She regarded him.
“So just get that out of your head. You hear me?”
Licking her lips, she looked down. “Yes. I hear you. But you didn’t go through what I went through. You weren’t the one naked and exposed, waiting for that guy to shove his,” her voice trailed off.
Randall hung his head and envisioned a bound Faith, bent over the arm of the sofa. “You’re right. I’m not necessarily the best person to offer advice on this topic; however,” he raised his head, “you’re a cop. You know what happens after a woman’s been assaulted.” He paused. “You know they oftentimes end up blaming themselves. Isn’t that right?”
She nodded.
“And, even though you weren’t actually,” he wavered, “well, you’re still blaming yourself for what happened. So take your own advice, the advice I’m sure you’ve given to victims over the years.”
Her shoulders rising and falling once, Faith let out a breath. “I guess I probably should.”
A minute passed.
Randall pivoted his head. “When I was in grade school, there was this kid who,” he hesitated, “he must’ve been on a mission to make my life a living hell. No matter what I did, he still picked on me. At the time, I just kept thinking that if I was nicer to him, if I helped him with his schoolwork, if I...whatever...that he would treat me better.”
Slanting closer to him while pressing her knees together and resting her elbows on them, Faith strained her ears to pick up Randall’s every word.
“One day, my Pops must’ve sensed something was off with me.” Randall rocked backward into a squat and sat on his haunches, his forearms on his thighs, his fingers interlaced between his knees. “He asked me what was going on, and I told him. We talked for a few minutes before he looked me in the eye and said...Noah, don’t take responsibility for someone else’s shortcomings.”
She frowned. “What exactly did he mean by that?”
“Basically, he told me that this kid was probably a bully with lots of problems, shortcomings. And that no matter what I did, I was most likely not going to get him to like me.”
Faith bobbed her chin at Randall. “So what happened? Did you and this kid eventually patch things up?”
“He kept picking on me. So, one day after school, I called him over and,” Randall stared at her lower legs, “and I beat the snot out of him.”
Her eyes bulging, Faith sat erect.
“I don’t think that’s what Pops had in mind when we talked that day, but,” Randall regarded Faith, “the kid did stop picking on me after that.”
A slow grin overhauled her shocked expression.
He cupped her kneecaps. “The takeaway from all that is...you did everything you could to fight those men off.”
Envisioning the damage that she had inflicted—cutting Mason twice, once with a lamp and once with a knife; gouging the man’s accomplice with a homemade shank and, later, kicking him in the groin, she let a sliver of a smile play over her features. “Oh, I got my shots in all right.”
“I’ll bet you did.” Randall patted one of her knees a couple times. “You can’t expect anything more from yourself, Miss Mahoney. So, just like Pops told me, I’m telling you. You’re not responsible for someone else’s behavior.”
After peering into his brown eyes, she admired his dark hair and square jaw before nodding and covering his hands with hers. “Thank you...again.”
He smiled, “You’re very welcome,” and stood a moment later. “Now...where would you like me to drive you?”
“Home.” She swung her legs into the car. “Where I can get a hot shower and put on some clean clothes.”
“Home it is.” He closed her door and walked around to the driver’s side, his mind thinking of the flight back to Virginia and the upcoming hunt for the outlaw who started all this, Michael Crane.
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.
Chapter 20
Flying Across the Country
11 MAY—1:38 P.M. (LOCAL TIME)
ALEXANDRAI, VIRGINIA
U.S. MARSHALS SERVICE
DISTRICT HEADQUARTERS
“What the hell are you doing here?” Rising from her chair, Devlin rounded the corner of her desk, approached Randall, and jerked a thumb toward the doorway on his left. “What the hell is she doing here? She should be at home, resting and recuperating, not flying across the country.”
Dressed in dark navy Apex Pants from 5.11 Tactical, a short-length blue jean jacket that barely covered the Colt 1911 on her hip, and a white tank top, Faith Mahoney folded her arms and leaned against the doorframe on her right. She crossed her feet at the ankles and pointed the toe of a brown hiking boot, one identical to Devlin’s footwear—Merrell Moab 2 Mid hiking boots—toward the floor. “Huh.” Her eyebrows came together. “That wasn’t the soldier-returning-and-surprising-his-wife-in-the-kitchen kind of reception I was expecting.”
Back in Seattle, Randall had taken Faith home in Detective Harker’s Charger. Upon entering the apartment, she had spotted the blood stain on the carpet, done an about-face, and bent over in the hallway, a hand on her chest, her breaths coming in short gasps.
When her breathing had returned to normal, he then secured her permission to invade her privacy and pack an overnight bag. He had also grabbed a few articles of clothing for her to put on right away before driving her to a hotel where she had showered and taken a nap.
Awakening ninety minutes later, she had asked Randall to accompany her to the police station, where she had spent the next two hours giving a statement about her ordeal and talking with colleagues. Once she had collected her pistol from Harker, she had her escort take her back to the hotel, arriving around 6:30 p.m.
An hour later, having eaten dinner with Randall—he had ordered room service for them—Faith had retired to the bedroom after half asking, half imploring him not to leave her. Her mind envisioning the pitch-black cell she had been kept in for nearly three days, she had reluctantly shared with him her newfound aversion to being alone in the dark.
After assuring her that she would see him in the morning,
