He had no idea how to console her. Never had he known her to be susceptible to the cold, so she was changing. He’d already sensed it, and understood how hard it was for her.
And still he relished it.
But changing wouldn’t be an easy thing for Gaby to advocate.
Her gaze sought his before she stepped away, putting a deliberate physical and emotional distance between them.
“Always, every second of every day, there’s been this awful yawning pit inside of me. It’s been a part of me for as long as I can remember. It’s bleak and hungry and sick, but it’s buried deep where I can’t change it, and so I ignore it. It’s there, but I’ve made it unimportant.”
“You’ve learned to function with it.”
“I had no choice, damn it.” She pressed the heels of her hands to her eye sockets. “Jesus, Luther, I want that awful, indifferent pit back.”
Hurting for her, Luther stepped closer. “Because it’s familiar? Or because it was replaced with something that’s worse?”
“Because now I can’t compartmentalize things.” She dropped her hands, but only to slug him in the shoulder, to close in on him with aggression and urgency. “You fucked it all up. You’ve got me confused and . . . and fucking cold.” Her trembling bottom lip was stilled only by the harsh compression of her mouth. “And needy.”
She swallowed, but he heard the tears in her voice.
“And . . . scared.”
That admission cost her, sending savage emotion to wrack her body. She swallowed again, convulsively, but the tears still glistened in her sad, wounded eyes.
He’d never seen Gaby cry and, God Almighty, it ripped him apart.
If he touched her now, she’d resent the compassion, and it might send her over the edge. No matter how badly he needed to hold her, he couldn’t do that to her.
Going to his closet, Luther found a flannel shirt and draped it around her. Holding the collar together under her chin, he put his forehead to hers and wished for a way to ease her turmoil.
As a detective, the only way he knew to proceed was to get all the details he could. “Tell me about your vision, Gaby. Let’s start with that.”
Angrily, she shrugged into the shirt, and then swiped a hand over her eyes. “Why not? It’s all so screwed up anyway.”
She marched out of the room and down the hall to the spare bedroom she’d appropriated. Going to her knees, she bent at the waist and dug under the bed.
Good God. Even now, with foul talk of a cannibal, she threw him off guard with her manners.
The shirt barely covered her hips. And with her in that position, he saw . . . well, everything.
Lounging in the doorframe to keep from touching her, he said, “You know, Gaby, most women feel vulnerable when they’re naked.”
She dragged out a box without looking at him. “Why?”
The question threw him. “I suppose because many men are spurred by lust at the sight of a woman’s body. Some men, idiots I guess, can lose control.”
“So?”
Right. Why would Gaby be concerned with a man’s loss of control? She’d flatten anyone who tried to take advantage of her. “Very few women are as capable of fending off rape as you are.”
“Interesting. But I’m not naked, so does any of this really matter?”
He felt sweat on his forehead. “Jesus, Gaby, you’re mostly naked and you just flashed me an invitation that was damned hard to resist.”
Flipping the lid off the box, she slanted him a distracted frown. “Are all men so unflagging then when it comes to sex? I mean, seriously, Luther, I figured you’d want some downtime by now.”
She damn well didn’t need to know how other men dealt with sexual overindulgence, because she wouldn’t be with anyone other than him—but telling her that now wouldn’t be a smart move. Especially not when she was so open to him for a change.
Stepping forward, Luther went to his knees and joined her on the floor. “With you, Gaby, I don’t think I’ll ever get enough.”
Unconvinced, she turned away and lifted out . . . a manuscript. She set it on the floor between them and just waited.
Luther knew in his guts what she’d just revealed. For some time now he’d suspected that Gaby created the popular, underground graphic-novel series Servant. The vividly depicted stories of a female paladin on earth had an enormous cult following.
And through secretive sales and hidden identities, only Morty had it available.
In fact, Servant kept Morty’s comic book store in business. As Gaby’s closest cohort, whether she’d ever admit that or not, Morty got the privilege of presenting her work to the world—or at least as much of the world as his small shop could reach.
“It’s you, isn’t it?”
Her hands flexed over her knees. “And you. And everyone I’ve met. Everyone I’ve . . . eliminated.” She glanced up at him. “Usually I use the writing and artwork as a way to exorcise the ugliness of what I’ve done, what has to be done.”
“It’s cathartic to get it out on paper?”
She nodded. “But on occasion, when I’m working, things show up that I didn’t yet know. Clues to the future, direction on what to look for.”
“Me?”
She smirked. “No way, cop. You came with no warning. If I’d had even a clue how much you’d invade my life, I’d have steered clear for sure.”
“As I recall, you tried to do just that.”
Her mouth twisted. “Yeah. A lot of good it did me, huh? You’re not very good at accepting rejection.”
“About as good as you are at accepting affection.” Luther scooted around to sit next to her, letting their shoulders bump, their hips touch. “So what in the manuscript makes you think a child will be a victim?”
“The little girl is an intended victim. But no way in hell will I let it happen.” She turned the pages around, flipped aside a few, and showed Luther an eerie ink representation with stark details and fearsome impressions. “There. Do you see her?”
Peering from behind a dark-skinned woman in the throes of consummate terror, Luther saw the child’s face. The woman had already been attacked, but the child appeared unharmed.
“It’s too late for the woman?”
Agitation took Gaby to her feet. “I don’t know.” She sliced a hand through the air. “Probably.”
Luther studied the incredible artwork with new attention to detail. Gaby possessed not only phenomenal physical ability, but astounding artistic talent. “Does Mort know that you’re the—”
“No.” Her shoulders bunched as she paced, not in dejection, but in profound thought. “Only you. And it better stay that way.”
“Because . . . ?” He wanted to hear her say that he mattered more than anyone else.
Instead, she shook her head. “Around you, especially whenever you touch me, I’m not as effective. Since I guess you’re not kicking me out . . . ” She paused, waiting for affirmation.
“Definitely not.”
“Then I guess we should try working together. When my elevated perception fails me—thanks to you—you can maybe step up and fill in some of the gaps.”
“You’re serious?” For what seemed a lifetime, he’d been waiting for her to trust him enough to fully involve him in her life.
She gave a grudging nod. “Sure, why not? After all, you’re not entirely obtuse. You have pretty good instincts and adequate enough skills.”
From Gaby, compliments sounded closer to insults, but Luther knew that it wasn’t easy for her to admit them to him.
“Such high praise will make my head swell.” He looked back at the depictions. “From everything you’ve drawn here, the woman looks African-American, transient at best, an addict at worst.”
“I know. I think . . . I feel that she’s probably both.”
Fascinated, he continued to peruse the pages. “Under those circumstances, and with nothing else to go on, finding her won’t be easy.”