Trust Me (19 page)

Surprisingly, he held open the swinging door that allowed her to pass through the reception area. Then he waved her ahead of him into a luxurious room with a large window, a tall mahogany door, wainscoting, crown molding and a hardwood floor.

"Nice office," she said.

"Thank you." He motioned to a chair. "Would you like to sit down?"

Skye had appeared at Noah's place of business prepared to dislike him. He was cheating on his wife and children and, unwittingly or not, he was putting the object of his desire in harm's way. But she had to admit he was polite, although he had no reason to be. In his view, she'd falsely accused his brother of a serious crime.

She remembered him sitting in the courtroom, trying to comfort Jane and his mother after the verdict had been read. Later, his face could've been chiseled in stone when they nearly bumped into each other on the way out of the building. "I hope you're happy," he'd muttered.

"What brings you here?" he asked now, taking his seat behind a large desk.

She sat rigidly, wishing she were somewhere else. His skepticism and doubt weren't easy to deal with. "Like I said, I need you to understand something."

His expression revealed little of his thoughts. "I'm listening."

"I wasn't lying."

"About..."

"Any of it."

His gaze fell to his desktop, and he slowly straightened his calendar, pencil holder, clock. "It's irrelevant," he said at length. "Oliver's served his time. It's over."

She slid to the edge of her seat, trying to catch his eye. "I'm afraid it's not over. He's getting out tomorrow. Unless he's changed a great deal, which I highly doubt, he'll attack someone else. It's just a matter of time."

"Stop it!" he snapped. "You're crazy or paranoid or both."

"I'm neither! He held a knife to my throat while he groped my breasts, okay? He ripped off my pajamas!"

A pained expression appeared on Noah's even features. "Look.

You.. .you seem to believe what you're saying. And I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I've occasionally wondered. But it doesn't make sense. You're 120

talking about my little brother. I grew up with him. He was the gentlest kid on the block, so gentle that my friends used to ask me where my little sister was. That little 'sister' is who you're calling a rapist."

It was one thing to endure the ordeal she'd endured, another to have others think she was maliciously inventing a story that could destroy a man's life. Sometimes Skye thought the lingering doubt was worse than the actual attack because it never seemed to end. "Why would I lie about that?" she asked.

"Because you were high or...or momentarily out of touch with reality or half-asleep. I don't know, but you're remembering it wrong. You've got to be."

She jumped to her feet. "I'm not remembering it wrong. That's something I'll never forget, something I have to live with every day!"

He stood, too. "But you've certainly turned it to your advantage, haven't you? That charity is paying your bills. Jane's the one who's really suffered. She's got nothing."

"Except you, right?"

He gaped at her. "What'd you say?"

"You heard me," she said. "And if your brother finds out, I won't have to convince you the little son of a bitch is dangerous. You'll learn it for yourself. Or Jane will." Grabbing her purse, she started to march out of the office.

"Ms. Kellerman."

The panic in his voice made her pause. Turning, she found him watching her with an ashen face. "If you tell anyone... I mean, I don't want to hurt my wife or my brother. I never intended to.. .we never intended... It just--" at a loss, he shrugged "--happened."

He hung his head as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders, and Skye surprised herself by feeling sympathy for him. "I don't want to see anyone hurt, either," she said softly. 'That's why I'm here."

He eyed her dubiously. "You won't tell?"

"Only Detective Willis, and that's because I'm hoping he can protect her."

"Oliver would never hurt Jane."

"Believe what you want," she said. "Just don't bet your life on it."

"My life? He wouldn't hurt me, either," he argued. "Even if he tried, I'm bigger and stronger than he is."

"Strength isn't all that matters. Oliver is cunning." She thought of David's call, which she'd received just before she walked into the construction office. That book of Oliver's was a record of every offense, 121

petty or otherwise, he'd suffered to that point. "And he never forgets a slight."

122

Skye sat alone in the crowded restaurant, examining the animated faces of the strangers around her. They were laughing, talking, gesticulating, eating--living. That wasn't what she did anymore. Since Burke's attack, she hovered along the perimeter of life. Usually she was better at going through the motions than she was today. But no one else in the restaurant knew that a killer was about to be released--a killer who looked every bit as trustworthy and good-natured as the guy next door.

With a grimace, she took another sip of the French onion soup she'd ordered from the cafeteria-style restaurant. It was her last supper, she thought wryly, the last meal she'd have knowing Burke couldn't hurt her--at least not with his own hands. And she'd decided to eat it alone.

She could've invited Jasmine and Sheridan to join her. Then she wouldn't have had to feel quite so separate from other people. But she was too preoccupied to be good company tonight. And she was afraid the conversation would lead to an argument about her snooping into Burke's life.

When they'd checked with her an hour ago, she'd told them she was going home to bed, and they'd eagerly encouraged her to do so. She needed the rest, but David had recently called to tell her that the notebook she'd retrieved from the Griffins had Oliver's fingerprints all over it, and that alone made any attempt at sleep futile.

Hard as she fought the paranoia that had ruled her immediately after the assault, it was taking over again, creeping into her life like a persistent vine. She could beat it back and beat it back, but it always found some crevice in which to grow.

Closing her eyes, she tried to avoid the anxiety attack that suddenly threatened. There was no reason for it. This was the slow, quiet part of her day, the first time she'd actually sat down for a meal instead of eating while working at the computer or driving her car. But it was also the night before Burke's release.

Breathe deeply. Imagine you 're sleeping on a deserted beach, with the sun radiating heat and brightness overhead and the waves lapping the shore a few feet away. You're safe and relaxed. You are content, comfortable, warm.

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Your mother is with you, smiling at you.

Because she refused to resort to medication, the psychologist she'd visited for almost a year after the attack had taught her how to use her mind to overcome her body's autonomic reaction. It didn't always work, but tonight she thought she'd regained control--until she opened her eyes and saw a man staring at her from across the room. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a long leather coat, and he was sitting alone. With his goatee and holes in his earlobes big enough for a pencil to fit through, it was difficult to tell how old he was, but she guessed around twenty-five.

She met his gaze. If he was staring without realizing it, she knew courtesy would dictate he look away. But he didn't. He gave her an enigmatic smile and kept staring, which put her on edge and evoked the usual question: Was he another Burke? A psychopath who thrived on violence, abuse, power?

Her heart pounded as she brought her herbal tea to her lips. The beach. She was on the beach. The sun was warm. There was sand.

She glanced up again. He was still there, making no secret of his interest. And that smile. It was as if he understood how uncomfortable he was making her and enjoyed it.

Scowling at him, she felt in her purse for her gun. There it was. Forget the beach and the sun and everything else. She had a weapon, and she'd use it if she had to.

When she pulled her purse closer to her body, he returned his attention to his meal and she decided it was time to go. Despite the gun, she'd lost the ground she'd made up with her "mind over matter" technique and was beginning to perspire.

Grabbing her tray, she dumped her food into the waste-basket and headed for the door, but he moved to intercept her.

"Excuse me."

Did this man have a knife hidden in his long coat? It was possible. He had his hands in his pockets....

She knew it was unlikely. Not every odd or rude person was a killer.

But panic didn't respond to common sense or statistics, especially when she'd already been that one in a thousand.

Tempted to pretend she didn't notice that he'd addressed her, she raised her hands to push open the door and brush past him. But then she hesitated. Was she overreacting? Letting the past dictate the present? Maybe he thought he knew her from somewhere or recognized her from news clips on TV.

Determined not to run before there was sufficient cause, she forced 124

herself to stop. "Yes?"

"I couldn't help noticing you sitting over there by yourself and.. .well, I think you're a very attractive woman."

So that was it? She couldn't help being irritated that he'd scared her for no good reason. "Thank you."

He shuffled his feet, obviously trying to appear self-conscious, but it didn't really put her at ease. "This isn't the most original line in the world, but I'm new to the area and would like some companionship, if you're not seeing someone. Is there any chance you might go to a movie with me?"

"Now?"

"Unless you have other plans."

He was certainly direct. But he was handsome enough that part of her said she should be flattered. Another part said she should even consider going out with him. It wasn't as if she had much hope of a relationship with David. How many times had she, Sheridan and Jasmine talked about the unfortunate way they'd let their lives become defined by their work? This was an opportunity to change that, to start seeing someone new. Even if he was a little younger...

"Not tonight, thanks."

"You have plans?"

No, she just preferred to isolate herself. Much as she longed for human contact, she felt safer going back to the office, where she could take care of some of the work that was piling up. There were letters to answer, calls to make, notes of gratitude to write, fund-raisers to plan, help and support to solicit.

"I have things to do."

"I see." He grinned in an attempt to be endearing. "And there's no way I can talk you out of it?"

If she was going to heal, truly heal, she had to make some effort to overcome her resistance to meeting strangers and taking chances. She repeated that sentiment to other victims all the time. But still... She'd never recommend driving off with a man who'd barely introduced himself. Maybe some women did that and lived to tell about it, but her trust had been destroyed. She couldn't take the risk.

"No."

"I'm sorry. I'm being too forward. But could I give you my number, at least? Then you could call me if you ever feel like grabbing a bite or going to a movie."

That minimized the risk, didn't it? If she decided to call him, she could do a background check first. "Sure."

125

She expected him to hand her a card, but he turned back to one of the tables and jotted something on a slip of paper he'd pulled from his pocket.

"Have a good day," he said as he gave it to her. Then he walked away, and she hurried to her car. Only once she'd driven a few blocks did she bother to open the note. And then she had to pull over so she didn't cause an accident.

She'd been curious to know his name. But the note didn't contain a name or a number.

We'll be together soon. Love-- O.B.

Nearly sideswiping a van that was coming from the opposite direction, Skye wheeled around and drove directly back to the restaurant.

Her body was clammy, her hands cold, but she could think of only one thing--she had to figure out the identity of the man who'd passed her that note and discover his connection to Oliver Burke.

He wasn't the person who'd called her. She would've recognized the voice. Or maybe not. She'd been too shaken by this man's pointed interest, too absorbed with controlling her own reactions....

Shit! Dashing a hand across her upper lip, which was beaded with sweat, she double-parked, hopped out and ran inside. But he was gone. She searched every face, the bathrooms, studied all the men in the parking lot.

She even asked the people who'd been eating near her if they'd seen a man fitting his description.

Some had seen him. But no one knew who he was, where he'd come from or where he'd gone.

With Oliver Burke getting out in the morning, David couldn't sleep.

He kept flipping through cable channels on TV, wondering what Skye was doing, what she was thinking. She had to be terrified. Especially after some of the fingerprints on that notebook, lifted through a chemical process using ninhydrin, proved beyond a doubt that it had, indeed, belonged to Oliver.

Fortunately, she'd taken the news well. She'd expected it. But that didn't mean it didn't bother her--or him. The dates in that journal of offenses went way back, beginning years before Oliver had even purchased the house in that gated community. Did he plan some sort of revenge for everyone he'd listed? Why else would he keep track of every insult or slight, and cross out some but not others?

David was willing to bet that most of the people in that book weren't even aware they'd angered Burke. Or they didn't care. Oliver was probably so insignificant to them that they'd bumped into him somewhere and gone on their way, scarcely acknowledging him at all, while he, offended by their lack of notice, plotted and planned his revenge.

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David wished he could connect more of those initials to actual people so he could test that theory. He doubted Oliver had tried to kill all the people on his list. It was too long for that. There would've been bodies turning up everywhere. And he already knew that Miranda Dodge was alive and well.