It was obvious that Tori and Dane had faced off about something. Her? Giving her relief from the mental strain of a migraine and the psychic weight of so many souls, pulling her left and right, all demanding justice for what was done to them?
That heaviness gave her much-needed impetus to face the task ahead. If everyone thought Tori unreasonable and recalcitrant then what must they think about her? Tori had more reason to be angry than Ramie. After all, no matter that Ramie shared the same fate, it still wasn’t the same as being there, suffering it firsthand and being helpless to stop it. And there was the fact that Ramie had been so difficult to find. And unyielding, only giving Caleb the information he demanded after it was forced on her.
She swallowed the pill, grimacing as it went down. She’d never been able to swallow pills. Even as an adult, she often resorted to crushing tablets into a fine powder and mixing it with a tiny amount of liquid.
It took a few more sips to wash it completely down and then she leaned back, focusing her attention once more on the drawing. In an hour’s time she wouldn’t trust herself to remember details accurately so she needed to get this right. Every minute the killer walked free was another minute his victim had to endure the unimaginable.
Even the effort it took to get the pill down sent shards of pain through the base of her skull. Her stomach lurched and she inhaled sharply through her nose in an effort to stave off the nausea. She felt as though tiny little fractures formed a spiderweb over her skull, cracking and splintering as they raced, weaving a crisscross pattern through her hair.
She reeled precariously, her stomach revolting once more. She swallowed furiously, forcing herself to keep the pill down and not promptly throw it up.
Dane swore colorfully. “That’s enough for right now. She can’t do this. This can’t be good for her, and Caleb will have my ass if we allow her to continue as is.”
The sketch artist looked mildly surprised but shrugged as though he didn’t care one way or another and that angered Ramie. It was irrational. She knew that. But the unfortunate artist just happened to be an outlet for her anger, and she was at her boiling point.
Anger was a more acceptable emotion than fear. Anger didn’t make her weak. Just careless and volatile as she unleashed her rage.
The artist’s apathy infuriated her. Made her feel as though no one really cared about all the women who’d been victimized. Or cared that she had endured hell with each and every one of them. It made her feel negligible. Overlooked just as the other women had been forgotten about, just another sad statistic in a growing stack of them.
“Do you really want the next victim to be on your conscience?” she asked in a frigid tone, her gaze narrowing at the artist. She continued to coldly stare him down until he fidgeted under her scrutiny. He at least had the grace to look abashed but he refused to meet her challenging stare. With a sound of disgust, she glanced up at Dane. “We’ll stop when we get it right and not a minute before.”
Eliza reached for Ramie’s hand, squeezing it in a silent show of support. Ramie immediately flinched and braced herself for the inevitable onslaught. Eliza’s shocked gaze met hers and Eliza swiftly removed her hand, as though she’d forgotten all about Ramie’s ability to read people through touch and she had secrets she wanted to remain hidden.
Ramie carefully schooled her features, forcing herself not to show any outward reaction to the flood of rigid anger buried beneath Eliza’s cool fa?ade. Rage. Billowing like a black thunderhead at the front of a huge storm.
It put Ramie into sensory overload. Her pupils constricted and then dilated in a few blinks. It was like being caught in the path of an avalanche and knowing there was no escape. Just waiting for the white wall of snow to envelope her.
“Don’t touch her,” Eliza said sharply.
Ramie assumed she was talking to Dane and that Dane had in some way reached for her, perhaps to steady her.
“No,” Ramie whispered. “Don’t touch me, please.”
She curled inward on herself, pushing the dizzying rush of fragmented emotions as far from the epicenter of the storm as possible. She closed her eyes and pulled her knees to her chin, rocking back and forth in an effort to sooth the raw edges that had been seared through her mind.
For several long minutes she rocked, her forehead touching her knees, her arms hugged around her legs, a barrier to anyone in the room. It was a protective gesture, not that it ever did her any good because there was no defense for the mental onslaught she experienced.
She blew out steadying breaths, determined to get her thoughts back under control. The last thing she wanted was for Caleb to return to this. He couldn’t pick up the pieces and put her back together forever. She had to learn to cope. Her old defense—denial—was no longer an option.