No Darker Place. Debra Webb
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you in the least?”
Shock moved through her, tracing the fault line in her heart. He could not possibly know any of this for a certainty. He had to be guessing, hoping for a telling reaction. Whoever this guy was, she wanted him out of her house. All she had to do was open the door and send him away. Somehow her body wouldn’t take the necessary action.
“Perry used him,” Shade went on when she remained still. “And it cost Carl Evans his life. Gwen Adams may be next. Whatever you believe or don’t believe, you need to understand this is only one of many steps toward the Storyteller’s final goal—finishing what he started with you.”
What the hell? Did he read minds, too? Bobbie struggled to quiet the whirlwind of emotions threatening to develop into a raging storm inside her. Don’t let him see. “Good night, Mr. Shade.” Just open the fucking door. Her fingers tightened on the knob but refused to turn the damned thing.
“I see what’s driving you, Detective Gentry,” he warned, his voice dangerously low. “It shows in every move you make. Your need for vengeance is blinding you. You should think long and hard about the danger to yourself and to others before you proceed.”
A flood of outrage spun her around to face him once more. “You’ve done your homework. Good for you. You’re damned straight I want him to pay for what he did to me.” Her fingers curled into fists. “For what he did to all the others. Come back when you have something original to talk about, Mr. Shade.”
“He stole everything from you.”
The words were uttered so softly and yet they pierced her like the sharpest knives. She closed her eyes, unable to conceal the pain burning there. He’s seen too much already.
“He crushed you, shattered your entire world. Knowing he’s still out there can’t be easy. It would be completely understandable if you wanted nothing more than to lock yourself away and hide in fear.”
Bobbie blocked the images his words triggered, summoned her goddamned MIA courage and looked him straight in the eye. “You’re mistaken if you think I can give you any answers. Now.” She took a breath and squared her shoulders. “I’ve had a long day. I need it to be over.”
When she reached for the door once more, he flattened his wide palm against it, blocking her move. “You’re the one who’s making a mistake, Detective.”
If she managed to hold back the hurricane of emotions another thirty seconds, it would be a miracle. She grasped the doorknob tighter as if it were the anchor that prevented her from spiraling out of control. “Leave or I’ll have you hauled away for harassment.”
“We both know you’re not the slightest bit afraid,” he went on, ignoring her edict.
He was so close she could feel the heat of his words against her skin, blocking her ability to do anything except to listen.
“You maintain a public Facebook page without turning off the location services when you post. You go to work, and you come home. You’ve pushed away all the friends you once had, unless you count your partner and the chief of police. I suspect you only interact with them because you have no choice.”
A new rush of anger roared through her. She hated herself for permitting him to see her emotions. She hated him for making her lose control. “You don’t know a damned thing about me.”
“I know all I need to. You have a home in a tidy, middle-class neighborhood on the east side, yet you rent and reside in a house in one of the worst neighborhoods in the city. You run alone every night well after dark.”
“That’s right.” She lifted her chin in defiance. “I’m more than capable of defending myself if the need arises.”
“I’m sure you are.” His gaze slid down her body and back up once more, pausing on her lips when they trembled. “You carry a piece strapped to your ankle, a sheathed knife at your back and a mini–stun gun tucked in your bra.”
She stiffened. How the hell did he know all that?
As if she’d asked the question aloud, he said, “I’ve been watching you. At some point during tonight’s extended run, you adjusted each of your hidden weapons.”
She put up her hands in a wait-a-damned-minute gesture. “First, you have no business following me around. Second, I arm myself because I’m smart, not because I’m afraid.”
“I got that last part loud and clear. You’re not afraid of anyone, and you’re certainly not hiding from the Storyteller. You’re baiting him. You want him to find you.” He leaned closer still. “Tell me, Detective, what do you think your chances are of surviving him a second time?”
For one fleeting instant she couldn’t move, and then she drew back, putting much-needed distance between them. “So you’re psychic and a shrink, too, are you?” She told herself to make him leave. She told herself to stop talking and to open the damned door. She apparently couldn’t do any of the above. “What would you know about how it feels to survive the worst a monster can do to you?”
His jaw tightened a little more. “Trust me,” he murmured in that dangerous whisper of his, “I know that feeling very well, and I don’t need to be a psychic or a shrink to understand that if you wanted to avoid trouble you wouldn’t live here. You’d have a monitored security system and a mean-ass dog.”
“I don’t have time for a dog.”
“Time has nothing to do with it.” He gave a dry chuckle and dropped his hand from the door. “You can’t have a dog because you won’t risk allowing another living creature to get close to you. You won’t take the chance that someone else—not even a dog—will get caught in the cross fire of what you have to do.”
She couldn’t contain the tremors any longer; her body shook in spite of her best efforts. She pointed to the door. “I want you to leave now.”
He manacled her forearm and stroked the pad of his thumb over the scarred underside of her wrist. “Take my advice, Detective—don’t try to do this alone.”
She tugged at his hold, and he released her. “Go!”
He reached for the door, grasping the knob with long fingers. “One more thing—try not to get anyone else killed.”
A full minute lapsed after he’d gone before she managed to lock the door, her hands shaking. Fury warring with the other emotions he’d resurrected, she marched to the bathroom. She hung a towel over the shower curtain bar and turned on the water. She withdrew the stun gun from her sports bra and placed it on the counter next to the sink, and then the five-inch blade and sheath from her waistband at the small of her back. The fact that he had so easily spotted all three alternately outraged and frustrated her. She ripped the holster holding the .22 from her ankle and placed it next to the other weapons. By the time she’d peeled off her running clothes and socks, steam had started to fill the room, and tears rolled in rivers down her cheeks.
She stood in front of the full-length mirror a previous tenant or maybe the owner had hung on the wall. Her right calf was marred with scars from the surgery. Little distinct bumps where the hardware was positioned still showed. Jagged scars marked her arms, her breasts, her thighs and belly from the torture she had endured. If she leaned closer to the mirror, she could see the thin, barely noticeable line where the Storyteller had kept a nylon rope fastened around her neck. Plastic surgery had taken care of the worst of the scarring there. Vanity had nothing to do with her decision to have that particular elective surgery. Erasing that hideous scar had prevented the inevitable shocked looks and sympathetic questions from anyone she encountered.
She turned to face the mirror over the sink so she could see her back...and the story he had begun on her flesh. Flowing strokes of black ink tattooed the words describing her agony onto her skin.
Over and over she cursed herself for the path she chose to take...
She squeezed her eyes shut against the memories, and yet those memories were the very reason she refused