Uncomfortably aware of the weight of the Ruger around her ankle, the mud spattered jeans leaving brownish smears over Ronnie’s pure-white eyelet lace coverlet. She breathed in the scent of Ronnie’s hair, taking comfort from the closeness. Reminding her heart of its own truths.
She’d drawn Kev. She’d seen inside him. She’d been inside him. There was no faking that frequency, that vibration. No possibility of lies.
But how many levels to Kev might there be? She had no idea what was hidden behind that barrier in his mind. He might not know, either. There might be a good part of him, utterly sincere and honest, and at the same time…there might be something else. Something different.
She shivered. No. She had to trust herself. And him. If she let them shake her faith in Kev, she was finished.
She nuzzled Ronnie’s hair, tried to make her mind blank.
She failed, of course, but the effort kept her busy.