She had wanted to hurt him. That was what she had been taught to do, all those self-defense classes her father insisted she take. Punish and maim. Crack him in the nuts, honey. That’s my girl.
She had wanted to spin around with a well-placed kick and a punch to his nose or his windpipe, or maybe his eyes. She had wanted to hurt him before he could hurt her, she had wanted to . . .
She didn’t turn.
Instead, her world had gone dark, and sleep engulfed her.
He’ll rape and kill me, she had thought as consciousness slipped away. Help me, Momma, she had thought as the world faded to black.
Her mom was gone. Dead. And she was about to join her.
That was okay, that was good. She would like to see her mom again.
He hadn’t killed her, though. Had he?
No. The dead do not feel pain, and her ear throbbed.
She forced herself to sit up.
The blood rushed from her head, and she almost passed out again. The room spun for a second before settling.
What had he given her?
She had heard of girls getting roofied at parties and clubs, waking up in strange places with their clothes askew and no memory of what had happened. She hadn’t been at a party; she had been running in the park. He had lost his dog. He looked so sad standing there with the leash, calling out her name.
Bella? Stella? What was the dog’s name?
She couldn’t remember. Her mind was foggy, thick with smoke, choking her thoughts.
“Which way did it go?” she had asked him.
He frowned, near tears. “She saw a squirrel and took off after it, that way.” He pointed to the east. “She’s never run away before. I don’t get it.” Emory had turned, her gaze following his.
Then the arm around her neck.
The shot.
“Sleepy time, beautiful,” he whispered at her ear.
There had been no dog. How could she have been so stupid?
She was cold.
Something held her right wrist down. Emory tugged and heard the clank of metal on metal. Reaching over with her left hand, she explored the smooth steel around her wrist, the thin chain.
Handcuffs.
Fastened to whatever she was lying on.
Her right wrist was handcuffed to something; her left was free.
She took a deep breath. The air was stale, damp.
Don’t panic, Em. Don’t let yourself give in to the panic.
Her eyes tried to adjust to the darkness, but it was so black, absolute. Her fingertips brushed the surface of the bed.
No, not a bed. Something else.
It was steel.
Hospital gurney.
Emory wasn’t sure how she knew, but she did, she just knew.
Oh God, where was she?
She shivered, realizing for the first time that she was naked.
She hesitated for a moment, then reached down and felt between her legs. She wasn’t sore.
If he had raped her, she would know, wouldn’t she?
She wasn’t sure.
She had only had sex once before, and it had hurt. Not painful, just uncomfortable, and only at first. Her boyfriend, Tyler, had promised to be gentle, and he had. It was over fast, his first time too. That was only a few weeks ago. Her father had let her go to Tyler’s homecoming dance at Whatney Vale High. Tyler had rented a room at the Union, and even managed to score a bottle of champagne from somewhere.
God, her head.
She reached back up and tentatively touched the bandages. Her ear was completely wrapped up. Some kind of tape held the dressing in place. Gently, she peeled back the bandage. “Fuck!”
The cool air felt like the blade of a knife.
She pulled at the bandage anyway, tugging until she could get her hand under the cloth.
Tears welled in her eyes as her fingertips brushed over what remained of her ear, a ragged wound at best, stitched and tender. “No . . . no . . . no,” she cried.
Her voice bounced off the walls and echoed back at her mockingly.
13
Porter
Day 1 ? 10:04 a.m.
Nash pulled the Charger into a handicapped spot at the front of Flair Tower and killed the engine.
“You’re really going to park here?” Porter frowned.
Nash shrugged. “We’re the po-po; we get to do things like that.”
“Remind me to put in for a new partner when this is all over.”
“That sounds like an excellent plan. Then maybe I’ll get saddled with some hot female rookie fresh out of the academy.” Nash grinned.
“Maybe you can requisition one with daddy issues.”
“I don’t recall that question on the form, but I may have missed it.”
The doorman propped open the large glass doors for them, and they moved past him to the front desk. Porter flashed his badge. “Penthouse twenty-seven?”
A young woman with close-cropped brown hair and blue eyes smiled back at him. “Your colleagues arrived about twenty-five minutes ago. Take elevator number six to the twenty-seventh floor. The penthouse will be on your right as you exit.” She handed him a keycard. “You’ll need this.”
They boarded elevator number six, and the door closed behind them with a quick swoosh of air. Porter pressed the button for the twenty-seventh floor, but nothing happened.
“You need to slide the card through the thingy,” Nash instructed.
“The thingy? How the fuck did you become a detective?”
“Forgive me for not consulting my word-a-day calendar this morning,” he retorted. “The card reader over there. Looks like a credit card machine.”
“Got it, Einstein.” Porter slid the plastic access card through the reader and pushed the button again. This time the panel lit up in bright blue, and they began to ascend.
The elevator door opened onto a hallway that extended in both directions. Large railed openings offered views of a massive atrium on the floor below. Near the end of the hallway to the right a door was open, a uniformed officer standing guard.
Porter and Nash approached, showed their badges, and stepped inside.
The view was breathtaking.
The penthouse occupied the entire northeast corner of the building. The outer walls consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows with a balcony. The city sprawled out around them, with Lake Michigan visible in the distance. “When I was fifteen,” Porter said, “my room was nothing like this.”
“My apartment could fit in this living room,” Nash said. “After today, I may have to trade in my badge and become a real estate mogul.”
“I don’t think you can jump right into something like that,” said Porter. “You probably need to take some kind of course on the Internet.”
Nash pulled two pairs of latex gloves from his pocket, handed one set to Porter, and put on the other.
A number of CSI techs were already hard at work inside. Paul Watson spotted them and came over from the floor-to-ceiling bookcase on the far wall. “If there was a struggle, there’s no sign. This is the cleanest apartment I’ve ever seen. The fridge is fully stocked. I found a receipt in the trash from two days ago. We’re pulling the phone records, but I don’t think we’ll find anything there, either. I was able to scroll back through the last ten incoming numbers, and they all belonged to her father.”
“She has a landline? Really?”
Watson shrugged. “Maybe it came with the apartment.”
“Daddy probably put it in. Can’t claim no signal or missed calls with a landline,” Nash pointed out.