Without hesitation, she moved in next to him. If she’d exhibited the slightest hint of reluctance, he’d never have considered telling her. He’d never told anyone.
There would be benefits to divulging his greatest pain—binding her to him even tighter. Would she look at him differently? See him as a weakling? He suspected not. There was a very clear power hierarchy between him and her. He carried her sanity, which was too heavy for her at the moment. That implied strength on his part. What better time to tell her?
The scared little boy inside him feared speaking of it, but he was a powerful adult man now. The past could no longer hurt him. If it tried, he’d kill it.
He stared across the room to the ladder leading up to the hatch. A thickness gathered in his throat. “My dad loved me, but he was a busy man. An important man. As a child, I tried not to bother him. I spent all my summers outside, doing those nonsensical things kids do. Busting open rocks to see what was in the middle. Playing down in the creek. Exploring the woods behind our home.”
“Where was your mom?”
“She died shortly after I was born. Brain tumor.”
“I’m sorry.” Evanee reached for his hand. He had plenty of time to move away from her, but he allowed her to grasp him, to gently squeeze, as if giving him courage. He couldn’t help wondering if she chose that gesture because some unconscious part of her brain connected with him holding her hand and it soothing her.
“One day I came across a man camping in the woods. I was scared at first. Dad never allowed hunters or campers on our property. But Stanley was friendly. He offered me a pack of his dehydrated food. I was a kid. I was curious. So I hung around. Stanley was like a new toy to me. I could ask him anything, and he’d give me an adult answer, not the Wait until you’re older or You’re too young to understand kind of answers my father always gave me. During the first two weeks, he taught me how to track animals, how to kill and clean them, how cook them over a campfire. I learned more from him than I ever learned from my father.
“I remember the innocent excitement of those first weeks. Stanley gave me my first beer. I was eight. Didn’t enjoy the taste, but I felt so grown-up sitting around his campfire sipping that beer. As an adult, I learned there was a name for what he was doing. He was grooming me.” He swallowed. “The first time he—” A wad of fear and shame choked off any words he could say to describe what happened. So he skipped that part. “I was so scared I would’ve told Dad, but Stanley said he’d kill him, then me. He could track and knew how to kill, and I believed him. Stanley made me visit him every day that summer. Then one day he just disappeared. I never told anyone until now.”
The pressure of her hand around his tightened to an almost painful grip that was oddly reassuring.
“I know what it’s like,” she whispered.
He didn’t look at her, kept his eyes focused straight ahead. “I know you do. That’s why I told you. It was your stepbrother, wasn’t it?” His voice was as soft as hers.
“Yes.” She spoke the word with a resolve that surprised him.
“It changed us, made us different from everyone else. I couldn’t let anyone get close to me. I was afraid they’d hurt me like Stanley did. Or hurt my dad. I started studying my dad’s research books in order to distract myself.” A partial lie. He did need a distraction from what he’d been through, but the real reason he’d started studying Dad’s books was to figure out how to capture, then kill Stanley. Somewhere along the way, his goal had gotten warped.
The lights blinked once, then an alarm sounded. His motion sensors had been activated.
They had been after him.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Someone is outside.” James stood, pulling her up with him, and pointed toward the dresser. “Get dressed. Warm. Layers. Lots of layers. We’re going to be outside most of the night.” He was already at his computer desk calling up the video feed from the hidden camera trained on the door.
Chapter 18
Five days earlier
The mineral stench of blood choked up Lathan’s nose. He snorted and wheezed through the sadistic smell, but it was inside him propelling him toward consciousness, insisting he remember every brutal second.
Where was Honey?
He worked at forcing his eyelids open. Each one suddenly weighed ten pounds. Face mashed in a pool of blood—his and Junior’s. Scarlet. Everywhere. He tried to speak, but the memory of watching Junior bite Honey’s breast clogged Lathan’s throat.
He concentrated on the scent of blood. No honeyed undertones. Not hers. A small measure of relief. Where was she? He inhaled deeply, searching beyond the obvious odors of blood and death for her. She was there. Faint. Too faint. An echo of where she’d once been, but was no longer.
Another smell mingled with hers. His brain sorted and categorized—the same process as always. Vanilla. He smelled vanilla. That wasn’t right. Couldn’t be right. He refused to believe the message his nose was relaying to his olfactory region. He sucked in another breath, tamped down on the rush of pain in his chest. Vanilla again.
He’d only encountered that potent smell clinging to the evidence of forty-one murders. Please. God. No. Let me be wrong, he prayed to a god he wasn’t sure existed.
The Strategist.
A rigid pole of panic rammed up his spine. He cried out—Honey—but didn’t feel any vibration in his throat. No vibration, no sound.
The Strategist. Here. How? Didn’t matter. Had to find Honey. Find her. Find her. Find her. And he could. His goddamned nose was a miracle. A blessing. Given to him for just this moment. He’d track her.
He moved his hands to his sides into push-up position, pressed his palms to the floor, and lifted his torso. Pain feasted on his heart, chewed, and swallowed him into unconsciousness.
*