either way.
Trembling, she approached his door, replaying the last forty minutes over and over. The knife. Skip’s eyes. The way the blade had sliced his skin and muscle. The blood. Hitting bone, a hiss of air from a pierced lung. The kill seemed to have taken forever, but Skip was dead ten minutes after the blade first pierced his skin.
“What are you doing here?” His voice was angry.
She started crying. He ushered her inside. “Faye!” He shook her brutally, then slapped her. Blood got on his hands. She stared at it. Skip’s blood or hers? “Dammit, you should never have come here like this. What’s gotten into you? Do you want all of us to go to prison?”
She shook her head, but she didn’t know what she was agreeing with. Or not agreeing with. She didn’t know anything anymore.
“You were supposed to shoot Skip!”
“I don’t like guns.” Faye hadn’t been able to shoot Paul Judson, so Skip had done it for her. He’d protected her, kept that secret from Cami and Robbie, told everyone she had used the gun as she had been ordered to do.
The knife was more real.
And Skip had been a friend. The knife made it personal.
He hustled Faye into his bathroom, putting her in the shower with her clothes on, mumbling. She only made out some of his words: “bleach” and “burn” and “bitch.” She really didn’t deserve him, she’d known it all along. She was an ugly and scarred freak, unworthy of love. She would be better off dead. She should have killed herself after stabbing Skip to death, something like Romeo and Juliet, except hate united them instead of love.
Skip’s blood was washed from her body, down the drain, a whirlpool. Around, around, and down, down, down. It was pink now, and getting lighter. She slid down to the shower floor, closing her eyes.
Someone stepped into the shower with her. She shook her head and tried to wake herself up. How much time had passed?
He was naked. He’d been so good to her. He had trusted her with his life. And with his knife.
“Faye!”
She looked up at her beautiful, naked lover. Had he slapped her? She touched her cheek. She couldn’t feel anything.
“You cut yourself, Faye.”
He was very angry, but he also sounded a bit worried. Maybe he did care about her. Could anyone care for her? No one had in her short life. They’d shared blood, they’d shared life and living and exquisite sin. They were soul mates.
She looked at her own body as he stripped her. She saw her blood this time. He turned off the shower.
She didn’t remember cutting herself down her arms. Had she done that? Skip hadn’t had a knife.
Lifting her bloody, wet form from the shower, he laid her on the tiled floor. She shivered.
He was looking through his medicine cabinet, then opening and shutting drawers. He knelt next to her, with bandages, scissors, and tape. He sprayed something on her arm, but she didn’t feel it. He brought out a needle and thread. She was a quilt he was sewing. She laughed. Was that her laugh?
“Faye, stay with me.”
“I’m here.” She thought she said it aloud. Maybe she hadn’t. He could probably read her thoughts, though.
He taped over the gash he’d sewn up. Her arm felt numb. Maybe it always had. Her whole body was numb.
“Swallow.”
He put a pill in her mouth. She trusted him and swallowed. He put a water glass to her lips.
She was in his bed, warm blankets all around her. But wasn’t she just on the bathroom floor?
She tried to raise her arm.
“What happened?” she asked.
“You passed out.”
He was wearing a robe now. She smelled bleach.
He sat on the edge of the bed, taking her hand. “No matter what you hear or see, you must always trust me.”
“I will.”
“Say nothing. Do nothing. Stay right here. No one can know you’re here. Not even Cami.”
Faye nodded.
He leaned over and kissed her. “I’ll always take care of you.”
“What’s wrong with my arm?”
“You cut tendons. I fixed it.”
“Thank you.” She smiled.
“Sleeping?” His hand cupped her cheek and she felt oddly safe and loved. She’d never felt loved before, not like this. “You passed out from blood loss,” he said. “You’re still very weak. I have orange juice here. Vitamins. Some medicine that will help. You’ll be fine.”
“How long?”
“Twelve hours.”
TWENTY-FIVE
After she finally convinced Connor that she needed transportation and he couldn’t chauffeur her around all day, he reluctantly dropped Julia at a car rental agency Monday morning. “Be careful,” he commanded, as she was about to get out of his truck.
“I will.” She was surprised by the concern in his voice.
But he didn’t release her. He stared hard into her eyes, his own face animated, with conflicting emotions. He kissed her, long and passionate, his hands holding her head to his. Heat rumbled through her body, and when he let her go, Julia felt light-headed.
“Wow,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. She swallowed, cleared her throat. “Is that a promise of what I can expect tonight?”
A half smile tilted Connor’s lips up. “I’ll meet you at the courthouse at noon,” he said. “Don’t be late, because I’ll worry. We don’t know what this killing group is planning, and they went after you once.” He frowned. “I really don’t want to let you go alone.”
“Emily needs your protection right now. Please, I’ll be fine. And I’ll be seeing you in just a couple hours. Don’t worry.”
“Easier said,” he mumbled.
She kissed him quickly, jumped from his truck, then leaned in through the window. “Think of it this way. They have no idea what car I’m driving.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
She blew him a kiss and watched him drive off.
Her first stop was the Ridge house. She’d made some calls earlier that morning and learned James Ridge was a CEO of a major corporation. He left for work before eight every morning. It was now nearly nine.
The understated house was in an expensive area of old San Diego. Its tree-lined streets were wide, and deep front lawns gave the community almost a New England feeling. Julia walked up the brick steps and rang the bell.
Stephanie Ridge answered the door. “May I help you?”
“Mrs. Ridge? I’m Julia Chandler. We met at Dr. Bowen’s house Saturday.”
Recognition and suspicion crossed the woman’s face. “What do you want?”
“A couple minutes of your time.” Julia tried not to sound desperate.
