If You See Her (16 page)

Carson mistook his silence and sighed. “You didn’t really think I wouldn’t check into things a little, did you?”

“Oh, I’m sure you did check into things,” Remy said, keeping his voice level, despite the fact that his free hand was now gripping the edge of his desk so hard, the beveled wood was all but cutting into his flesh. “You’re a smart guy, after all. You probably talked to people around town, people who know me, that sort of thing. Now, here’s a thought. I’m a pretty smart guy, too. I’ve also talked to people, people who know you, people from your neck of the woods. You’re right, you know. I did a bit of my own investigating. And Hope’s not quite the … troubled woman you wanted me to believe. So why don’t we just table that discussion?”

Now it was Carson’s turn to be quiet.

Remy smirked. “What’s the problem there, Detective? Were you banking on people buying into that deal with her being crazy?”

“Hope spent months inside a mental facility. Her problems are well documented,” Carson said.

Remy heard that slight fracture in the guy’s voice, though. The slightest rumble of rage leaking through.

“Oh, yeah. I know. I found out all of that information … and I suspect her rights were violated six different ways to Sunday. She’s not crazy. You know it. Was she getting ready to leave you, Carson? Is that why you had her put away?”

His voice sly and cool, Carson said, “No. She overdosed
on a nice little cocktail of whiskey, antidepressants, and anti-anxiety agents. If I hadn’t come home from work unexpectedly, she would have died. Does a sane woman do that?”

“Depends on the hell she’s trying to escape.” Remy paused, then asked, “Tell me, what sort of hell was it, being married to you?”

“What sort of lies has she been telling you? The same sort of lies she tried to spread around home? She tried to ruin me,” Carson said, his voice ragged, harsh.

Oh, temper …
Remy grinned, feeling rather savagely delighted with those not so subtle signs.

“You should watch out,” Carson continued. “She’ll do the same to you, you know.”

“Will she?”

“Yes. You think I can’t tell why you suddenly changed your mind? What did she do? Throw herself at you? Try to tell you how she needed help? How afraid she was? She did the same to that Reilly bastard, you know. She’s got him so fucking wrapped—he’s like her fucking slave, sniffing at her skirts everywhere she goes. I’m surprised he never tried to kill me—all she had to do was ask him and he would have tried. Watch your back around him, because he just might try to stab you in it.”

Remy rolled his eyes. Shit. Talk about a quick-change artist. The guy went from suave to sleaze in seconds, from calm to clusterfuck in a heartbeat.

“So what am I supposed to watch for? Hope ruining me? Law killing me because she asked him to? And … why, again, for either?”

“You think this is a
joke
?” Carson snarled.

“No, I’m actually starting to think
you
are.”

“Fuck
you
.” His breathing hitched again. Then, abruptly, it smoothed … calmed. “Stay away from my wife, Jennings. She is mine, and I will have her back.”

Then the phone went dead.

Y
OU NEVER FORGET YOUR FIRST …

Hope sat in bed, wide awake, at three a.m., shuddering and shaking and remembering.

No.

People didn’t forget their first.

Their first car.

First job.

First lover.

The first time they were hit.

She could still feel the nasty dregs of the nightmare pulling at her and if she had the strength in her limbs, she would have forced herself out of the bed and into the shower.

Where she could stand under the hot, scalding water and scrub away the memory, scrub away the lingering ache of bruises long faded.

All because of a fucking haircut.

One that had never happened.

It’s insane the things that can bring on a bad dream.

Earlier that night, she’d trimmed Law’s hair.

And now she was shaking and all but sick over a nightmare.

The first time Joey had hit her had been because she’d
mentioned getting her hair cut. He hadn’t ever liked it when she did more than trim it, and sometimes, if she had more than half an inch removed, he’d go days without talking to her.

She’d almost always had long hair, but she’d been getting tired of it, tired of the weight, tired of the hassle of dealing with it. One time, just once, she’d mentioned trying a shorter style.

That was the first time he’d hit her.

Oh, he’d been sorry after.

They always were.

A harsh, muffled sob escaped her and she reached up, clapped a hand over her mouth.

But when she did, she caught a hank of her hair, and for some reason, just the
feel
of her hair at that moment was enough to make her feel almost violently ill. Shaking, she slid out of the bed and made her way to the dresser. No, she was too weak, too shaky to go to the shower, but her hair …

Hell, if she had scissors, she might have chopped it all off just then.

But for now … she found a ponytail holder and wove it into a tight, heavy cable, tucked it back behind her shoulder.

A cable—a chain.

Fuck.

Even her own body parts, her own hair felt like chains.

Felt like restraints.

“You sure you’re up to this?” Law said as he turned his keys over to Hope.

“Yes,” she said as she took the keys. Her car was on its last legs, but she didn’t have the money for repairs. She had to get out of here, had to. Before she screamed, or worse. Before she went after her hair with a butcher knife—and as shaky as she was, she might cut herself
and nobody would believe she hadn’t done it on purpose.

“Okay. Lena’s going stir-crazy, too, so …”

“Look, I’m the one who called her, asked if she wanted to go to town.” She gave him a tight smile. Tried not to let him see the strain she was feeling. “I’m okay, just need to … get out. And I promise, Daddy, I’ll be home before dark. Earlier, even, since Lena has to work this afternoon.”

“Smart-ass.”

She smiled at him, but didn’t linger. In another five minutes, she was out the door. Her hands were sweating as she gripped the steering wheel, and her heart raced.

She didn’t think—couldn’t think. If she thought, she was screwed.

She was doing something today that felt … drastic.

He took a week.

It was hell, but Remy took a week.

He should probably have taken more than that—and hell, if he had any sense of self-preservation, he should just steer clear of the woman, but he couldn’t do it anymore.

Now that he was no longer officially connected to any case she might be connected to, screw it.

But he did make himself take that week. If he was half as smart as he was supposed to be, he should have taken longer, but Remy couldn’t quite make himself do that.

It was hard enough just taking those seven days, even though he had plenty of things to keep his mind occupied. He needed to catch up on his work, he needed to check up on Brody … and his mom. He wanted to help his brother, although Hank didn’t want help, wouldn’t admit he might need it, and until the man opened up, there wasn’t a damn thing Remy could do.

But one week to the day from the time he’d seen Hope
last, Remy found himself back on the road that led to Law Reilly’s place.

This time, damn it, he was going to find out at least
one
thing.

Whether or not there was something between Hope and Law.

Now if Law had feelings for Hope, well, fuck that. He didn’t have a problem with Reilly, but he wasn’t turning away from that woman, either. May the best man win and all that.

If Hope had feelings for Law, that would make it harder.

But … he had to know.

Had to. If he was lying awake at night thinking about a woman he wouldn’t ever have, then he needed to know so he could figure out what in the hell to do about it, and how in the hell he could get over it. Although he didn’t have the slightest damn clue—even when everything had pointed at her being completely
not
the type of woman he should be interested in, he hadn’t been able to quit thinking about her.

Turning down the long, winding drive, Remy parked in front of the house, but instead of getting out, he found himself sitting there, staring up at the front door.

His heart was racing and his hands were sweating.

Shit, he hadn’t been this nervous since his first date.

Oh, shit.

The door opened and his heart stuttered in his chest, almost stopped.

But then Law’s face appeared and Remy started to laugh at himself.

Aw, hell. What was he doing?

His pretty little mouse was in town …

He watched as Hope climbed out of the car. The wind kicked up, tugging playfully at the strands of her ponytail.
He imagined tugging the band out of it, smoothing that hair free.

He wanted to talk to her. Just talk. Even as part of him wondered about taking her, he knew she wasn’t meant for that. And he’d never taken anybody from around here. Not smart. He wouldn’t be that foolish.

But he’d like to talk to her, for a while. She wasn’t alone, though. As the long, slender redhead climbed out of the car, he sighed.

Damn it.

But he’d wait. He could definitely wait.

He’d been waiting awhile anyway.

“I want to cut it off,” Hope said abruptly, stopping in front of the beauty salon, staring up at the plate glass window, her mouth dry and her palms damp, sweaty.

The heavy cable of her hair was plaited into a braid.

Memory after memory slammed into her head.

Times when she’d had it trimmed and he’d given her the silent treatment for days after. Finally, it got to the point to where she had one quarter of an inch taken off, never any more.

Then once, a couple of years after they were married, she offhandedly mentioned that she’d like to try getting her hair cut short.

One absent, offhanded comment … and he’d hit her so hard, it had knocked her into a wall.

The bruising had kept her from leaving the house for weeks.

It had been the first time he’d hit her. He’d apologized later, said he’d had a bad day, and wasn’t thinking … but he loved her hair …

“Cut what off?” Lena asked, her voice vaguely mystified.

“My hair.” Hope swallowed and then looked at Lena. “My hair—I want to cut it off. All of it.”

“Are we talking a Sinead O’Connor thing, Britney Spears thing, a summer ’do, or what? Not that it’s going to make much difference to me, but I don’t want to hear you complaining about it, either. And I couldn’t
see
it, but that Britney thing sounded scary.”

Hope didn’t say anything, just looked back at the salon.

The other woman reached over, caught Hope’s hand and linked their fingers. “Okay, then. Let’s get to it, Britney,” Lena said, smiling. “Just keep in mind … I’m going to
suck
when it comes to telling you if it looks cute, lousy, or whatever. Forward, Puck.”

Three minutes later, Hope found herself sitting in a beautician’s chair. Her heart still racing away in her chest, she had no idea how to answer when the lady asked her, “So, what are we doing?”

“Hope, do you just want her to figure out what will work for you?”

Terrified, Hope nodded, not even thinking about the fact that Lena couldn’t see it.

“She wants it all off,” Lena said. “But please, let’s not do the Britney Spears thing—I couldn’t even see it and I was scared.”

The beautician laughed.

Hope closed her eyes. As she heard the first snip of the scissors, she flinched.

The woman stopped. “You okay, honey?”

Lena murmured to Puck, “Lie down, boy.” Then she moved forward and caught Hope’s hand. “Hold my hand, why don’t you? Go ahead, Beth. Cut, and I don’t think you should pay any attention to Hope—I think she needs to do this.”

Thank you, Lena
, Hope thought.

Then, as the scissors started once more, she squeezed Lena’s hand again. Tighter, and tighter.

“I was thinking about trying something short for once, Joey …”

A hard, brutal fist, cutting through the air. The pain—the shock.

“I’m so sorry, baby. I … I just had a bad day … and you know how much I love your hair. It won’t happen again, I swear.”

But it did.

Over.

And over.

“Damn it, Hope, I’m sorry. But you know I expect dinner on the table when I get home. I didn’t mean for this to happen, but you know how tired I am when I get home.”

Snip.

Snip.

Snip.

“What do you mean, you want a divorce? You think anybody
else
is ever going to put up with
you?”

Snip.

Snip.

“I think what you need is some medication for depression, baby. Nobody really believes all this crap you’re saying—you’re just bored …”

Snip …

Snip …

Tears were running down her face by the time it was done, and a thousand ugly memories flashed through her head.

And somehow, when it was done, she felt a hundred pounds lighter … no.

A thousand.

Law sat on a fat, overstuffed chair, a beer in hand, but every few minutes, Remy saw his eyes flicking to the laptop sitting on the table by the chair.

Remy held a beer of his own, rolled it back and forth between his hands, and tried to figure out just how to ask the questions he wanted to ask—and whether he should wait until Hope was there or not.

Law finally solved the problem for him by reaching out and closing the laptop and pinning him with a level, direct stare. “So, did you come out here to mooch a beer, grill me about Hope some more, or what?”

“Well.” Remy took a quick drink of the beer and then lowered it. “Actually …” Then, still trying to figure what was the best way to ask the questions he wanted to ask, he took another drink.

Shit. He felt tongue-tied. He made a living arguing with people—he knew how to talk, damn it, and all of a sudden he couldn’t do it.