To her horror tears burned at her eyes. He saw them, but said nothing, just sat there waiting for her answer.
„Remember the new case I mentioned this morning?“ she finally answered unsteadily, but Reagan’s gaze never flickered.
„The sexual assault who didn’t want to testify but whose father was insisting?“
She nodded. „Yeah. That one. They came to see me this afternoon and the father said…“ Her voice broke and sucking in a panicked breath, she pushed the tears back. „For a minute I thought he wanted a different prosecutor, because of all the media attention his daughter would get right now. But he didn’t.“
Reagan pulled a pack of tissues from the console between their seats and offered it silently. She took the whole pack and clutched it in her hand. „He said that he hoped I lost because then the ‘humble servant’ would take care of the bastard that raped his daughter. Three days ago I was the prosecutor. Now I’m a surrogate gun for a vigilante.“ She released her hold on the poor pack of tissues and tried to restore it to its original shape. „I needed to be alone.“ She looked away from his eyes. „I’m sorry.“
He started the car. „You’re all right and that’s all that’s important now.“ He pulled away from the curb. „I’m going to sleep on your sofa.“
She understood he wasn’t making a request. She watched the mangled rental car disappear from her side mirror and for the first time let it sink in how truly close she’d come to serious harm.
They could have done anything. They could have… Would have…
It was like the lid lifting from Pandora’s box, releasing memories she’d kept locked away for so long. She shuddered. Hard.
„It folds out,“ she murmured, closed her eyes, and tried to dream about beaches and sun and waves. But once released, only one image filled her mind, replaying over and over like a horrific video of someone else’s life. But it wasn’t someone else’s. It was hers.
Friday, February 20,
7:30 p.m.
As Reagan’s vehicle drove away he let out an angry breath. She was safe now, but she might not have been. He’d almost stepped in, but then she’d taken care of the matter herself, spraying their eyes, making them run, tails between their legs like the curs they were.
She wasn’t hurt. But she could have been. Despicable worms. Forcing a woman off the road, planning God-knows-what.
He jumped at the sound of tapping at his window. A police officer stood outside.
„We’re trying to clear this area, sir. Could you please move along?“
He smiled. Just nice and easy, and no suspicions would be aroused. He nodded, saying nothing. He pulled the van away and slipped into traffic. He couldn’t be caught, not yet. He still had work to do. He wasn’t even close to emptying the fishbowl.
Chapter Eleven
Friday, February 20,
8:00 P.M.
„Give me your keys.“
Kristen said nothing, moved not a muscle, just sat staring out the window as she’d done the entire way to her house. She was in shock, Abe realized and cursed himself for not following his gut and driving her straight to the ER.
He crossed around to her side of the SUV and gently grasped her chin. „Kristen.“ He snapped his fingers and she blinked. „Let’s go inside. Can you walk?“
She nodded dully and slid down, her face contorting in pain as her foot touched the ground. Ignoring her muted protests, he swung her up into his arms and carried her as if she were one of Sean’s kids.
He eased her in through her kitchen door, careful not to jar the knee he’d seen her favoring as he’d stalked off to relieve that bitch Richardson of her ill-gotten gains. He couldn’t stop Richardson at the press conference, but he’d be damned if he allowed her to portray Kristen scared and hurt for all Chicago to see.
Because even through her bravado, the woman he held in his arms had been both hurt and scared. Terrified. He thought about the look in her eyes that morning. Had it just been that morning that they’d sat outside the Restons ’ home?
Impossible to believe, but true. She’d said victims never, ever forget. And he’d suspected she’d been one. Was still one. Now, he knew for sure. How that made him feel was something he wasn’t ready to analyze. He was still too pissed off by the here and now to even think about the past.
„I need to turn off the alarm,“ she murmured. So he set her down long enough to punch the buttons on the console, then guided her to the overstuffed sofa in her living room, stretched out her legs, and slipped a pillow under her knees.
He unbuttoned the top button of her coat and her hands sprang to his. „No.“ She looked up, her eyes carefully blank in the darkness of the room.
„Okay.“ He switched on the overhead light and they both blinked. „I’m going to make you some tea.“ He hoped she had tea bags, because he had no idea of how much loose tea to put in her china teapot with the big roses. „Stay here.“
She did have tea bags and he completed the task with reasonable competence while he placed calls to Spinnelli, Mia, and his physician sister-in-law Ruth, his voice steady. But when he picked up the cup of tea his hands trembled.
Abe turned, leaning against her ancient refrigerator, her fragile teacup clenched in his hands, his stomach churning. And once again he was back there, with Debra the day she’d been shot, stuck in the scene he’d replayed in his mind too many times to count. It had been cold, a late-spring storm dumping five inches of snow the night before. The sidewalks were still icy, and he’d worried she’d slip and fall. Hurt herself or their unborn child. How ironic.
„I’ll drop you off in front of the store,“ he’d said, worried that the walk from the parking lot to the baby store would be too much for Debra, round in her eighth month.
She’d laughed, that husky sound that he’d found so incredibly sexy. „Don’t be such a daddy,“ she’d said, playfully reproachful. „I’m pregnant, not disabled. The exercise is good for me. Ruth said so.“ So he’d driven on to find an empty metered space on the street two blocks from the baby boutique on Michigan Avenue. The gift certificate she’d received at her baby shower the night before was burning a hole in her pocket, she’d said, and jumped from the car before he’d had a chance to come around and open her door.
And then everything happened so fast. The shot, the way Debra’s body just crumpled to the ground, the look of surprised disgust on the face of the teenaged gunman before he ran to his waiting car. The sound of squealing tires as he escaped.
Then everything moved so slowly. The way her blood pooled in the gutter, a bystander calling for help, his own futile attempts to stop the blood spilling from the hole in the side of her head, his own voice, pleading. „Debra. Please, baby, open your eyes.“ Again and again.
But she didn’t. Not then, not ever again. The doctors delivered the baby at the hospital an hour later, still and lifeless. Never in his life had he felt so helpless.
Until tonight. Driving up to two wrecked cars, knowing Kristen was locked inside one of them, knowing two bloodthirsty gang punks had threatened her for something she’d had no part in causing.
But she’s all right. She took care of herself.
He huffed a mirthless chuckle. With a pathetic can of pepper spray. And thank God she had it, that she had the guts to use it. That she hadn’t frozen, helplessly.
„Abe.“
He looked up to find her standing in the arched doorway, her brow creased in concern. She’d called him Abe. „You shouldn’t be up,“ he said.
She limped across the tired old linoleum and took the cup from his hands. „I’m not hurt. I’m all right“
She was better, he could see right away. Her eyes were sharper, her face less pale. But she wasn’t all right, not by a long shot. „Right. That’s why you haven’t taken off your coat in your own house.“ His voice was harsher than he’d intended, but she just quietly removed her coat, revealing a charcoal suit with a bright fuchsia blouse that should have clashed with her hair, but somehow did not.