In the car, almost as if he had no conscious will of his own, Jack set the GPS instructions to Sacramento and Olivia's home. He hadn't a clue what he'd say to her, but urgency pulsed in his blood like wild jungle drums. He had to see her.
Had to be near her. Had to be with her.
After Olivia ate and showered, she rang Jack's cell number which went straight to voice mail. Disappointed, she messaged him, and an hour later set to work in the library, her favorite room in the century-old house. Furnished with the traditional desk and a deep leather chair in a buttery hue, the room's colors complemented the drapes hanging from the wall-to-ceiling bank of windows to the right. A large oval rug covered the hardwood floor, a small television provided white noise, and a chaise lounge in a cheery print sat in the corner.
She retrieved her research materials, placed the books on the floor by the chaise, and immersed herself in her study of the Latin notes. Arranging books and papers around her, she sat cross-legged and examined the texts. Her first priority was to determine if the writer had "borrowed" his messages from another source as opposed to constructing them.
She began with Caesar's Gallic Wars, but quickly realized the phrasing of the killer's notes wasn't in the Roman general's style. Caesar had written of battles and wars, conquests and liberations. The abyss phrase from the DLK case was too flowery for Caesar's rather boring, but concrete, writing style.
After an hour's search she found the first quote in an innocuous list of common Latin quotes and phrases attributed to no particular writer. That could mean the writer of the notes was simply copying lines from textbooks. Tired, and finally giving up on Jack returning her call, Olivia went to her bedroom and propped herself against the headboard to read for a while. She promptly fell asleep amid dozens of lavender and tan floral pillows.
The knock from downstairs was a soft swooshing that barely pierced her consciousness as she fluttered her eyes open. Groggy and half asleep, she padded down the thick carpeted stairs to the front door. Through the distorted image of the peephole, she saw Jack standing on the porch. A bird's wings fluttered in her chest and she breathed deeply to steady herself before opening the door.
Dressed in a black tee shirt and jeans, Jack looked as dazed as she felt. His gun was still holstered under his left arm, his hair was damp and awry, and dark circles smudged the skin beneath eyes as black as the night. "Sorry," he whispered, shifting awkwardly. "I didn't mean to wake you. Just wanted to be sure you'd gotten home all right."
Olivia watched his gaze travel over her bare legs, take in her man-shorts and tank top, her breasts loose beneath the thin ribbed material. She saw the hesitation in his face, the struggle and longing in his eyes, and knew he wanted her to invite him in. Knew he wanted her.
"I've been getting home all by myself for a long time."
She tried to hold on to her irritation, but a flash of clarity made her realize she'd seen the same look of indecision in Jack – years ago, in another time, another place. Had watched him struggle between his love for her and his need for her. She'd seen the desire win.
Until now, she'd never realized how hard she had made it for him.
It was too late to weep for the children they'd both been, to tell him that being with him was what she'd wanted. For the first time she understood what a sacrifice their act of lovemaking had been for him. All along she'd thought of her pain, her loss. Nothing of Jack's.
Still, she warned herself, he'd abandoned her, run off when she needed him most. That wasn't something she could ignore or easily forgive. She turned away, feeling his dark eyes follow her down the hall. "Coffee?"
"Maybe a little," he said behind her. "I know it's late, but I wanted to give you my change of address."
"Oh?" He could've called, she thought, a heated thrill she didn't want to acknowledge sliding down to settle at the base of her spine.
"Slater offered his guest house for the duration."
"He must want to keep an eye on you."
He laughed. "Probably." He hesitated. "I'm going to visit the police chief in Maidu tomorrow. I thought you might take the drive with me, make sure I don't get lost."
"I got your message." Olivia thought a moment. "Before we work together, we should discuss… our issues." She reached for the coffee mugs and saucers, feeling her boy-shorts hike up in back, and turned in time to follow Jack's eyes.
He sat on a bar stool at the kitchen island and dragged his eyes back to her face, scraping at the rough looking bristles of his beard. Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, she hurried down the hall to grab a long sweater out of the hall closet.
When she returned, he asked, "Now that you know what happened to your student, are you still willing to help with the case?"
She felt her lip quiver. "Keisha, her name was Keisha. And unlike you, I keep my promises." She finished the coffee preparations and placed the brimming cups on the counter.
"Okay," Jack said slowly, "I deserve that, but I don't know how much I can tell you."
"Why?"
"Invictus, it's… complicated."
"I bet." Her eyes never left him and he squirmed under her scrutiny.
"Jesus, Olivia!" He exploded at last, crossing the room to stare out the kitchen window. "What do you want from me?"
"The truth is always a good place to start."
Chapter Fourteen
Jack turned around and took in the whole of her – bare legs beneath skimpy panties under the open sweater, the curve of one breast barely visible from the deep green lapel that nearly matched her eyes, the creamy skin of the flesh on her belly.
"I'm sorry you waited," he said at last.
The flash of knowledge in her eyes showed she knew what he was talking about. Graduation night, years ago. He remembered looking down at her from the stage where he'd sat in his graduation cap and gown. Her arms and legs were tan and smooth from the summer sun. The white dress she wore had reminded him that he was the one who'd taken her virginity – like a horny youth with no consideration for his partner.
After the graduation ceremony ended, she would have waited for him at the agreed-on place. He thought of her sitting in the dugout, still warm from the day's heat, perching on the dusty bench in the pretty dress. He imagined her looking around the baseball field one last time, hopeful, patient, until the sun began its steady rise in the eastern sky. Even when she finally left, she would've been certain that he had a good reason for disappointing her.
Beyond that he didn't want to imagine. Had she gone to his foster parents' house? Had they told her he had packed his things and gone? Had she searched in his upstairs bedroom? Found the empty dresser drawers and closet? Looked again at the bed on which she'd given herself to him? Cried over his desertion?
He wanted to tell her the whole story, explain why he hadn't kept his promise, why he hadn't shown up at the dugout on graduation night. Tell her what'd happened to Roger, the wicked stepfather in their grim fairy tale. He shoved the what-ifs out of his mind. Irrational meandering was pointless and completely out of character for the hard, calculating Invictus soldier he was now. And if he ever came clean with her, she might hate him even more.
Olivia eyed him cautiously over the rim of her cup. "If you're truly sorry, you'll explain what happened."
He raked his fingers through his hair, still damp from the light drizzle outside. "You don't understand," he muttered. "There's so much I can't tell you."
Her lovely lips thinned. "Is the case an excuse, Jack?" she accused. "Did you really come here to disrupt my life again?"