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Authors: Tara Taylor Quinn

BOOK: The Fourth Victim
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I didn't mind the pain. It was a result of Maggie's unrelenting grasp for hours the night before. She'd held on until she'd finally fallen asleep sometime after midnight.

And this morning, although she hadn't wanted to be alone, she hadn't been quite as insistent about keeping me in sight.

She'd called three times since I'd left the farm, though. I'd only been gone an hour.

“I have a question,” Clay said as he wiped up fingerprint dust from the windowsill.

“What?” I was picking shards of glass out of the carpet.

“Why were you so loyal to your mother?”

“Why are you loyal to yours?”

“My mother's a little easier to be loyal to,” he said. “She's sick, but she's always done her best for me.”

“Mine, too.” And this was a new realization for me. I'd learned my lesson. No more hiding. “And after all this, I think I was probably loyal to her because she saved me that day. I had vague memories about that time, but nothing concrete. I used to have nightmares…. Anyway, when I pushed her about it while I was in college, she did admit I wasn't imagining things like she'd always told me I was. She admitted the place existed and that they do sell kids there, but she said my father wasn't going to sell me, and therefore she hadn't saved me. Now that I know he's still alive, it all makes sense. She was scared to death that I'd go after him—and then he'd come after her. She said she'd been outside the agency the whole time. That they'd gone there together to see about a job for him. He'd taken me in to show that he was responsible around kids. She said she'd only gone in to pick me up because she'd heard me cry. I guess I believed her because I wanted to. But I remember now. I remember his words that day. He bargained with them. I remember him saying, ‘It's a deal,' right before the lady grabbed my arm. I think my mother knew he was up to no good. She couldn't stop him from taking me—he'd just have hit her. But she followed him there. And arrived in the nick of time. I'm guessing the adoption people, protecting their legitimate business, prevented him from exacting any retribution. I have no idea what happened after that.”

A piece of glass pricked my finger and I raised it to my lips, sucking on it.

Clay was on his haunches beside me in a flash. “Let me see that.”

“It's okay,” I said. “Nothing serious.” But it felt good having someone there to care. To help. Even when I didn't really need help.

He looked at the tiny dot of blood. And he looked at my lips.

And he dropped my hand.

We were done within the hour. I gave the window people a key to the front door, which they'd leave with Deb at my office. I wasn't going into work for the rest of the week, but I didn't plan to move back home for a few days.

And then I was back at the farm, sitting beside Clay Thatcher as he pulled into the drive, afraid I was never going to see him again.

“I have a problem,” he said as he put the gear into Park, but didn't turn off the car.

“What's that?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. I can't get your voice out of my head.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”

“Stop.”

I did.

“It's not your fault. And…I like it.” He paused, tapped his thumb against the steering wheel. “When I don't hate it. You… I…”

I waited.

“You want to have coffee sometime?” he asked. And then he laughed. “Great, Thatcher, way to go. Invite a woman out for something you know she hates.”

And just like that, a life that had almost ended less than a day ago now held the promise of a whole new world.

A better world than any I'd ever inhabited before.

I stared straight ahead.

“I'd love to have coffee with you sometime,” I said.

“Tonight? After dinner and a glass of wine?”

“Yes.”

“You think Maggie'll be okay without you?”

“As long as she's with Sam and Kyle. I don't want to
establish an unhealthy dependency. And I'll have my phone with me.”

Now we were both staring out the windshield.

“Can I pick you up at seven?”

“Yes.”

I looked at him.

And he looked at me.

We looked at each other's lips.

And I got out of the car.

Clay waved.

I waved.

And as I stood there, watching his car back down the drive, I had a delicious feeling of anticipation. I couldn't wait for this evening. And the one after that…

ISBN: 978-1-4268-7564-9

THE FOURTH VICTIM

Copyright © 2010 by Tara Taylor Quinn

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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