“I only thought it for a moment,” she whispered. But it was that moment she’d managed to forget. The moment when he lay on the floor, and his blood had gushed down into his vacant eyes. Blood flowed over the Cheetos and Doritos surrounding his body. His blood. And she’d had that final terrible thought. There, you fucking bastard, that’s what you get for running out on me.
Guilt was always the worst. She’d been glad he was dead. She really had. Then guilt rained down on her head, the men took her, raped her, beat her, left her for dead. It was all nothing more than she deserved for what she’d thought. That was why she hadn’t cared what they did to her. Why she’d prayed for death, why she’d almost relished every slam of those steel-toed boots. Because she’d deserved the pain.
Her rear flopped to the right, her legs stiff beneath her, stinging with pins and needles. She pulled out socks, underwear, the shaving kit, clutched them to her breasts. In the box, lamplight glinted on the black surface of a video tape. Lost Horizon.
“Shangri-La never existed.” She reached down, stroked its smooth surface, picked it up in her fingers to stare. The bundle of his odds and ends fell to her knees and slid off. “You were never going to take me there because I was never the person you wanted me to be.”
“You were working on it.”
“No.” She bit the inside of her cheek until physical pain replaced emotional. “You were working on it. I wasn’t good enough the way I was. You wanted to change me, to make me worthy.”
“Maybe I did. I was wrong.”
The bubble of anger rose in her chest again. “You’re still doing it. ‘Remember your past, Max. Face your demons, Max.’” She stared at his glowing form by the top of the stairs. A shimmer undulating like heat rising off concrete, light reflecting instead of passing through. “Thinking you deserved to die was not something I needed to remember. Not for you and not to face Bud.”
“You need it to free yourself.”
“Free?” She stopped before she screamed, taking a deep breath. “You tried to get free of me then. You’re still trying now.” Her lips thinned and tightened. She strove for an emotionless tone. “So go. Who needs you?”
“Max—”
The rhythm and decibel scratched her throat. “Go on. Get out. Leave the way you planned.”
“Max—”
“Get the fuck out,” she shrieked and threw the tape with all her might.
“Holy shit, Max.” Witt, coming up the stairs, ducked and covered his head.
The tape slammed into the doorjamb and shattered. She’d missed him by less than three inches.
Cameron was gone, his faint shimmer scattered to the four corners of the room, a trace of peppermint all that remained.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“We’ve been through this throwing thing of yours, Max.”
“What the hell are you doing here?” Max didn’t apologize for almost knocking Witt’s block off with the missile.
“Trying to protect you. Where ya been? I told you to stay put.” He glared.
She snarled back.
“Where’s your car? Wouldn’t have known you were here except for the light.”
“Protect me?” She ignored the other dictatorial statements, otherwise she might have to pop him in the eye. “I don’t need anything from you. I can take care of myself.”
Witt’s nostrils flared and his jaw hardened, but he picked his words with care and spoke softly. “You’re in a helluva mess. Someone’s got to protect you from your own idiocy.”
“Idiot, am I?” She hated being called stupid, by him, by Cameron, by anyone except herself. Her muscles tensed for a fight, but she stayed on the floor, letting him think he had the advantage, letting him think she was in the one-down.
“I don’t wanna fight.”
Bastard. She wanted to fight.
“I’m trying to help you.”
The rage boiled over. Her fists bunched. Witt was the only one around to take her sizzle of anger. “That’s all men want, and the way they help is by changing a person, molding them, never letting them be who they are, never loving them the way they are.”
He raised a brow, and something flickered in his blue gaze. Fear? He’d better be afraid. “What’s wrong?”
She rolled her eyes, then leaned back to snap the light off so he couldn’t see her, and so she couldn’t see him beyond a silhouette in the doorframe. “What’s wrong?” She growled low in her throat like a rabid animal. “He hand-picked you, that’s what’s wrong.”
He shook his head. “Who?”
Confusion. Good. Keep him that way. “Cameron.”
Witt said nothing. Thinking he could wait out her insanity?
“You don’t believe me.” She snorted. “Sometimes I don’t believe myself. But he did. He wants you to take over where he left off.” Her lip curled without volition. “You’ve done so well, too.”
He didn’t register surprise, as far as she could tell. Nor did he try to address her accusations, but answered mildly. “I gather you had a fight with your husband.”