For the first time in years she faced a night with no fear, no lies, no secrets. She felt giddy, light-headed, not sure of what to do with this newfound freedom.
She turned back to Seth, startling him by pulling him close and kissing him deeply. He tensed at first, so she upped the ante and slid one hand down his chest and below the waistband of his jeans. He straightened, pulling away, although she could feel his arousal at her touch.
“Nora. We don’t have to do this.”
His words cemented her resolve.
“Yes. We do,” she murmured, unsnapping his jeans. This time she was in charge. She held the power.
Seth said nothing, but seemed to instinctively understand her need to take control.
She shoved him back against the wall, her mouth ravaging his as she tore at the buttons on his shirt. He tried to help, but she batted his hands away, impatient to feel his flesh against hers. She pulled the shirt open, a stray button zinging past her as it tore loose, and tugged it halfway down over his shoulders, pinning his arms behind him. He squirmed, just enough to grind his pelvis against her.
A small sound caught in her throat. She felt powerful, like an animal zeroing in on prey. Seth met her eyes, a smile lighting them, and she knew he was enjoying her usurping control almost as much as she was.
Fettered by his shirt, he leaned back against the wall. She grabbed his hair, pulling him forward into a kiss. His mouth followed her fingers down her neck and chest as she eased out of her blouse. He had to bend at an awkward angle to take her breast, but she didn’t make it easy for him. She laughed, exulting in her power.
Then she tugged at his jeans, pulling them and his boxers to his knees, effectively hobbling him. Only his mouth was free, trailing kisses over her chest and belly, wherever she steered him. She teased him without mercy, using her hands and mouth until he was so engorged he winced. “Please, Nora.”
He
was begging
her
. A thrill shot through her. She pushed him down to his knees, his erection jutting out from his hips.
“Me first,” she commanded, standing over him, his mouth at her pelvis. Their gazes collided as he leaned forward and used his mouth on her. She braced herself against the wall, slapping her palms against it as the climax overwhelmed her. A cry mixed with giddy laughter sprang free from her lips. She dropped down, bracing herself on his shoulders as she lowered herself onto him. God, the way he filled her.
Now face to face, their bodies rocked together. Her fingers dug into his skin, leaving indentations as she gripped his shoulders. They came together, a strangled gasp from him and a cry of release from her.
The dog banged against the door, yelping at the noise, making them both collapse in laughter on the floor. Once she’d caught her breath, Nora stretched out, smiling as she watched him squirm free of his clothing. He flopped onto his back, one hand reaching out to her, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.
A feeling of warm contentment washed over her. Never had it felt like that before, so free, as if her body and mind had united with Seth’s in one glorious, perfect, brilliant moment.
For the first time, Nora knew what making love really meant and understood why so many women lamented their infrequent orgasms. Jeez, she would give up sleep altogether, every night, if this was the way it made her feel.
She glanced at Seth, surprised to see him blushing. And knew she
could
have this again, have it every night—if she wanted.
LYDIA BARELY MADE IT TO THE END OF THE CUL-DE-SAC before hitting the brakes. The Triumph skidded on a patch of black ice, whirling her around like one of Trey’s dance moves. The lights of the neighbor’s Christmas lights spun around her as she wrestled with the bike for control. Finally she came to a stop, still upright. Barely.
Idiot. No helmet, no coat, no gloves. What the hell had she been thinking? Even at this slow speed, if she’d hit her head on the curb, she’d be toast. Or at least her brain would be.
Suddenly the icy air didn’t seem to have enough oxygen. She heaved in one breath after another, sweat breaking out on her exposed skin and immediately chilling her. Running wasn’t the answer—but it had always been her answer in the past.
Running was Maria’s answer. Look how well things turned out for her.
Shivering with cold and shaking with fear, Lydia turned the bike around and walked it back toward her house. Time to grow up. Stop running.
Trey met her at the end of the driveway, wearing his coat, carrying hers. He didn’t say anything as he draped it around her shoulders and took the bike from her. He parked it in the carport and followed her into the house.
Lydia kept her coat on, hugging herself as she tried to get warm. She walked through to the living room and turned on the gas fireplace, standing right in front of it, needing its warmth. Trey hung up his coat and slowly turned to her. It was difficult to read his expression; it held so many emotions.
“That was stupid,” she started. “I’m sorry. I had a crappy day.”
His expression cleared and he nodded, taking a step to meet her. “Want to tell me about it?”
“Not really.”
He curled his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. Finally, she began to feel warm again. Her exhaustion and confusion ebbed away, and she told him about the day spent with Nora and Jerry.
“Why is it people keep turning to me for support? I don’t know what to say, what to do to comfort Nora. She’s been through hell—what can
I
say?”
“People turn to you because you’re strong, Lydia.” He turned his face to plant a kiss on her forehead. “People can sense that. You’re a survivor.”
“So is Nora. What that bastard did to her . . .” She shuddered, and he pulled her tighter to him. “I wish I had some answers for her. I never know what to say that won’t make it worse. Thank God she has Amanda to talk to. Hell, even Gina does a better job than I do.”
He chuckled at that. “Yeah, right. Because Gina just has
so
very much insight into the human condition.”
“At least she knows how to fake it.”
“See, there’s the difference. You can’t fake that kind of thing. It either comes from your heart or it doesn’t. With you, it’s not about the words but about the action. I can’t see Amanda or even Elise, forget about Gina, going into that house with Nora this morning. You were there for her; that counts for a lot.”
“Just like you’re here for me.” She eased away from him, shed her coat, and sank onto the couch. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
He sat down beside her, not touching her, giving her the space she needed. She rubbed her fingers over Maria’s charm bracelet, tracing the chilled brass charms as if they held the power to erase memories.
But what had happened to Maria could never be erased.
No more running,
she told herself, heaving in a deep breath.
“It’s about my mother. You need to know how she died.”
TWENTY-SIX
Friday, 8:53 P.M.
GINA COULDN’T FACE GOING BACK TO HER HOUSE and telling Amanda that her parents weren’t going to help Narolie, so after leaving her mother, she drove to Jerry’s East Liberty apartment. Inside the foyer was a man carrying an armful of flowers. He was scrutinizing the apartment directory, his finger hovering between “G. Boyle” and “J. Boyen.”
“Those are lovely,” she said, admiring the spray of lilies and roses. “Need help finding someone?”
He gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks. The name is smudged on the order—got wet in the rain and snow, I guess. It could be either Boyle or Boyen, I’m not sure.”
“Well, since Jerry is my boyfriend and I didn’t order him any flowers, I’m hoping they’re for Jenny Boyen. She lives across the hall from him, 5-F.”
He squinted at his clipboard. “You’re right, it does look like Jenny in 5-F, not Jerry in 5-E. Thanks.”
“Happens all the time—packages are always getting mixed up between the two. Want me to take you up so you can surprise her?”
“No, better not. I don’t want any complaints about breaking security rules or nothing. You know how careful folks have to be these days, and my boss is real strict. Thanks, though.”
She smiled, glad to finally be able to help someone tonight. “No problem. I’m sure she’ll enjoy the flowers. Have a good night.”
She used her key to let herself through the security door and took the elevator up to the fifth floor. When she unlocked the apartment, she was surprised to find Jerry home, scarfing down a microwaved bowl of beef stew.
“Gina,” he said with a smile, abandoning the stew to embrace her. “God, what a day. How was yours? You’re home late, so I figured it must have been as bad as mine. Did you eat? What can I get you?”
Before she knew it, Jerry had her seated at the table and eating his stew while he fixed himself another bowl. Without asking, he poured her a Yuengling and himself a glass of milk—which told her he was heading back into work—and popped some of her favorite comfort foods, Pillsbury crescent rolls, into the oven. He served her the rolls hot before sitting down to his own meal once more.
“So, anything exciting today?” he asked.
Gina jammed an entire roll into her mouth to keep from answering. They always talked about her—her work, her friends, her family, her feelings.
In the silence, she realized she never asked about his cases. She’d used the excuse that he couldn’t talk about his work, it was confidential, but that didn’t really hold water, did it? Not when she shared all the intimate details of her patients and their care.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d commented on one of his photographs—his favorite hobby was nature photography—or encouraged him to go play with his cameras. And his family, she’d met them a few times, they were great, but she had to rely on Jerry to get their names straight. Jerry had even done all the Christmas shopping, signing both their names to the gift cards.
“What happened to that kid from yesterday? The one whose parents are friends with your folks?”
She swallowed, twice. The dough had formed a lump in her throat that she had to force down. “Turns out he wasn’t as sick as everyone thought,” she answered. “Fooled us all.”
Just like Gina. Playing the fool. Playing a role—one role for her parents, another for Jerry. Letting Jerry carry the weight of the relationship, taking care of her. Just like Ken Rosen had said. Damn the man for being right. Again.
She tugged at the chain holding Jerry’s ring. Was it fair to Jerry for her to continue the act? She could do better, ask about his work, pay attention to what he needed, try not to be so selfish. She could at least try.
No. If she failed, he’d be hurt. If she didn’t try, let things continue the way they were, someday they’d both regret it. She couldn’t stand it if she woke up one morning feeling about Jerry the way she felt about her father.
She slid the chain over her head and let it slide through her fingers onto the table between them. “Jerry. We need to talk.”
AMANDA HAD FALLEN INTO BED WITHOUT DOING anything except stripping out of her sweat-coated scrubs. She’d eat in the morning. Now she needed sleep.
But sleep wouldn’t come. Instead she startled awake at every noise: the furnace kicking in, the rattle of a window, the hum of her alarm clock, even the faint buzz of the refrigerator. They all jolted her from sleep as effectively as her beeper did when she was on call.
Each time she’d jump up, fumbling for her beeper and the phone, certain that she’d made a mistake and a patient was paying the price. Adrenaline would shoot through her, causing her to break out in a sweat.
As she lay back down, determined to calm her nerves and fall back asleep, she was haunted by Narolie. She’d missed something, failed the girl. Glimpses of Narolie’s clinic chart swirled through her mind, a kaleidoscope of cramped handwriting and medical terms. Something nagged at her, but it wasn’t from Narolie’s chart or lab results, it was something Mrs. Miller had said.
“Such a little thing, so innocent,” the voice in her head whispered. “Causing such devastation . . .”
Innocent, benign, like a container of poison disguised as a Coke bottle. Benign, something small, something hidden in plain sight . . .
Sleep overtook her before she could finish her thought.
LYDIA STARED AT THE TWO PICTURES RESTING ON her mantel, the only proof she had that Maria existed. Trey came up from behind, wrapping his arms around her. She leaned against him for a moment, inhaling his strength, but then released herself from his embrace.
“Sit down,” she told him. If she was going to tell him about Maria, she couldn’t be held in one place; she needed space to move, to breathe.
Trey sat on the couch, but he wasn’t relaxed; he perched on the edge, elbows on his knees, watching her warily. As he should. She placed one hand on the mantel and steadied herself. This felt like a big mistake, going against every instinct.
Maria had taught her to lie, to never tell the truth about who they were. Lessons to keep them alive.
She met his gaze. His hazel eyes were crinkled with concern, but he didn’t look away. Instead he waited for her. Trusting her.
If he only knew.
She couldn’t face him, so she turned back to the photos. She picked up one, of her and Maria working together in a lettuce field. Lydia was maybe six years old. She’d been playing at picking the lettuce. It hadn’t been until years later that she realized it wasn’t a game, not for the adults.
“The first thing I ever remember is running,” she said, the flames crackling in time with her words. “Maria was chasing me through a field, we were laughing and giggling, and when she caught me, she tickled me so hard we were both crying. Later, she’d always talk about those days working the fields as the good days. When I was small enough that it was easy to move on, when we could blend in with the migrant workers, spend our days out in the sunshine and our nights sheltered, out of sight.”