Atone (20 page)

“Vera, don't.” I catch her wrist. “Don't do this. Please. We can work it out. In vitro, adoption, or that dog you talked about. We have options.”

God.
How could she not know that I don't give a shit about this? Not really. It's such a minor thing compared to everything else we've been through and all the shit that's still to come. As long as we have each other, that's all that matters.

“I thought about all of the options,” she says. “I even looked into them a little bit. I have to believe there's a reason things worked out the way they did. That maybe I'm not meant to be a parent.”

“That's bullshit. You can be anything you want to be.”

“But Beau, I can't be the person who takes you away from your family
and
keeps you from fulfilling your dreams. Don't you see that?”

“But you can be the person who takes
you
away from me. God, Vera.” This is the first time in a while that I've needed to hit something. “Listen to yourself. I'm fighting for us here and all you're doing is throwing excuses at me.”

“They're not excuses, they're reasons, and very valid ones. I don't want you to ever wake up one day and resent me.”

“If you make me wake up tomorrow without you I
will
resent you.”

“You don't mean that. You can't mean that.”

“I got down on my knee and asked you to marry me. What do you think?”

“I want to believe it. You don't know how much.”

“Do I need to do it again?” I drop to one knee, still holding on to her hand. She doesn't pull away this time. I tug her toward me until she's right up against me and put my hands on her waist. I have to crane my neck to see her beautiful face. “Vera, Gwendolyn, whoever you are, whoever you want to be,
will you marry me
?”

The door behind her opens. Her attorney, Mr. Nash, and Agent Carter jam together in the doorway at the sight of Vera and me. If Vera notices she shows no sign of it. Her gaze roams my face. I don't know what she's looking for, but I hope to God she finds whatever she needs to answer me with a yes. Her lashes flutter, blinking away tears, and she puts a hand over her mouth. She's so alive for me in this moment, so vital and necessary. I draw her a little closer. I won't beg. If she tells me no again, I'll have to take it and walk away forever.

But I don't think it's going to be a no. I think she's going to say yes. She
wants
to say yes. It's that too-impossible-to-believe feeling you get when something you've wanted suddenly becomes something you can
have.
I know exactly how she feels. So many emotions cross over her face. I see the moment when she decides for certain, no going back.

“Yes,” she sobs behind her hand, nodding. “I'll marry you.”

I get to my feet and pick her up in a hug, swinging her around as applause breaks out in the doorway. She wraps her legs around my waist and catches my face for a kiss. If we didn't have an audience, I'd want to take things further. I set her down and we turn to face the crowd in the doorway.

“I see you made the most of your time,” Mr. Nash says. “Are you sure about what this means?”

I glance at Vera. “
Very
sure.”

She smiles up at me. “Me too.”

“We'll have to arrange—” Whispering in his ear, another agent interrupts Agent Carter. Carter pushes Mr. Nash and Vera's lawyer into the room. “Lock the door. Don't move from this room until I come back for you.” He closes the door after him.

“What's going on?” the lawyer asks.

“Something's happened,” Mr. Nash says, turning the lock on the door. “From the little I overheard, it's something about a breach in security.”

Vera's brows draw together with concern. I squeeze her hand, trying to be of some comfort. I can't help worrying myself. All I want is for her to be safe and happy. I pull out a chair and sit, drawing her down onto my lap, where I can put my arms around her. I need her near me. Vera introduces me to her lawyer, Shay, as the other two join us at the table. We sit in silence for more than an hour before Agent Carter knocks on the door and Mr. Nash lets him in. Carter's gaze goes immediately to Vera.

She stiffens in my embrace. “What is it?”

“There's no easy way to put this,” he starts.

“It's Marie, isn't it?”

“A young woman's body was dumped in the driveway of the building near the parking gate.”

Vera sucks in a sharp breath. I tighten my arms around her.

“We believe it's your sister, Marie,” Carter continues. “I'm going to need you to look at a couple of photos. I've cropped them as best I can, but I want you to be prepared. There's a lot of blood.”

Her body's stiff and tense against mine, her fingers digging into my forearms. I close my eyes and silently chant,
Please don't let it be Marie.
Vera can't take any more blows. She's already been through so much, too much.

“Can I look at them?” I ask. “I know what Marie looks like.”

“I need the next of kin to identify her. I'm sorry.” Agent Carter taps his phone, then turns it toward us. “Is this your sister?”

The shot is tight, from the chin up. Marie's eyes are open, staring at nothing. The blood on her face and in her hair is wet and shiny…fresh. Her mouth hangs open mid-scream. The noise Vera makes causes all of the hair on the back of my neck to rise. She struggles against my hold, but I don't dare let her go. She beats at my arms. Her legs kick mine. I hold on to her tighter. It feels like she's breaking from the inside out, that if I let her go she'd fly apart into a million little pieces.

Shay and Mr. Nash come to look at the photo. Shay's hand goes to her mouth. Mr. Nash's lips press into a grim line. I gather Vera to me as tightly as I can, cradling her in my lap. Turning her face to my chest, she fists my shirt and sobs. I failed her. I didn't save Marie.

“I'm sorry,” I tell her over and over.

Agent Carter pockets his phone. “I'm sorry for your loss. We're going over the surveillance we have of what happened. The men wore dark masks and clothing. The car didn't have any plates. They pulled her out of the car and killed her, leaving her body where it would be easily found. It appears she was sexually assaulted.”

“Let me guess,” Vera says, tears streaming, her voice unexpectedly strong. “Her throat was cut.”

“Yes.”

“He likes the kind of knife with a hook at the end that curves back in the opposite direction. It has a heavy black handle with a notched grip for his fingers. He held her by the hair and did it in one slow swipe. Right to left, because he's left-handed. She's a message for me just like Cherry was.”

“We don't have those details. We'll know more after the autopsy.”

“He's coming for me.”

“He can't get to you,” I tell her, looking to Agent Carter for confirmation.

“You're safe with us,” he affirms. “We need to move you as soon as possible. The two agents you identified aren't in the building and won't be back until tomorrow morning. We need to keep them on as though nothing's changed until we finish our investigation of them.” He turns to me. “You're going with her, I take it.”

“Yes.”

“We're leaving in twenty minutes. We'll need your clothing sizes and a list of the minimal things you'll need to get you by for a few weeks. You won't get to say goodbye to anyone or contact them in any way. I'm going to need both of your cellphones.”

“I don't have mine,” I say. “I gave it to my sister.”

Vera slides hers across the table.

“Will my client be able to contact me if she needs me?” Shay asks.

“We'll arrange for it.”

“What do you want me to tell your sister?” Mr. Nash asks me.

“Tell her that I finally figured it out. She'll know what that means.”

I can't get the image of Marie's face out of my head. It overlaps with Cherry's. Both of them died because of me. Two sets of sightless eyes staring at me, blaming me. I started this journey to save Marie and ended up being the reason she's dead. There's no place in my head I can go to escape that fact. Killing her and dumping her body on the FBI's doorstep is a big giant fuck-you to the Feds and a message to me that they can't protect me. No one can. He's coming for me. He knows where I am and he'll take down anyone who stands between him and me.

I know him too well. This is personal. I was more than one of his favorites. I was, for a while, his mistress. I had it better than the other girls during that time. He didn't rent me out. He kept me for his personal amusement. I had a big bedroom with its own bathroom, access to movies, a personal trainer, hairstylist, and pretty lingerie. He brought me gifts and fucked me for hours, but never spent the night in my bed. He didn't let the other men touch me. My piercings were his idea. They were his stamp on me, an outward sign of his total dominance.

That's when I started spending time with him in his office while he worked. While I sat at his feet or rubbed his shoulders I quietly learned how he ran his business. He underestimated me and my ability to memorize anything and everything. I knew the combination to his safe, and the passwords to his computer, his bank account, and the thumb drive I stole. He had no idea. In my sick, twisted mind I made myself out to be his partner. I had dreams of us getting married and running the business together.

He had other ideas.

I don't know what changed, but one day he stopped coming to my room. He stopped calling me to his office. Three days went by without me seeing him. On day four I was put back into rotation with the other girls. I never knew why.

I got to keep the room, but all of the other perks were gone. I cried for him, actually
cried.
He came to see me a week later and I pleaded with him to take me back. I thought I loved him. He made me think the pathetic attention he gave me was true affection. Or maybe I wanted to believe it was. He fucked with my head so many times I lost track of everything, including myself.

He laughed while I begged. After that, the only time I saw him was when he called me to his office for punishment or to go out on a special assignment, like the one with the councilman. It wasn't Cherry's death that lit the fuse of my escape. It was doing that job with her and finding out she was pierced exactly the same way I was. I knew then that
she
was the one who replaced me. Her being put back into rotation meant that she had also been replaced. Until that time, I held out hope that he'd want me back someday. It wasn't revenge that drove me to leave him and take the thumb drive, it was jealousy.

Stupid.
I was so stupid to waste any emotion on that bastard. Even now I can't bring myself to hate him. He's already taken so much from me, he's not going to get any more.

Beau and I were shuttled through an underground passage in the FBI building to another building about a half mile away. It felt like we walked forever, taking unmarked, seemingly random turns until we went up a set of stairs and came out into another office building. A car took us to an apartment building somewhere. I don't know where, because we were blindfolded and made to wear headphones so that we couldn't hear anything. The only thing that got me through it was Beau's arm around me and the feel of his big, solid body next to mine.

I still can't believe he asked me to marry him. Is this even happening? Everything that's happened since being in FBI custody seems so surreal. I'm struggling to play catch-up. Just when I adapt to the latest turn of events and think I might finally have a grasp on things, something else happens and my world spins out of control. I feel a bit like a tennis ball being batted back and forth.

We're in this apartment with a U.S. Marshal babysitter and another outside, and all I can think about is who is going to plan Marie's funeral? Who's going to attend it? Who's going to choose the flowers and stand over her grave, mourning her? I'm her only family. When I agreed to talk to the FBI, I thought Marie would eventually be with me. I pictured us getting to know each other and being a family. I never imagined Javier would kill her. I should've. I should've seen that coming. Even if I did, could I have done anything about it?

Beau tells me it's not my fault. I think he really believes it. His natural optimism is both a blessing and an annoyance. He wants to see the best in me, even when he has to dig down deep to find it. Even when the hole fills back in with all of my bullshit, he just keeps digging and digging. I fear one day he'll get tired and give up to sit back and watch the hole fill until you can't even see a dent where it once was. There is no good in me. There is only survival.

I'm tired.

Not the sleepy kind of weary. Soul-deep exhaustion. The kind that makes you stop flailing and splashing. When you give up and just let the water take you under, watching, resigned, as the surface gets farther and farther away and the dark depth welcomes you. You stop thinking. You stop feeling. You stop
being.

I roll my head to the side in the strange bed, in the strange room, and watch Beau sleep. He lies on his stomach, his face turned toward me. One of his arms wraps around my middle. He's the buoy keeping me afloat. Just when I think I'll drift away on the sea of
fuck
that is my life, he's there, offering his hand to me. He should've let me go. That should've been goodbye in the FBI conference room. It never should've been an offer to spend forever with me. He's throwing away his life on me.

Why?
echoes like a bass drum in my head, a constant, relentless boom that shook me out of a deep sleep. I fail him on every level. Except for maybe the sex. But we can't live on sex and denial. At some point, the one will stop covering for the other and then they'll both stop working. We'll be forced to face the fact that what feels like a connection is really just a temporary escape.

He pulls me toward him, turning so that I'm tucked in to him the way we fit best—back to front. He's got my back, even in sleep. What do
I
do for
him
?

“You're thinking too loud,” he mumbles. “I can't sleep.”

“Sorry.”

“Anything I can help you with?”

“No.”

“What kind of ring would you like?”

“Ring?”

“Engagement ring.”

“I don't need a ring.”

“Bullshit.” He kisses my shoulder. “Every girl needs a ring.”

“Who am I going to show it to?”

He's temporarily baffled by my question. “I'm getting you a ring as soon as I can.”

“Who's going to come to our wedding? What names should we use for the wedding registry? Who's going to stand up for us? How are you going to pay for this ring I
have
to have? Who's going to pay for the wedding?”

“Wait a minute.” He rolls me to my back so he can see me. “Is this what's got your wheels spinning in the middle of the night?”

“Well…yes.”

“I should've known. Stop worrying. It'll all work out.”

“Nothing ever works out for us. Haven't you noticed?”

“Some things've worked out.”

“Like what? Look where we are. Look what we're doing. Look at
why
we're here. I wouldn't call this
working out for us.
”

I stumped him again. “It's temporary. Come on. What kind of dress do you want?”

“You can't be serious.”

“I'm not saying we'll get married tomorrow. We'll do it when we can, the way we can. In the meantime, tell me about your dream wedding.”

“I don't have a dream wedding.”

“Please. Every girl dreams about her wedding. There wouldn't be all those shows on TV about them if they didn't.”

“When would I have dreamed of a white wedding? When my virginity was sold? When I was on my back with my legs in the air while some fat, married businessman sweated over me? When I—”

“Okay. I get it. Could you at least give me some kind of hint about the ring? Diamonds or colored stones?”

“This is pointless.”

“Gold or platinum?”

“You're being ridiculous.”

“A round stone or another shape, like a rectangle or a heart or a square?”

I sigh. “You're relentless.”

“New or vintage?”

“I don't care.”

“See.” He bites my earlobe and makes me shiver. “I got an answer. If it was up to me and you gave me no clues—which, I might point out, you haven't—I'd buy you a vintage ring. Something with some history to it. Not too big, because you have small hands. A diamond with maybe some smaller ones on the sides. A flat setting so it didn't stick up and get stuck on everything. White gold, because no one can tell the difference between it and platinum. You'd complain I spent too much unnecessarily if I got you platinum. Something simple yet elegant. Maybe with some swirls to it, like your handwriting. Am I close?”

It's exactly perfect, what he's described. This time I'm the one who doesn't know what to say.

“Aha!” he crows. “Do I know you or what?”

“You
might
know me.”

“Let me try the dress. Although this one's harder, because you don't dress like you.” He goes silent for a moment and I find myself hanging on to what he could possibly say next. “Not white. Not beige. That in-between color. No lace. It makes you itch.”

I look up at him, startled.

“You dig at your neck every time you wear one of those flimsy blouses with a lace collar,” he explains. “No satin. Too shiny. Silk, like pale butter. Loose, not too tight-fitting, but with lots of cleavage, because I can't get enough of your tits.”

To prove it, he palms one. I laugh.

“Just below your knees, for modesty. With sleeves,” he continues. “But it's a trick, because you don't wear a damn thing under it to drive me crazy and because you like the way the fabric feels against your bare skin.”

He steals my breath. I can picture it and the way it looks and feels and the way he stares at me in it, like he can't wait to rip it off me.

“Roses,” he whispers against my skin as he crawls on top of me, dropping kisses down my body between words. “You'll carry roses…because they're old-fashioned…and simple. We'll get married outside…in a garden…at sunset. We won't need anybody there…We have all we need right…here.” He licks my navel and my legs fall open wider to him.

I reach down, sifting my fingers in his hair the way he likes. He licks my clit with the flat of his tongue and has to grip my thighs to keep me on the bed. He's aces at oral. I didn't think I'd like it. He's my first. I'd done just about everything sexually before him, except this.
Fuck me,
he's good. The U.S. Marshal in the next room must think he's killing me in here. He does this thing where he hooks two fingers up inside me and thrusts. My hips come off the bed. I howl his name.

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth. “Bet you can't wait to marry me now.”