Jersey Six - Jewel E Ann Page 0,72
for the press to find out.”
“Your point?”
“She killed a man.”
Ian stilled his hands, staring at the bottom of the suitcase for a few moments.
“That’s not on her record. I just decided to look up what I could on her once I discovered she had a record.”
“And?” Ian replied without any emotion.
“Theft and assault charges. She hasn’t done hard time, but she’s a repeat offender. And I know you’re going to blow this off and say so what. And given her history of living on the street, I tend to agree. So what? She had to survive, right?”
He nodded slowly.
“But she killed a man. Yes, come to find out he was a pretty sick man doing unthinkable things to young children. She wasn’t charged or convicted of any crime. But … she killed him, Ian. At age fourteen, she killed him. Not like shoving him into oncoming traffic or a subway train. Not poison. Not with a gun she found in the house. She cut him open from throat to groin like a butcher. That’s not normal. And she always has a knife on her. Hello? This is crazy!”
Ian closed his eyes, replaying the words, letting the images come to life. The girl who just wanted to be kissed … she brutally killed a man.
“Thank you. Have Jeanine help her get the paperwork submitted to expedite her passport.”
“Ian, you can’t seriously—”
“That is all.”
“Ian—”
“You’re dismissed!” He kept his gaze on the bed, jaw clenched.
“As you wish,” she replied with poison in her words. “Shane will pick you up in two hours.”
“Thank you,” he whispered with a tiny sigh of regret.
Twenty minutes later, as he zipped his suitcase, Jersey slipped into the bedroom and wrapped her arms around him, resting her cheek on his back.
He stiffened beneath her touch. “How was your walk?”
“Slow. Chris likes to smell the roses, only not really. He thinks he’s deadly allergic to bee stings. The only time he picks up the pace is when he sees a bee.”
“Bees, huh? Well, isn’t that interesting. And simple,” Ian mumbled.
“What’s wrong?” She ducked around, wedging herself between Ian and the bed, craning her neck to look up at him.
He chewed on the inside of his cheek, brows drawn together. “Are you running?”
“Running?”
“Running from your past?”
She blinked several times. “I grew up in the system—tossed out of homes, abused, lost—who wouldn’t run from that?”
“Max looked into your past. I didn’t ask her to do it. She’s just looking out for me.”
A few more blinks. “Okay.” She held his gaze without a blip of reaction.
“You have a record.”
She returned a tight-lipped smile. “Yes, Coop, I have a record. You’re not sharing anything new with me.”
Ian took a few moments to do his own blinking, studying her for some sign of nerves or regret.
Nothing.
“You killed a man who did something very bad to you.”
Not. One. Tiny. Blink.
“I did. G killed Fisher when I was seven. Seven, Coop. I knew at that age that if I was ever put in the same position, I would kill too. That’s been my fucking life.”
Ian drew in a slow breath. “Do you regret it?”
“No.”
“Were you scared?”
“No.”
“No?” He tipped his head to the side. “You were fourteen. You cut open a man from throat to groin and you weren’t scared? You weren’t scared of the consequences?”
“For the first time in fourteen years, I stood up for myself. I wasn’t scared; I was strong. How the hell I ended up with another foster parent as bad as Fisher … well, beats the hell out of me. But I did. After years of abuse, missing G, feeling alone, being the oldest in the house … I just snapped.
“I said no. He didn’t listen. I warned him. I said I’d cut him open and watch him bleed out. He laughed. So when his wife left town to visit her parents, I snuck into his room while he was sleeping. I restrained his hands with jump ropes, anchoring them to the posts. Then I jabbed the tip of my knife into his throat. His eyes flew open. His hands jerked against the restraints. I carved a straight line and watched him bleed out as blood gurgled at his throat.”
Ian swallowed hard. “Then what did you do?”
Jersey shrugged. “I went to sleep. Slept through the night, like a baby, probably for the first time in fourteen years.”
“I’m sorry …” he whispered.
“I’m not. Thirty-two. That’s the number of girls he sexually assaulted. Photos of thirty-two naked girls on his computer. Thirty-two girls he videotaped