motions of an exercise she believed would help heal her. It wasn’t about him. It wasn’t even really about her. It was only about her horrific and violent past. It was as though she switched off as soon as things became sexual. Reed had felt it. Her body was there, but she’d looked away, retreated into herself. He couldn’t blame her. God, how could he? But he also couldn’t use her body, when her soul was missing. “I can wait,” he said. “Until you’re ready.”
She frowned, beginning to open her mouth as if to argue the point, but then closing it as her eyes moved away. Her shoulders rose and fell on a breath and Liza shifted on her feet. Her lashes fluttered down and then she looked back up at him. Her eyes held so much seriousness, that his heart twisted. “I don’t know how to do anything else, Reed,” she said, so softly that if he hadn’t been standing directly in front of her, he wouldn’t have been able to make out the words. “I’m walking through the dark alone.”
He shook his head, reaching out for her hand. She gave it to him and he grasped it tightly in his own. “No,” he said. “You’re not.” He led her toward the living room and switched the TV on to a music station. The low strains of some eighties love song came on. Journey.
“Oh God, you’re not going to sing, are you?” she asked. “I think I’ve been brutalized enough.”
Reed let out a small surprised laugh but his brow followed that into a frown. Gallows humor. Damn if she didn’t have every right to it. Liza gave him a teary smile. “No,” he said. “I’m not going to sing. Not tonight anyway.” He stepped close, taking her in his arms. She was stiff and a minute later when he caught a glimpse of her face reflected in the window, her eyes were wide, expression unsure. Tenderness blossomed inside him. She was so beautiful and so afraid, and a protectiveness he’d never experienced before gripped his insides. He began swaying slowly and she moved with him awkwardly, breathing out a small embarrassed laugh when she stepped on his toes. “Sorry. I don’t really know how to dance.”
“It’s easy,” he said. “Just follow me.”
She pressed into him, wrapping her arms around his neck, her breath warm against his skin and to Reed, the moment felt tender, intimate. New.
“He ruined me,” she whispered. “Sometimes that’s how I feel.”
He turned his head very slightly. “No other person can ruin you. It’s not possible.”
She leaned back, looking in his eyes. “Do you believe that?”
“Yeah,” he answered with all the conviction in his heart. “I do.”
She stared at him for another moment as though looking for the truth of his statement in his eyes. Apparently convinced of it, she put her head on his shoulder, allowing him to hold her. “I just . . .” She looked up at him again. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to take part in fixing what’s broken in me.”
He shook his head. “No, I can’t do that. It sounds like a big job and frankly, I’m kind of busy at the moment.”
She paused and then laughed, shaking her head. “I’m serious.”
He met her eyes. “You have to do that work, Liza. You already are. All I’m saying is that if you need to climb stairs in the dark, then you do that. And if you’ll let me, I’ll be waiting for you on the other side, and I’ll be cheering you on.”
A small burst of breath escaped her mouth and she nodded, the movement jerky. She put her head back on his shoulder as they continued to sway together. Baby steps. I can do that with her. Hold her. Comfort her. Help her learn how strong she is. Because, as it turned out, when it came to dancing, she was a natural. She’d just never tried before. And in that moment, Reed knew that he wanted to be there with her—for her—whenever she would allow it.
I’m all in, Liza. All in.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Reed pulled onto the street where Milo Ortiz, the sanitation worker who’d found the body of Toby Resnick, lived in an older neighborhood in Delhi. The houses on the street were well maintained for the most part, though many of them showed signs of their age, and the fact that that particular neighborhood was right on the edge of a high-crime area. Reed hoped