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He worked two fingers up into her. “Yes you can. Come for me, Susannah. Let me see you.” He opened her up and kissed her again, sweetly, slowly building her back until she was gasping once more. She was so close, teetering on the edge.

So close and not there. “I can’t.” Tears burned her eyes. “Dammit.”

He lurched to his feet, kicked off his trousers, and ripped open a condom. “Stand.”

She blinked away the tears and looked up at him, breathing hard. “What?”

He grabbed her hand and dragged her to the dresser. “Look at me,” he said harshly, wrapping her hair around his fist, forcing her chin up. “Look at my face.”

She did, staring at him in the mirror as he spread her legs with his knee and entered her in one hard, deep stroke and on a low cry she came, convulsing around him. His face tightened and he thrust hard once, twice, and on the third time he threw his head back and groaned her name. Then he sagged, pressing her against the dresser.

She laid her cheek on the cool wood. “Oh my God.”

He was breathing hard, every breath pushing her into the dresser. “You came,” he said, satisfaction in his tone.

“Yeah.” She struggled up on her elbows and stared at him in the mirror. “Thank you.”

He smiled, still puffing. “My pleasure. Any time. I mean that.”

A laugh bubbled up. “I did it. My God, I did it. Without…” She faltered.

“Paraphernalia of any kind,” he supplied cheerfully. “No whips, chains, or cuffs.”

Her cheeks heated. “Yeah. That. I did that.”

He lifted his brows. “I helped.”

She laughed again. “I’d say so. Now, if I don’t go to sleep soon, I’m going to die.”

He backed away, then lifted her into his arms easily, carrying her to the bed. He tucked her under the covers. “Where should I sleep?”

She looked up at him. “Do you want to be alone at three a.m.?”

His eyes flickered. “No.”

“Then sleep here.” She smiled. “I’ll leave you alone. I promise.”

He chuckled. “Damn.”

Dutton, Monday, February 5, 12:45 a.m.

The throbbing in her arm woke Bobby with a start. She poured herself a cup of water from Grandmother Vartanian’s silver tea service, swallowed the Ibuprofen Charles had left, then tried to relax in the sleeping bag she’d liberated from the basement. The sleeping bag had Daniel Vartanian’s name neatly printed on the label, along with the number of his Boy Scout troop. Of course he’d been a Boy Scout. She rolled her eyes.

The bag smelled musty, but it was clean. She’d spread it out on the box springs in Susannah’s old bedroom after dragging the remnants of the mattress from the bed. Someone had come through and trashed the house, slashing every cushion and mattress with methodical care. Toby Granville or Randy Mansfield, she thought. He’d been looking for Simon Vartanian’s key to the damn safe-deposit box.

Toby and Simon had hidden their incriminating rape pictures there, she knew. She’d liberated the pictures a few years ago. It had been handy having Rocky working in her uncle’s bank. Bobby knew what was in the safe-deposit boxes of a number of the townspeople of Dutton. Knowing their secrets when they all still treated her like white trash who’d had the good fortune to marry into wealth had made her feel powerful.

None of that mattered now. What she needed was money to get away. She’d be able to sell several of the Vartanian family heirlooms, like Grandmother Vartanian’s silver tea service. The thought of it made her smirk. After all this time, she finally possessed the family silver. She knew there were more treasures. When she got her hands on Susannah, she’d force her to show her all the hiding places in this old house.

She’d use some of the cash she’d get for the Vartanian treasures to buy a passport with someone else’s name. Someone else’s face. Hers was now plastered over every news program in the country. Maybe even the world.

Dammit. What was I thinking this afternoon? I could have been caught.

She’d been thinking the way Charles had wanted her to think. She’d been single-mindedly focused on humiliating Susannah Vartanian and seeing her die in a very public way. Because that’s what Charles wanted.

He hated Susannah, which was interesting, to be sure. But what Charles wanted or Charles felt didn’t really matter now, either. What matters is what I want.

And I want Susannah Vartanian dead. If it’s a private event, so be it.

But now Bobby knew Susannah was far stronger than she’d given her credit for. I need to heal. Then I’ll finish what I started. Let Charles think she was killing Susannah for him. Bobby knew the truth. I’ll kill her for me. Then she’d get away.

Atlanta, Monday, February 5, 2:45 a.m.

The weeping woke her. Susannah lifted her head from the pillow, momentarily disoriented. The bed wasn’t hers and her body was sore in all kinds of places. But the smell of cedar and the sound of Thor’s muffled snoring immediately calmed her.

She was in Luke’s bed. But he wasn’t.

Gingerly she slid from the bed, suddenly feeling every one of the bumps and bruises from the last three days. Wincing, she shrugged into the shirt he’d thrown on the floor. It smelled like him, cedar and a little sweat.

I boarded that flight out of LaGuardia Friday morning hoping to change my life.

That, she thought as she rolled up Luke’s shirt sleeves, she certainly had done.

Darlin’ had stationed herself outside Luke’s spare bedroom. The door was ajar and Susannah pushed it open enough to peer inside. It was his home gym and in one corner hung a punching bag. Draped around the bag, his shoulders shaking, was Luke. Susannah’s eyes stung at the sight. So many times over the past few days he’d been moved or his eyes had even grown bright, but this… This was soul-wrenching grief and it tore at her heart.

“Luke.”

His bare back went rigid. He pushed against the bag until he stood straight, but didn’t turn around. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said stiffly.

“It’s almost three a.m.,” she said. “Par for the course. Can I come in?” He nodded, still not looking at her. She rubbed her hands over his back, feeling every muscle tense. “What happened?” she asked softly.

“Nate called.”

“Nate, from ICAC.” Dread pooled in her stomach. “They found Becky Snyder’s little sisters?” The little sisters who Monica’s friend Becky had died trying to protect.

“Yeah. On a podcast. Pay per view. Nate sent out pictures of the children after we left the empty apartment this morning.” The apartment whose address Monica Cassidy had committed to memory, keeping her promise to help Becky’s younger sisters. “One of our partners in Europe contacted him. They’d seen the kids. Nate saw them tonight. Online.” He rested his forehead on the punching bag. “He’s ripped up.”

“I can understand that.”

“We see these kids, Susannah… We know they’re out there and they’re suffering but we can’t find them.”

She pressed her cheek to his back, wrapping her arms around him. She said nothing, refusing to minimize his grief with platitudes.

“Nate,” he went on, “has been there for days, watching tape, looking at pictures. I should have been there. Should have been watching. I’ve left it all to him.”

“While you’ve been vacationing in Bali,” she murmured. “Luke, you’ve saved so many. Ten girls, not twenty-four hours ago. Don’t beat yourself up like this.”

“I know. Why isn’t that good enough?”

“Because you’re you and you care, too damn much. You know you’ve done your best because you’re not capable of doing any less. You have to hold on to that.”