“I barely sleep, and it’s not for fear of dreams. It’s because there’s this one second when I wake, this one instant, where I don’t remember.”
“I know that second.”
“But there’s another one behind it, isn’t there? Another second, and everything comes down so hard it’s like being buried alive. I go to bed in fear of that second. I’m eighteen years old, and I’ve done this thing.…”
“What thing?” Elizabeth hardened her voice because the girl needed hard. “You saved my life. You saved us both.”
“Maybe I should tell somebody.”
She meant the police, her parents, a shrink. It didn’t matter. “You can’t tell anyone, Channing. Not ever.”
“I tortured them.”
“Don’t say that word.”
“We could say it was self-defense.”
A sliver of hope touched Channing’s face, but no juror could understand the truth of what happened. They would have to have been there, to see Channing, naked and filthy in the candlelight, see the blood dripping from her fingers, see her face, shattered, the teeth marks in her skin.
Eighteen shots …
Torture …
The trial would force her to live it again, in public and on record. Elizabeth had seen enough rape and murder trials to understand the power of their deconstructive nature. Testimony would last for days or weeks, and the process would eviscerate any innocence the girl had left. She’d be marked for life, possibly convicted.
Elizabeth could hear the prosecutor, now. Eighteen shots, ladies and gentlemen. Not three or four or six. Eighteen shots, placed to wound and hurt and punish.… They’d pursue her for the politics of it, the visuals. “Promise me, Channing. Swear you won’t talk about it.”
“I don’t know who I am.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Can I sleep with you?”
“Anything.” Elizabeth hugged her, her emotions undone. “Everything.”
She led Channing to the large bed in the corner bedroom on the left side. There was no tough girl left, no anger or pretense or wounded pride. They were survivors—sisters—and as such climbed wordlessly into the same bed.
“Are you crying?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yes.”
“Everything will be all right. I promise.”
Channing reached out an arm and laid two fingers on Elizabeth’s back. “Is that okay?”
“It’s fine, sweetheart. Go to sleep.”
The touch must have helped because Channing did, her breathing shallow at first, then rhythmic and slow. Elizabeth felt the girl’s closeness, the heat of her skin. She felt the stillness of those two fingers, and her own breathing eased. It took a long time, but the room fell away.
Her aching heart slowed.
The carousel stopped.
12
Beckett didn’t know how to help his partner. Elizabeth was not just wounded but withdrawn, hurting in a way he’d never before seen. Normally, she owned the job. That meant the street, the politics, every impossible decision a cop would ever have to make. She made hard choices and lived with them, unflinching. Even the men she’d dated took a backseat to her unshakable sense of self. If relationships ended, it was because Elizabeth said so. She set the ground rules and the tone, said when it began and when it was over. Some thought she had ice in her veins, but Beckett knew better. Fact was, she felt more than most, but knew how to hide it. It was a survival skill, an asset; but whatever happened in that goddamn basement stripped it right out of her. She was a walking nerve, now—every bit exposed—and Beckett was running out of ideas on how to protect her. Keep her out of prison. Keep her away from Adrian. Those were the obvious things.
What about the rest of it?
It was late when he parked outside the house owned by Channing’s parents. He wasn’t supposed to be here—the lawyers had made that clear—but only two people knew the truth of what happened in the basement, and Liz wasn’t talking.
That left the kid.
Problem was, her father was rich and connected and draped in lawyers. Even the state cops couldn’t get past the wall. It was one of the biggest questions, really. Why wasn’t the girl talking? The lawyers claimed it would be too traumatic, and maybe they were right. Beckett had daughters. He was sympathetic.
But still …
He peered through the heavily treed yard; saw stone and brick and yellow light. He’d met the father a few times when Channing first disappeared. Not a full-blown asshole, but he liked the word listen, as in You listen to me, Detective. But that was probably a worried-father thing, and Beckett wasn’t about to judge a man for protecting his family. Beckett would do the same thing. His wife. His kids. Make the threat big enough, and he’d tear the city down.
Turning off the car, Beckett walked down the drive and circled to the front porch. A burned smell hung in the air. Music filtered through the glass and stopped when he rang the bell. In the silence, he heard cicadas.