Longest Night (17 page)

For a moment, he was disappointed to see confusion on her face, and he braced against the bland report of “It's cold” and “The fire's lit.” Then she said, “The fire's been lit all day, but the ashes haven't been shoveled, so the flame's not as hot as it could be. I probably need to clean out the soot, too.”

“Good,” he said, unable to hide his surprise. “Very good.”

She grinned. “The wind's from the northwest, so hopefully it won't still be snowing come morning. I can just barely hear the water heater. It's running but not filling, so you can have a long shower. You get tetchy if you don't have two showers a day.”

He laughed. “True. What else?”

“Um…” She looked around. “That's it. I mean, it's my house. It's not like any of it's unfamiliar.”

He nodded, resting his hand on her warm wool sock for a moment. “Your right shoulder hurts. The damp and cold aggravates the scar where you were shot, but you went out this morning anyway,” he said, feeling the subtle shift as she tensed.

“We could use the venison,” she said with a tense shrug.

He looked pointedly toward her scarred shoulder. “You're sitting with your right side to the back of the couch. You keep shifting because your shoulder hurts when you put any weight on it, but you want to stay facing me, so you're enduring it for now.”

Unconsciously, she lifted her right hand to rub at the site of the bullet wound. Then she caught herself and shrugged, lowering her hand again. “Okay. All true.”

He pressed his fingers against her shin a bit more firmly to ground her, rubbing in little circles. “You were shot while standing or kneeling over someone,” he said more quietly, keeping his voice very steady and calm.

Her eyes widened, and she hitched in a quiet gasp before she stopped breathing altogether. Her lips parted, shaping the word
How?
though she said nothing.

“The angle between the entrance and exit wound is too sharp. The bullet most likely fractured your collarbone, rather than shattering it, and exited out the top of your trapezius muscle. There's a chance it nicked the upper part of your shoulder blade, but I doubt it.”

“God,” she whispered. She swallowed hard and licked her lips.

He considered remaining silent, but he knew that they needed to have this discussion at some point. Best to get it out of the way now, rather than leaving her to worry over it for days or even weeks.

“It was intentional,” he said quietly. “The shot was disabling, not fatal.”

“Intentional?”

“You were targeted. Most likely, you went to a civilian's aid. He was someone you didn't know, but he appeared wounded and in need, so you trusted him enough to lower your guard. As soon as you were in range, he shot you from a prone position.”

Her skin had gone ashen. “How—How do you—”

“Something like ninety percent of people are right-handed. The shot was precisely placed to disable but not kill. An inch in any direction and it could have been fatal, especially without immediate medical treatment. So he was a crack shot, able to play at being harmless to lure you close, and capable of taking precise aim and shooting flawlessly.”

“He did,” she whispered. “He looked like a civilian. I thought…”

When she didn't continue, he filled the silence, saying, “It happened at night, somewhere outside a city.”

“Fucking hell.” She turned, pulling her foot free so she could turn and sit properly, feet on the floor. She rested her elbows on her knees and let her head hang down, taking deep breaths.

Tentatively, he moved toward her, though he sat back as soon as her shoulders tightened. “You went to help someone you perceived as a noncombatant, and you were attacked—”

“Noncombatant,” she whispered tightly. She lifted her head, eyes closed, and drew in a harsh, deep breath. “I had my rifle slung. I didn't even see him aim. I saw him go down and I thought… He looked young. He wasn't carrying a gun—not that I could see. He was near my position, so I ran to help him.”

He studied her profile, taking in a thousand little details, from the way the firelight muted her freckles to her steady hands. Carefully he said, “That's when you were captured.”

She turned just enough to look at Ian. “Your brother—”

“Your scars,” he corrected. “You weren't treated by a military surgeon or even a proper doctor.”

She started to nod, but her self-control broke. She rose, pushing away from the sofa, and paced stiffly into the kitchen. He stayed where he was, knowing she needed to feel open space around her. He listened intently for the sound of the whiskey bottle or the metallic clatter of her sidearm, but all he heard was the sink running. After a few seconds—just long enough to fill a glass—she turned off the water.

“They wanted a hostage,” she said, just loudly enough to be heard in the living room.

He rose, intentionally bumping against the sofa to make noise. He walked to the kitchen archway but stood on the other side, away from the sink where she was still standing, back to the room.

“One of their leaders had been captured,” she said tonelessly. “They wanted a female hostage to trade. Better impact in the media. They ended up taking me and two of my troops.”

He remained silent, though he moved into the kitchen, putting himself into her peripheral line of sight. She put down her glass of water and took two mugs from the dish rack. She set them on the counter and went to the pantry. She took an old, faded box of tea bags from the shelf and dropped it when she tried to open it. Her hands shook as she crouched down, balanced on the balls of her feet, and started scooping up the sachets of tea. Finally she got all but two back in the box and replaced the box on its shelf. She ripped them open as she walked back to the counter.

“How long did they have you?” he finally asked.

“Don't you know?” she snapped. Then she shook her head and said, “I'm sorry.” She dropped one tea bag into each mug.

“It was at least three days,” he said, unable to could stop himself. “Perhaps as long as six or seven.”

“How do you know that?” she demanded. She'd picked up the towel she used to handle the kettle. Now, she threw it down and turned toward him, her face a mask of shock and anger. “
How
do
you
know?
”

Silently berating himself—he always had to be clever, too clever for his own damned good—Ian considered his options. There was no room to lie convincingly, and he had a feeling she wouldn't accept anything but a full, complete answer, so he forced himself to look up and meet her angry gaze as he admitted, “I saw the video.”

October 29

Cecily breathed in, tasting smoke and steam. She was cold, especially the lower half of her body, but her hands were warm. Everything around her was quiet, except for the crackle of flames and the familiar bubbling gurgle that she identified as a water heater.

Water heater. The cabin.

She opened her eyes and found herself staring at the wood floor of her kitchen, with its layers of scuff marks and polish and dried mud. Another inhale brought the distant sense of snow under the taste of wood smoke.

Her hands twitched, reflexively tightening around warm ceramic. She looked up and tried to sit up straight, only to have her back and right shoulder scream in protest.

“Fuck,” she muttered, closing her eyes when she saw Ian sitting on the floor, off to one side. Her throat felt tight, and her eyes were stinging. She lifted the mug in her hands and took a sip. The tea was lukewarm and tasted stale and bitter.

“The floor is cold,” he said quietly. “Should I get you a blanket?”

Embarrassed, she shook her head, wondering why the hell she'd blacked out. “I'm fine,” she said, though it was a lie.

She shifted the mug to her left hand and tried to lift her right to scrub at her face, but doing more than twitching her fingers sent shooting pains down from her shoulder. She stopped trying to move and tried to breathe through it.

She glanced at him, hating how difficult he was to read even at the best of times. Now, he looked at her calmly, impassively.

“Aspirin?” she requested, needing a moment of privacy to recover her composure as best she could.

Ian nodded and rose stiffly, as though he'd been sitting on the floor for some time. She looked to the window, but all she saw was the reflection of the oil lamp hanging over the sink. She put the mug down beside her hip and rubbed the damp tracks on her face.

After a minute, he returned with three aspirin. Lecturing him about dosages was pointless, and she was actually regretting not having anything stronger, so she just took all three, washing them down with the tea. When she went to put the mug back on the floor, he took it instead.

“Do you want to stay here?” he asked as if it was perfectly normal for adults to sit on the kitchen floor.

She shook her head. Thankfully, he didn't offer to help her up, though he stayed a bit too close as she got awkwardly to her feet. She couldn't feel her toes or tailbone. Exhaustion lay heavy in every muscle, making her want nothing more than sleep. She just knew that if she tried, she'd have nightmares.

She went to the bedroom anyway, knowing that somewhere in her fucked-up mind, she considered it the safest spot in the cabin. He followed, still silent, and went to the hearth to build up the fire, which left her free to go right for the bed. As was her habit, she drew her gun and set it on the nightstand, only then realizing that he had left her armed despite her loss of self-control.

The last thing she wanted to do was to discuss what had happened, but she'd already neglected his safety too much. She sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Ian.”

“Hm?” he asked casually, focused on building up the fire.

She clasped her hands tightly together, trying to think of where to begin. The words were all there in her head—everything she needed to tell him, to make certain they were both safe if her self-control broke again—but she couldn't figure out where to start. For a writer, it was doubly frustrating to fumble through mental false starts and incoherent phrases all jumbled together.

When the fire was blazing, filling the room with warmth and light, he took the two steps to the edge of the bed. He sat, turning to face her. Despite Preston's warning that he could be short-tempered, he seemed the embodiment of patience, as if he would be content to sit all night in silence. Finally, she decided there was no point in trying to explain. Ian probably knew more about this than Cecily herself did.

“I don't want to hurt you,” she said without looking at him. “If…
that
happens again, you can't leave me armed.”

“I was safe.”

Anger flickered to life, but she was too tired for it to actually take hold. “You weren't. Ian, when—”

“Cecily, I—No, sorry,” he said, sounding unhappy. “It's best for you to say whatever you need.”

She glared at him. “This isn't some mind game, Ian. I could have killed you!”

“No, you—Well, you
wouldn't
,” he said. “Not without provocation.”

“What the hell does that mean?” she demanded.

He took a breath and looked up at the ceiling. “Haven't you been paying attention
at
all
for the past week? I know what provokes your self-defense reflexes, Cecily. I sat next to you for two hours, and I was
never
in
danger
.”

“God,” she whispered, looking away. Two hours. The sad part was that two hours was actually an improvement over some of her earlier episodes.

“You won't hurt me,” he repeated confidently. “I sat beside you for two hours, Cecily. I touched you. I handed you a mug of tea. Twice. Neither of which you drank,” he added in gentle accusation. “I promise, Cecily, you don't have to worry.”

“You're wrong,” she insisted. “You don't understand.
Anything
could trigger me. You can't predict—”

“I did.”

Her thoughts, spiraling out of control, abruptly stalled. “What?”

“I did. I knew it was a possibility. No, not a possibility. When we started our discussion, I knew something like that was inevitable.”

“Why didn't you stop it, then?”

He sighed. “I wanted to get it over with. Now you can stop trying to hide, so I can—”

“Is
that
what this was about?” she demanded in disbelief. “Me wearing a shirt to bed?”

He glared and deliberately continued, “So I can stop hiding the fact that I know. I've known since I first saw you, after your shower.”

She turned away and took a few breaths, trying to rationalize what he was saying, but she was exhausted and worn down and felt childishly resentful that he could function so damned normally while she couldn't go twenty-four hours without nightmares, asleep or awake.

“I see everything, Cecily. I put together the smallest minutiae, things most people never consciously acknowledge, into a coherent picture that no one else can see until I show it to them. It's how I'm such a damned good lawyer.”

She nodded, still refusing to look at him. On the surface, it all made perfect sense. Deeper down, on an emotional level, it was all kinds of fucked-up, but she had the feeling that was nothing more than a fear-based reaction.

“The video,” she said, trying to stick to calm, cold logic. “How?”

“The first day I had Internet access, I broke into my brother's server and found your files. Most of it was redacted, but there was enough left for me to form a coherent picture. The rest, I figured out based on observing you.”

He'd been sitting on this knowledge since last Monday, then. More than a week. She let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “And you still stayed? You still—” She cut off awkwardly and gestured at the bed they'd shared just that morning.

“With most people, the longer I know them, the more boring and predictable they are,” he said. “It seems to work backward with you.”

“Fuck,” she whispered, shaking her head. Logic could only go so far against her emotional exhaustion. “I can't do this now.”

“I'm staying,” he said at once, as though prepared to defend his right to share the bed.

She just waved a hand at the far side of the bed. She rose enough to push away the blanket and got under its comforting weight, fully dressed. Without hesitation, he followed suit. She started on her back, but she gave in after only a few seconds and rolled over to face him.

“You really will sleep better under both blankets,” he said quietly.

“You're burning two days' worth of firewood,” she answered, even though he was right. She was still cold, and she could feel the weight of his knowing stare. She sighed and said, “Fine. Just don't crowd—”

“I know,” he interrupted impatiently. He sat up and shook out his blanket over Cecily's. Then he got out of bed, put his glasses on the nightstand, and started to strip off his clothes.

Wondering if there had been a miscommunication, she said, “Ian, I'm not really in the mood…”

With a huff of frustration, he asked, “In the military, did you sleep clothed?”

“Of course… Wait, you're stripping for
contrast
?” she asked, a smile flickering to life for the first time since everything had gone wrong.

“You should as well.” He dropped his shirt on the floor and looked back over his bare shoulder. “If I wanted you out of your clothes for sex, you'd know it. This is only to help you sleep.”

She surrendered, though more because it was damned uncomfortable to sleep in blue jeans than because his theory made any sort of sense. Then again, a whole battalion of therapists had accomplished virtually nothing. Ian had as good a chance as anyone else to accidentally stumble upon something to help her start to recover. And there was no sense hiding her scars, though she did keep her back turned when she took off her shirt. She made a point to get under the blankets as quickly as she could, hiding her scars from his sight.

Two minutes later, they were both back in bed, this time under layers of blankets. Already, the heat had worn away the sharp edges of her post-blackout nervousness. She lay on her side, absently rubbing at the scarred entry wound on her shoulder. Another night, she might have tried a hot water bottle to soothe the ache, but right now, she wasn't getting out of bed.

“Tomorrow, I'll give you a massage,” he offered.

“Do you know how?”

“Of course,” he said as though offended by the question. “It's a useful skill. People talk when they're relaxed.”

She laughed and reached for his hand. “I hope that's not how you get your clients to open up to you.”

“Well, no.” He grinned, lifting her hand to kiss her fingertips. “But still, I'm very good at it.”

“Modest, too.”