Caine
What the fuck?
I’d been pacing since I returned from dropping Rachel at her apartment. She’d known something was off, known I was full of shit when I said I had the start of a migraine coming on. I don’t even get migraines, yet I was pretty sure the pounding in my head was leading in that direction.
It couldn’t be a coincidence.
Could it be a fucking coincidence?
I dragged my hands through my hair. Think, West, think. What the hell was that little girl’s father’s last name?
Then I remembered the file in my desk drawer. Or maybe it was in the cabinet in the office where I kept old band crap. I was certain I’d kept a copy of the police report. God knows why I’d saved it when my parents had paid a fortune to have the incident expunged and make sure my records were sealed.
I ripped my files apart looking for it. By the time I came across the faded yellow page, my office looked like it’d been ransacked.
Victim’s name: Benny Nelson
Nelson. I’d thought for sure finding out would make me relieved it wasn’t Rachel’s last name, but instead it only raised new questions.
The little girl’s mother had died the year before. That would’ve made her around nine or ten when she lost her. Same timeline as Rachel losing her mother.
Fuck.
That feeling. That goddamned feeling I’d had since the day I met her. I knew her from somewhere, but could never put my finger on it. What was it that made me feel that way? I never really saw the little girl close up—only a flash of a ten-year-old face across the span of a church and through lattice work more than fifteen years ago. Nothing was clear.
Fuck.
Rachel had said she was raised by her aunt. She’d never mentioned a stepfather. Then again, if my stepfather was an abusive child molester, it wouldn’t exactly be conversation to bring up during a date.
Bypassing the wine, I grabbed the scotch from the liquor cabinet and poured myself a double. It burned as it slid down my throat, but it felt good, like I should be on fire at the moment.
I knocked back another gulp.
Rachel had said she’d grown up a town away from me. Pleasantville is a small, blue bicycle ride away from St. Killian’s.
Another gulp.
The little girl had an older sister.
Rachel has an older sister.
Teen years where she spiraled out of control—living with that fucker Nelson would definitely make anyone turn to shit trying to forget.
I tossed back the rest of the glass and stared out the window, trying to bring the picture of the little girl to the forefront of my mind. But it was so long ago and so distant.
Finally feeling the liquor seep into my blood, I collapsed on the couch and rested my head on the arm to stare up at the ceiling.
How the fuck was I going to find out? I needed to know.
It wasn’t like I could come straight out and ask her. Say, did you befriend a priest as a child? A man you trusted with all your secrets?
Yeah. That was me. A stoned sixteen year old who got his kicks listening to a little girl talk about her shitty home life.
By the way, were you molested as a child? Or was that just your sister?
Fuck!
FUUUUCK!
I hurled my empty glass at the window. Luckily, it bounced off of a wood panel and only the glass shattered, not my floor-to-ceiling windows.
I closed my eyes and let my head spin some more.
How do I find out?
How do I find out?
Rachel
I felt like Cinderella.
Unsure of how to dress, I’d bugged Caine until he told me where we were going. I’d never been to an opera and thought it was sweet of him to want to take me, knowing how much it meant because of my research with Umberto.
I didn’t have anything fancy enough to wear, so I’d borrowed from Ava—a simple black dress that crisscrossed in the front and wrapped around my neck. The plunging neckline revealed a lot more than I’d normally show off, and I was glad she’d had the foresight to send me home with double-sided tape, as well as the dress.
Promptly at six, the buzzer sounded, and surprisingly, I was just about ready. While I waited for Caine to ride the elevator up, I went into the bathroom to finish lining my lips. In for a pound, I thought as I painted my mouth with a bright red lipstick I also never wore.
I’d left my apartment door cracked open after Caine buzzed, and he knocked before entering.
“Rachel?”
“I’ll be out in a second!”
“Take your time.”
While that was a normal person’s response, I’d expected a comment about my always being late. The last two days, Caine had seemed off his game. He wasn’t as sarcastic as usual, and his texts weren’t even pervy. It had only been forty-eight hours since he’d dropped me off after our spectacular night together, but I missed the intimacy we’d shared already.
Stealing one last look in the mirror, I liked what I saw and took a deep breath before going out to greet Caine. I was nervous tonight—outside of my comfort zone and all dressed up to go to an opera.
I found my date in his usual spot at my wall of framed photos.
“What do you think?” I did the whole girly-twirly thing—also out of character for me.
The expression on Caine’s face when he turned was priceless. His jaw went slack, and he had to clear his throat to speak. “You look gorgeous.”
“Thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself.” He wore a dark, slim-cut, three-piece suit that looked like it could have been made for him. Seeing the way it hugged his broad shoulders and biceps, I realized it probably had been. Pure class. It was all in the way he wore the suit, and the effect it had on me was probably similar to what lingerie does for a man. Suddenly I was warm in my sleeveless dress with barely any material up top.
Caine stood in place, his eyes sweeping over my body, and waited for me to walk to him. With my five-inch stilettos, I didn’t have to press up on my toes to greet him for a change.
“I like you in a formal suit. It does things to my girly parts.”
He smirked. “Oh yeah? We could stay home, and I’ll leave it on while I do things to your girly parts—with my tongue.”
God, forget peanut butter and jelly. There is no better combination than a dirty mouth and sexy suit. Caine gripped the back of my neck and kissed me roughly, not caring that he smeared my lipstick all over the place.
I swooned a little when he whispered, “I love the dress, but I can’t wait to take it off of you later.”
I felt myself beaming. Who knew I could beam? “I just need to change my purse, and I’ll be ready in a minute.”
In my bedroom, I fixed my lipstick, applying a fresh layer to my kiss-swollen lips, before grabbing a tiny, black, beaded clutch from the closet and tossing in the essentials.
“Ready?”
“You don’t have any pictures on the wall of you when you were little.”
That’s because there weren’t a lot of good times I want to remember. “There aren’t very many.” I shrugged. “You know, second child and all.”