Gill’s eyebrows bounced up his forehead, and she could’ve sworn he startled a little. His gaze flicked to Lathan, to her, then back to Lathan. Message clear: Lathan, take care of this.
In the spotlights, Lathan’s tattoo shone brilliant and detailed like a work of art. She put her hand over it again, smearing more blood on his beautiful face. He wrinkled his nose, but she continued. “How is James’s death related to the Strategist?”
Lathan covered her hand on his cheek. “He is the Strategist.”
“No. Not James. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
Sadness crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I watched his SMs. He didn’t find you. He took you. Came into my house and took you from me. He’d been watching me for weeks. He thought you’d be able to explain how I discovered his kills when no one else could link cases to him. Then he found out about your dreams…”
Lathan wouldn’t lie to her about this. He wouldn’t. But it went against everything she knew about James. “He was kind to me. Took care of me. Wanted to help me.”
“Everyone you dreamed about—the little girl, the woman in Texas, the severed man. He killed them all. And so many others that we didn’t know about.”
We were destined. I didn’t know it at first, or I would’ve come for you sooner. James’s words came back to her. She had told him about all the dreams, and yeah, he’d seemed surprised, but not you’re-a-crazy-lady shocked like he should have been. “But he was nice to me. Nice. Really nice. He said he found me wandering in the woods, and I begged him to keep me safe.”
“You don’t remember that. I smell your doubt every time you say it. He lied to you. Fucked with your mind. Made you think he was one thing, maybe even wanted to be that thing, but that doesn’t change who he was.”
“He never hurt me.” As ridiculous as it was, she couldn’t help defending him.
“He did. While you were unconscious. You just don’t remember it.” The muscles in Lathan’s cheek were as hard as bone.
“No.” Evanee shook her head. “He didn’t. He wouldn’t.”
Lathan didn’t argue. He didn’t have to. The look on his face was enough—a combination of pity and rage and helplessness. The truth so awful he didn’t want her to ask questions about it.
Her insides shivered. Didn’t stop. The trembling radiated outward through her limbs until she could barely stand.
“No. No. No. No…” A man wailed the word nonstop.
She instantly recognized his build, the shape of his face, the color of his eyes. He went to his knees next to James, grabbed his body, and pulled it to his chest, still chanting his one word.
She settled her hand on James’s father’s arm and waited for him to quiet.
“He loved you.” Maybe James hadn’t come right out and said the words, but that’s what he’d meant. From the little boy who kept a painful secret, always afraid that something would happen to the only parent he had left. To the adult man, always afraid someone would hurt his father. All of that was born out of love. That was the one thing, maybe the only thing, that had been total and complete truth.
No matter how much she hated what the man had done, she couldn’t hate the hurt little boy inside him.
Chapter 22
The clouds over the highway roiled in nebulous masses of impending gloom. Lathan fumbled with the switches on Gill’s car until he found the headlights and flicked them on. He owed Gill for loaning him the car. No telling how long it would’ve taken for Gill to be done with whatever shit needed to be done to tidy up the mess. It was one fuck of mess. One that would change the Bureau forever. One that would change Evanee forever—no matter how many miles he put between her and the Strategist’s corpse.
“Looks like we’re in for a drencher.” During the drive, he’d found things, made up shit to talk about. She might be asleep, but if he didn’t keep talking, she got restless and agitated. His voice soothed her.
The first bloated drop of rain splatted onto the windshield. It clung to the glass overlong, then reluctantly slid toward the roof. The temperature had dropped. Freezing rain was obviously in the forecast. “We’re almost home.” He choked on the last word.
Home. Where he’d been shot. Where she’d almost been raped. Where the Strategist had found her. Bad memories squatted in Lathan’s home now. Where else could he take her?
Gill’s bachelor pad that probably smelled of sex and anonymous women? No.
His parents’ estate? No way.
Morty’s Motor Lodge? No fucking way.
He clenched the wheel, the bones in his knuckles bulging, the skin covering them bleached. He sucked in a slow breath to calm himself and almost gagged—swallowed the urge with a gulp and a mouthful of willpower. She’d been through so much already without him complaining that she smelled.
The sweet vanilla-ish scent of the Strategist’s blood clung to her hands—despite her having washed them. His sickening scent adhered to her hair better than hair spray. Lathan had been trying to breathe through his mouth the entire drive, but had forgotten. Now rage and helplessness throbbed underneath his skin, wanting to rip through his flesh and—do what? There was no one to vent his feelings toward unless he wanted to assault a corpse. But that would hold no satisfaction.
He glanced down at her, slumped over, using his shoulder as a pillow. Sleep was best for her. She was injured—he smelled her blood too—but she’d refused all medical treatment. Even when they were finally alone, she hadn’t wanted him to place her hand on his tattoo of healing and ease her discomfort.
He understood. She wanted the pain. All he had to do was pull up his borrowed shirtsleeve, peel back the bandage, and see her name carved in his flesh. Pain was holding her together. For the first time, he recognized the abhorrent nature of pain as a coping skill. It wasn’t an antidote for agony; it was a diversion. One he would no longer allow her to inflict upon herself.
Lathan slowed, turned into his driveway, and parked near the front door. The sky welcomed them home with a deluge of rain, obscuring the outside world from view.