A few seconds later, there was a soft sound and she looked up, watched as Dez hauled a chair so they were sitting side by side. “Easier. Maybe. But if this is as big as Taylor thinks it is . . .”
They both looked at the table, then at the board placed by the window. It was covered with small images of deceased victims. The missing women they thought were connected to this . . . they’d need a good ten boards to even make a dent. “Do we even have a victim count yet?” Dez asked quietly.
“No.” Taige shook her head.
“You picking up anything?”
Taige stared at one neat pile of images. It was growing. Every time she saw something that made her instincts scream, she’d made Taylor handle it. She couldn’t get lost in the gray yet. Not yet. She didn’t know why she was holding off, but she couldn’t go yet.
“Yes,” she said woodenly.
Dez followed her line of sight, and when she saw the stack of images, a soft hiss escaped her. “Shit.”
“Yeah.”
FIFTEEN
A hot meal.
A hard run through downtown.
And when he got back to the hotel, Joss deliberately sat in the lobby for an hour.
Surrounded by people, listening to them come and go.
Dimly, he was aware of their thoughts. The chaos. It was like rain pounding against an umbrella he carried, though. It didn’t leave him overwhelmed this time. Finally.
It was an exhausting exercise and his head was still reeling, so he didn’t feel at all bad about missing the evening powwow in Jones’s room. He headed to his, showered, and crashed.
It was another night of deep, tormenting dreams.
He would have liked to fight, but this time . . . the dreams reached up and grabbed him. Pulled him under. Choking him . . .
* * *
CHOKING—
Fuck all, the pain choked him, but it didn’t matter.
All that mattered was that he get up. Get on his feet and get her away from here. Struggling to roll over, he clawed at the grass, searching for something to hold as he clambered to his feet.
But there was nothing—
Then there was something.
A hand. Pressing on his chest.
Her hand. “Be still now, do you hear me? You must be still. Oh, look at . . . no. It will be fine.”
Fine . . . No. He wouldn’t be fine. Everything was getting black and gray, his vision fading as he tried to focus on her face. “Amelie. You must run now,” he rasped, grabbing her wrist and trying to blink away the gray clouds that wanted to hide her face from him. “Run. Get away . . .”
“Hush. I need to stop the bleeding.”
“It will not help. You must run—”
In his bed, he flung out a hand, closed into a tight, useless fist.
* * *
“YOU didn’t really think I’d let you run.”
Dru gasped for air as Patrick let her up, just once, for a gulp of air.
Then he was pushing her down again and the heavy, wet silk of her wedding dress was sucking her under.
The cold water pressed in around her, and it was deep, so much deeper than a bathtub full of water should be—she’d been taking a bath. That was all. Taking a bath, in her wedding dress . . . then he was there, trying to push her under.
His hand fisted in her hair, jerking her back up.
She blinked the bubbles and water out of her eyes, sputtering and gasping for air. And realized . . . they weren’t in her bathroom anymore. They were on a bridge. The wet, heavy silk of her gown was gone, replaced by an equally heavy, equally ornate dress of all black.
“Mourn him, do you? Foolish cow. Think you can run away from me?”
Dru stared at the man in front of her. The angry glint in his eyes reminded her of Patrick, although he wasn’t Patrick. The cool, angry words . . . they reminded her of him, as well. Even the way he made her skin crawl . . .
“Amelie, dearest. Did you really think I’d let you leave me?” he asked casually, just before he backhanded her.
Amelie . . .
She went flying. But before she could crash to the ground, big, gentle hands caught her and she sagged against a chest that seemed terribly, terribly familiar.
The black, ornate dress melted away.
As he pushed one big, capable hand into her hair, Dru stared up at him. “You again.”