Spiraled (Callahan & McLane Book 3) (16 page)

“I thought you were on vacation,” came the therapist’s reply.

Ava backtracked and acknowledged that she wasn’t supposed to be working. She was a poor patient. She might be a prompt and responsible person, but everything went out the window when one of her cases suddenly grew legs. It’d happened several times when she’d worked Crimes against Children. Her cases had been all-consuming and she’d often missed appointments and social events with friends.

I don’t mean to be irresponsible.

The problem was that she saw other people’s lives as more important than her own well-being. She had it good. She lived in a nice home and had a great guy and a good job. She lived the American Dream. But when she saw someone else was being victimized and she had the power to help, she felt obligated to make it a priority because when the day was over, she could return to her dream life. The victims and their families remained in limbo until answers were found.

Time to take care of myself.
She’d promised Mason she’d go home and relax. Maybe it was time to catch up on that TV crime series.
No. Something funny. A show where I can turn off my brain and eat ice cream.
She turned on her car and planned a stop at the grocery store.

Her phone rang.

She glanced at the unfamiliar number that popped up on the screen on her vehicle’s dashboard.
Maybe the therapist?
She kept her car in park and pressed the green button on her steering wheel to answer the call.

“Is this Ava?” asked a male voice. He nearly shouted in the phone as voices in the background moaned and cried.

She sat up straight. “This is Ava.” She listened hard, trying to make out the words in the background.

“Your sister had me call you. She’s bad off. The fire department’s here and they’re working on her.”

“What happened?”
She gripped her steering wheel, her foot pressed on the brake, staring at the phone number on her dashboard screen.

“I don’t know. I found her collapsed in Jefferson Park and called 911. She was throwing up and there’s blood everywhere.”

Her heart stopped. “Was she hit by a car? What—what did she do?”

“No car. She was behind the restroom structure.” He hesitated. “Her wrists are all bloody.”

No. Jayne. Tell me you didn’t
 . . .

“Are they taking her to the hospital?” she forced out.

She heard him question someone.

“Yeah. OHSU.”

“I’m on my way.” She paused, her mind unable to focus. “Thank you for calling me.”

“She’s bad. I don’t want to scare you, but it doesn’t look good.”

Ava froze. “I appreciate that.”

“Just warning you.”

Ava ended the call. She didn’t need warnings; she’d expected this day for two decades.

23

Sirens sounded.

He glanced in his rearview mirror. Red and blue lights. His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

Is this it?

He looked in the mirror again. Only one set of lights. If they’d figured out who he was, they’d have sent twenty police cars, not one. He steadied his breathing and flicked on his blinker. Sweat made his fingers slide across the leather wheel as he turned the vehicle down a side street and pulled to a stop. He turned off the engine and wiped his hands on his shorts.

Stay calm.
In his side mirror, he watched a woman step out of the cruiser.

Jesus-God-damned-fucking-Christ!

Every muscle clenched, and he ground his teeth, creating a sound as if he were chewing rocks. This wasn’t happening to him.

She was small and blond with her hair pulled tightly back. She met his gaze in the mirror as she strode toward his vehicle, and he looked away.

Unacceptable.

“Good afternoon, sir.” She stopped a step behind his driver window. Her stomach and weapon visible in his side mirror. “May I see your license and registration, please?”

He didn’t answer, knowing she’d had a clear view of the distorted skin on the left side of his neck. He leaned across to the glove box and dug for his registration. He held the piece of paper out the window without looking at her, feeling her gaze probe his scars.

“License?” she asked, plucking the registration from his hand. Her voice was young. She sounded like a middle-school-age child.

“I’m getting it,” he muttered. He shifted in his seat to remove his wallet from his back pocket.

“Do you know why I stopped you?” she asked sweetly.

“No.” He slid his ID out of his wallet, and turned to meet her gaze as he handed her the plastic. Her eyes were an impossibly light blue and her cheeks were sunburned. Or flushed.
Is she scared?

A rush of pleasure made him smile at her.

“Your plates are expired.”

“What?” Shock rocked through him. He’d been pulled over for that? “Seriously? I haven’t received a renewal in the mail.”

“Have you moved recently? Perhaps they were lost in the mail. I’m sorry, but that’s not an excuse. You can contact the DMV if you haven’t received new stickers.”

Her tone was like fingers on a chalkboard. Condescending and haughty.
“Yes, I moved recently.” Anger narrowed his vision to a small point.

She sounded like his mother, pointing out everything he’d done wrong. He’d never done anything good enough for her.

“I’ll go to the DMV.”

She handed back his registration and license. “I’m going to give you a warning. Your stickers are only a month out of date. Can you make it to the DMV today?”

“I’ll go right now. I don’t want to be pulled over again.”
And lectured by a woman.

Minutes later he was back in traffic and fighting the rage that overtook him every time he remembered her tone. “Fucking bitch. She’s just another woman looking for a reason to talk down to a man. She must really get off on ordering men around.”

His mind raced ahead.
What if she’d pulled her gun on me?
He imagined himself throwing open his driver’s door and leaping out, focusing on the scared woman.
He strode toward her, never taking his eyes from hers as her weapon shook in her hands. She screamed for him to stop. But he didn’t. He reached out and yanked the weapon away as she stepped backward, cowering from him, tears flowing from those light eyes. “Don’t hurt me,” she said. He released the magazine and removed the round from the chamber, throwing the pieces to the side. He stepped close, pressing her back against her own car. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he whispered. She tilted her head back to look up at him, nodding frantically, trapped between his body and her vehicle. Fear radiated from her, her trembling passing between their pressed bodies. He tossed the remaining frame of the weapon through the driver’s window of her car.

Hate flooded over him. “Why do you do this?” he roared at her.

Shaking violently, she lowered her gaze. He stepped back, losing the heat of her body, and shoved her aside. “You don’t belong in uniform.”

He walked back to his car, feeling her terrified gaze on his back.

The daydream made him sigh.
That’s what I should have done.
He relived it three more times and each time she cowered more, terrified by his power, acknowledging that she’d been wrong to give him orders. By the time he pulled into the parking lot at the DMV, he was relaxed.

He wasn’t taking any more chances with his expired plates.

He looked at his watch.

I’ve been here over an hour!
He glared around the dingy DMV waiting room, catching the gaze of a child two rows ahead. Her eyes widened and she ducked down behind the back of her seat, peering cautiously at him over the edge. He was used to the horrified second glances and visible recoils. He wasn’t pretty to look at; he knew it. At one time he’d avoided people, but now for the most part he didn’t give a shit.
Keep staring. Get a good eyeful.

Most of the time he wore a cap that kept his longer hair in place over the scars. It helped but didn’t hide everything.

He’d removed it when he entered the building. An echo of the manners his mother had taught him and it made people keep their distance. As a general rule he didn’t like people. He didn’t like their small talk and fake politeness. Removing his cap made people avoid him and that was how he liked it. No one sat in the chairs to either side of him even though the waiting room was packed.

He was a monster. And he was fine with that.

Privately he thought of himself as a type of Jekyll and Hyde. But he had full control over his two personas. One side people knew and respected; the other side everyone avoided at all costs. He chose when each appeared. He wasn’t dissociative; he decided how he wanted to act each day. It was empowering to know that he could cause people to cower in fear.

But it wasn’t satisfying when the scared were children.

He looked again at the small brown eyes studying him. Her fear had dissipated and now she was simply curious. He gave her a half smile and her head rose a few inches above the chair back to smile back at him, a sliver of acceptance in her gaze.

Why don’t adults accept?
He’d noticed that small children quickly got over their initial scare and moved on. At what age did humans lose that skill? Adults never got past his grafts. Neither did teens. Somewhere in childhood a person lost the ability to accept differences without judgment.

His number was called.

Relief swept over him and he stood, edging his way out of his row. He was moving toward the window assigned to his number when a woman rushed in front of him and slapped her ticket down in front of the agent. “No one called my number,” she said. “And now you’ve passed it!”

He froze midstep.

The woman looked over her shoulder at him. Her heavy eyeliner and bleached hair made her look like a whore. “You don’t mind, do you?”

He did. He minded a lot. “Go ahead.”

The female agent made eye contact with him, nervously nodded, and focused on the woman’s issue.

Fifty sets of eyes burned holes through the back of his shirt.
Do I go sit back down? Or wait?
He looked at the automatic number display that declared his number was currently being helped. Was he going to be skipped now? Fury burned up his spine. He scanned the other agents, all busy with customers. Any second they were going to call another number, and he would have to publicly declare he was next. He shoved his hat on his head and heard his mother’s voice berate him for wearing it indoors.
Tough shit.

That whore had cut in front of him and the female agent had let it happen.

He stood powerless in front of an audience, stripped of his rights. Sweat dripped down the center of his back. He didn’t move. He wasn’t going to let a woman do that to him again.
I will be next.

Women first, Son. Always remember that.
He tried not to cringe at his mother’s voice in his head. A physical blow had always followed the words. Either an abrupt slap to the back of the head or a fist to the ear. His mother hadn’t always hit him. It’d started after they had taken away his father—after the cops had taken away his father.

He closed his eyes in the DMV as the memory flooded his brain, clear and sharp as yesterday. But he’d been ten.

His mother had sported bruises and black eyes for years. He’d thought that was normal. Women needed discipline, his father had explained. Their brains didn’t function the same way as a man’s. Without male guidance and protection, they’d all be whores, living on the street and selling their bodies.

He’d assumed a man would purchase a woman because he needed someone to clean for him, iron his shirts. That was why women sold their bodies. It wasn’t until he was in sixth grade that a friend had told him the truth in whispered tones behind closed doors.

Disgusting.

One late evening when he was twelve, the police arrived. He’d been in his bedroom, his music cranked up through his headphones as usual so he couldn’t hear his parents fight. But he’d seen the lights flashing outside his window. He’d lifted his blinds and peered out, expecting to see a fire truck or police car across the street. Three police cars were parked in front of his home. He ripped off the headphones and dashed to the kitchen.

His father was facedown on the linoleum. A cop’s knee in his back as she wrestled to lock handcuffs around his wrists. A male cop held his mother back as she screamed for them to let her husband go. After a moment’s hesitation, he ran to pull the female officer off his father. Hands grabbed his shoulders and another female cop neatly corralled him. “Don’t interfere, son.”

“I’m not your son!” he shouted, thrashing to get out of her arms. He looked to his mother. Blood ran out of her nose and a fresh cut marred her cheek. “Mom!” He thrashed again, but the officer held him tight.

“She’s going to be fine,” said the officer holding him. “We’ll get him away from her.”

Dad did that to Mom?
He shook his head.
No. Bruises maybe, but he’d never make her bleed.

The female officer climbed off his father, leaving him on his stomach with his hands cuffed behind his back. “Fucking bitch!” his father shouted. “You have no right to do this in
my home
!”

The female cop ignored his father and wiped the sweat off her forehead as she turned and smiled. “You won’t need to worry about your father tonight.”

He stood stock-still, staring at the officer. They were arresting his father for nothing, and she was
smiling
? “Get out!” he shouted at her.

Her face fell, the smile vanished, and her eyes narrowed at him. She pointed at his mother. “Do you see her face?”

“He didn’t do that!
You
did it!”

“No, your neighbors called us because your mother was screaming so loud.”

“You’re a liar!” he screamed. He wrestled to get his arms free, but the female officer holding him was unnaturally strong.

The female who’d lied to him exchanged looks with the other officers and rolled her eyes. His dad was right. Women shouldn’t be in power. It went against nature.

“Fucking bitch,” he shrieked. He’d never spoken such ugly words.

“Sir? I can help you now.” The agent’s words interrupted his memory.

He opened his eyes. The female agent was looking at him, curiosity in her gaze. Had she already called him? Anger and embarrassment drove through him and his face heated. Every cell in his body told him to turn around and leave. Walk out. Don’t give in to the female.

But he needed his plates renewed.

He swallowed hard and stepped up to her window. The whore with the black eyeliner had left and he hadn’t noticed.

How long did I stand there with my eyes shut?

He slid his numbered ticket across the counter. “My plates have expired. I moved recently and I think the new stickers have been lost in the mail.”

Her lips smiled but the kindness didn’t touch her eyes. “I can help you with that.” She was mousy-looking. Fine bones, limp brown hair, and no makeup. She blinked too much, but her fingers moved with precision on her keyboard. This was the correct type of position for a woman. She serves. The public has demands, and she fulfills them.

She reminded him of his mother—in the good years before they took away his father. In the years following his father’s conviction, his mother had tried to become one of
them
: a woman who bossed others around. He’d set her straight. If his father had been alive, he would have been proud.

He exhaled and counted backward from ten. His blood still boiled from the place-cutting whore and the childhood memory. The meek woman’s actions calmed him as she worked efficiently behind the counter to meet his needs. She didn’t stare at his scars.

This is how it should be.