Page 30 of Deadly Secrets
Chapter Six
An hour later, Brooke sat wrapped in a blanket on Roman’s couch with a brandy in her hand…the hand that shook every time she remembered the sigil on that notecard. She wasn’t a drinker but after the past twenty-four hours, she might become one.
Especially with Roman sitting next to her, his eyes boring into her soul. “I will not let him hurt you, Brooke. Whoever this guy is, I will end him if he comes after you. Hell, I’m going to end him just for putting that look on your face.”
Perfect Roman in his perfect little world, thinking he could stop a killer who had hunted her since she was ten. The hell of it was, she wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe she’d be safe in his perfect world where good guys always won.
Maybe I am safe here. Maybe I should tell Roman the truth.
She raised the brandy to her lips and sipped, watching the flames in the gas fireplace across the room. The alcohol burned and she welcomed it.
Roman’s house, just like him, was perfect. Beautiful, and manly at the same time, with high ceilings, a stone fireplace, and deep mahogany hardwood floors, like a spread in a decorating magazine. He’d probably picked out the art on his walls personally, and regularly used the upscale appliances in his kitchen.
Perfect world or not, Roman was a hero. He stopped killers like The Reverend every day. Maybe it was time to let him into her broken, scary-ass, serial-killer-hunting-you world.
She was tired of being the good girl. ‘Dependable Brooke’. ‘Professional Brooke’. She needed a damned anchor right now, and there was no one but the man sitting next to her that she could grab onto.
Knocking back the rest of the brandy, she handed him the glass. “Okay, Roman. You win. Refill this glass and I’ll tell you everything you want to know about me and The Rev.”
He took the glass and did as she asked, taking his time pouring an inch of brandy into the snifter and then a second glass for him. Returning to the couch, he offered the expensive liquor to her, then kicked his legs up on the ottoman in front of them. “The sigil on that card is from The Reverend?”
“Yes. No.”Maybe. She sipped the brandy, closed her eyes as she swallowed and picked through all the crazy thoughts in her head. “I’m not sure. I had a run-in with a killer when I was ten. A religious zealot who murdered my best friend and her family in their sleep. He left a sigil on their foreheads that’s similar to those The Reverend has used, just not that exact one.”
He tinkered with his glass, not drinking. “You were ten?”
“You didn’t see it in that background check you ran on me?”
His forehead creased, his mouth turning down. “Details were scarce, and I’d rather hear the story from you.”
So he did know about it. The police had kept things quiet about her in the press because of her age, and well, what had happened. A Homeland agent could dig deeper than the official reports, though.
“Short version? I was staying overnight with Aleisha, my best friend. We were like sisters. We lived next door to each other, but my mom and I were moving—the house had been foreclosed on—and it was my last sleepover at the Dunkirk’s for a while—maybe forever. Around two in the morning, I couldn’t sleep, not knowing what was going to happen to me and my mom, and I was worried about her, so I snuck out Aleisha’s bedroom window and went home to check on Mom. She was passed out in the bathroom and had been sick on herself, so I cleaned her up, got her into bed and then I went back to Aleisha’s.” She tossed back the brandy and choked slightly. The burn made her eyes sting with tears. “I found my friend dead, with a sigil drawn on her forehead.”
Roman reached for her, but she shrugged off his hand. A part of her wished she could climb into his arms and forget the past, but she had to get this out and she couldn’t do it if she allowed any weakness. If he touched her, showed her kindness, she’d start crying and uttering unintelligent sounds and he would realize what a nutcase she really was under all her degrees and accomplishments.
She licked her lips, tasting the brandy again. “When I got back, the killer was still there, down the hall, doing the same thing to her parents. At first, I didn’t realize Aleisha was dead. I saw the blood and shook her, trying to wake her.” The past came barreling back, as if she were in a time machine. She saw the moonlight reflecting off Aleisha’s dead eyes, felt the slack muscles in her friend’s arms as she shook her. “He heard me.”
Roman took his feet off the ottoman and sat forward. “What happened?”
“His footsteps were soft, but I heard them, sneaking down the hall.” In her mind, she saw his shadow moving, blocking out the nightlight across from the bathroom. “I thought—hoped—it might be Aleisha’s mom, coming to check on us, but then instinct kicked in, I guess. The footsteps didn’t sound like hers. The shadow he threw on the wall was all wrong—too tall and bulky. I scrambled off Aleisha’s bed, going for the window, but then I saw the trunk. Aleisha had a trunk her dad had used in the Navy. It was her dress-up trunk, filled with her mom’s old dresses and shoes. We rarely played with any of that stuff anymore, but Aleisha still had it.”
“So the killer didn’t find you?”
“Almost.” She set down the glass and wrapped the blanket tighter. “I was lying in that trunk, covered with dresses and scarves that smelled like Mrs. Dunkirk, trying so hard not to cry and give myself away.” She blinked back tears that even now threatened to fall. “The window was still open and I heard him walk over to it, looking for me. Then he came back.”
“Shit,” Roman said softly. She could see by the way he gripped his glass—he had yet to take a drink—that it was all he could do not to reach for her again.
“He actually opened the trunk lid, but I guess he didn’t see me.”
“Thank God he didn’t find you.”
ThankGod? Brooke snorted. “God had nothing to do with it. If there is a God, He wouldn’t create monsters that kill innocent people in the first place.”
A muscle jumped in Roman’s jaw. He nodded. “Sorry.”
A tightness grew in her throat. She’d shared this story with few people for this very reason—people who hadn’t lived through this kind of violence couldn’t understand.
But it wasn’t Roman’s fault that she had issues. “No, I should apologize. You’ve done nothing but be kind to me, and I appreciate it. God and I just aren’t on good terms that’s all.”
