“This is about what happened to you all those years ago, isn’t it?”
She glanced away, then back at him. “Yes. But probably not in the way you think.”
“What am I thinking?”
She lowered her gaze to her hands, clenched around the beer bottle. “Not this, I’m confident of that.”
“Then tell me. Miranda—” He lowered his voice. “Look at me.”
She did, and in his eyes she saw her future. It was a crazy, weird sensation, like a reel of a lifetime playing out in a glance.
She could trust him. He wasn’t like anyone else.
She let out a pent-up breath. The release was almost painful, as if with it she was opening a part of herself that had been sealed shut for a very long time.
“Richard Stark—” She had to force the words out. Saying them aloud, sharing them with another, made them real. Once she did, she could never take them back. “It was him, Jake. He’s the one.”
“The one what?”
She didn’t look away, didn’t even blink. She lifted her chin as if in challenge. “He’s the one who abducted me and the other girl. He’s the one who tied us up, who raped her and meant to rape me.”
For a long, silent moment he simply held her gaze. Then, finally, he asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your proof?”
“I don’t have any. Yet.”
“That night … you recognized him? Why didn’t you say something before now?”
“I didn’t recognize him, not at first. I’ve come to realize who he was. I know I’m right about this, Jake.”
“Oh man…” He dragged a hand through his hair, skeptical too mild a term to describe his expression. “How, Miranda? How do you know?”
“It’s why he had the clipping,” she went on. “And it’s why he was killed.”
“You think.”
Too anxious to stay seated, she stood and began to pace.
“I got a call this morning. From a woman—”
“Who?”
“I promised her complete confidence. I can tell you she knew Stark from the university. She said he wasn’t a nice guy. All that kindness and charm was just a front.”
“Listen to yourself, Miranda. That’s one woman’s opinion. A woman who doesn’t want to be identified, one whose motivation could be anything. Maybe he rejected her?”
“That’s what men always think, isn’t it? That women accuse men of rape because they’re jealous, or rejected, or just plain liars?”
“Wait, now we’re talking about rape? This woman claimed that Stark raped her?”
“She stopped just short of it, yes. That he drugged her, then raped her.”
He shook his head. “Do you really think this guy, this handsome, successful guy—the same one women were drooling over—you think he drugged women so he could have sex with them?”
“Not sex, Jake. Don’t you get it? Sexual assault isn’t about sex—it’s about power, control, and punishment.”
“Why hasn’t anyone come forward?”
“It’s obvious—just replay your last comments. Who would believe them?”
“So, what’s your plan?”
“Lund’s one of his victims, I’m certain of it. And so is the woman I talked to this morning.”
“So that’s where today came from?”
“Yes.” She stopped, met his gaze. “Stark raped her. And Lund was ready to admit it when Buddy yanked me out of there.”
“Big problem, Miranda. You put the thought in her head. And if she is guilty, you gave her a strong motive.”
“She didn’t kill him.”
“Then who did? That’s what we’re supposed to find out.” He paused a moment. “It’s what we’re paid to find out.”
“We’re paid to protect and serve. All citizens. All victims.”
He dragged a hand through his hair again, leaving it standing on end. Oddly, she recalled the way his hair had felt when she ran her hands through it.
“What are you hoping to prove?” he asked. “What’s your outcome?”
“Justice.”
“For Stark?”
“No. For everyone he hurt.”
“He’s dead, Miranda. Someone violently took his life. It was a horrible, terrifying death. You don’t think that was enough?”
“That was vengeance, Jake. This is for every woman he violated, every woman he took something from that wasn’t his to take. When the truth comes out, they’ll be heard. And they’ll be believed.”
He crossed to her, took the beer from her hands, and drew her to her feet. He cupped her face in his palms. “I’m so sorry that happened to you back then.”
“It’s over.”
“Is it?”
They both knew it wasn’t. She’d been foolish enough to think she had moved on. Before Stark’s murder. Before the news clipping found in his desk, before her fingerprints uncovered at the scene. Before Lund and Paula.
It seemed like a long time ago.
Miranda searched his gaze. “Are you going to stay?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes,” she said, standing on tiptoes. “Stay.”
And then she kissed him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
6:00 A.M.
The next morning, Jake was gone when Miranda awakened. He left her a note of apology—he wanted to let her sleep, and considering the events of the day before, thought it better if he wasn’t seen leaving her place in the morning.
Although Miranda agreed, she acknowledged a feeling of loss. She climbed out of bed, chastising herself for it. He was being smart. The way she prided herself on being.
So why this tug in the pit of her gut? What was wrong with her?
Miranda pulled on a pair of sweats, grabbed a T-shirt, then headed to the kitchen to start the coffee. There, as she watched the dark, fragrant brew drip into the pot, she realized there was nothing wrong with her. It was simply that everything around her was upside down and inside out.
Her cell went off and she darted to the bedroom, certain it would be Jake. Or headquarters. Who else called at six in the morning?
Her brother, Miranda saw when she snatched up the phone. Heart in her throat, she stared at the display, at the number shouting at her. Two calls in two days. It must be important.
To him. Not to her. She owed him nothing. He hadn’t stood by her back then; none of them had.
Miranda tossed the phone onto the bed and headed back into the kitchen for coffee. It had finished brewing and she filled her ULH travel mug, added cream and sugar, and carried it with her to the bathroom.
She took a sip and the university’s mascot, a hornet with a vicious-looking stinger, reflected back at her from the mirror.
“He wasn’t a nice guy. He only acted like one.”
Stark’s house. Proof. That’s where she had been headed before the Lund interview pulled her away. Why not do it now?
In fifteen minutes, Miranda was showered, dressed, and on the road. She forced herself to go the speed limit—the last thing she needed to do was call attention to herself. She reached Stark’s neighborhood, then turned onto his street. It was the first time she’d been by since the night of the murder and as she got closer, she experienced the oddest tingle in her fingertips and toes. Like a heightened awareness of, or a connection, to the scene.