Page 71 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

He waited and she bit her lip. There were some things that were private.

“Caitlyn?” His voice was so close, a whisper that changed the cadence of her heartbeat. Which was absolutely foolish. She smelled soap and some kind of aftershave, a musky scent that disturbed her on a very basic and female level. “There’s something else, isn’t there?” he asked, and for a moment she wanted to curl up against him and cling to him.

“I don’t know if I should tell you,” she admitted, shredding the Kleenex.

He waited. “Whatever you think. It’s your decision.”

She expected him to touch her, to pat her on the shoulder or give her a hug. And she wanted him to. Just the feel of a man’s concerned touch. She saw the hesitation in his eyes, the spark of something dangerous, then it quickly disappeared. Adam pushed up from the couch as if realizing that being in such close proximity to her was a mistake, that there was something perilous about being so close to her, and he returned to his desk chair.

She’d come so far, she couldn’t back off now, Caitlyn decided. She was here because she needed help. No matter what else, she had to get better, and Adam was going to help her. Come hell or high water. She drew in a deep breath. “Kelly made some charges a few years back. Right after the boating accident. About my older brother, Charles. That he . . . well, he used to come into her room and . . .” She let out the breath that she didn’t realize she was holding. Shuddering, her stomach roiling at the thought, she said, “. . . that before he died, he’d molested her.”

Adam didn’t move. “Do you believe her?”

Slowly she nodded. Remembered Charles as he had been. Ten years older. Trusted. Her father’s favorite. Her stomach twisted so hard it cramped.

“Because?”

She felt the hot rush of tears burning behind her eyes but wouldn’t release them, refused to shed one single drop.

“Because he molested you, too.”

She nodded again and she couldn’t stem the flow as the memories of hearing footsteps outside her bedroom door, listening in horror as the doorknob turned, dying a thousand deaths as he crossed the room, nearly silently. But she’d heard every muffled step, smelled him, the scent of sourness—whiskey, she now knew—mingled with the dirty musk of male sweat. Sometimes, when the moon was just right and the curtains were open, she saw his shadow stretching forward, dark, angular, and foreboding as it crawled across the carpet and up the wall. She had squeezed her eyes shut tight, her body rigid, as she tried to feign sleep. Her hands had fisted in the sheets and she’d prayed. No, God, no . . . please don’t let him do this!

Then he had touched her, his hands trembling, his breathing a raspy pant. She had cringed and cowered, begged and cried, but he’d never stopped.

“Caitlyn?”

Startled, she opened her eyes and saw Adam kneeling in front of the couch. She was in his office—Rebecca’s office. What had happened was long ago, in a past she kept locked away. Her face was wet and she was trembling.

Adam’s head was at the same level as hers. She hadn’t heard him approach. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, sniffing and wiping at her nose.

“You don’t have to be. What happened to you is criminal.”

Again tears collected in the corners of her eyes. “It—it happened a long time ago. I was seven . . . maybe eight. He was ten years older.”

“But it never really goes away,” he said kindly and sat on the couch next to her again. This time he wrapped one strong arm over her shoulders. “I think this is enough for today.”

She swallowed hard and leaned into him, smelled the slight scent of his aftershave. It was probably a mistake to touch him, to become too close, but she rationalized it by telling herself she believed she could trust him, believed the official degrees lining the walls, believed that Rebecca Wade would not have recommended her to someone who would take advantage of her.

How do you know Rebecca actually recommanded him? All you have is his word.

That much was true. But for now, it was enough.

“Before I go knocking on Caitlyn Bandeaux’s door again, let’s go over what we’ve got,” Reed said as Morrisette slid into the opposite side of a booth at a local bar. Smoke was heavy in the air, voices hushed, laughter sprinkling conversations. A couple of guys were shooting pool near the back, and the television over the bar was tuned into a Braves’ game. Atlanta was up 3 to 1 over Cincinnati, but it was only the bottom of the third inning

A waitress ambled over and took their orders. Morrisette ordered a patty melt with a Diet Coke, and Reed opted for a cheeseburger with fries. He was officially off duty, so he decided on a Budweiser. “Okay, what do you know? Top to bottom, what the hell’s going on with that family?”

“I know a lot. I’ve been doing a lot of checking. I mean a lot. And most of it ain’t pretty. My gut instinct tells me they’re all frickin’ nuts. Every last one of ’em. And more than just minor league loco. We’re talkin’ the majors here. And they’re cursed, too. Or at least it seems like it. Just one catastrophe after another. The father, Cameron, died in a car wreck about fifteen years ago. He lost control of the wheel on his way to St. Simons Island and ended up in the swamp. Hurtled through the windshield. He was drunk out of his mind at the time, his seat belt failed and bam-o, right through the glass. He was pretty messed up, broken ribs, femur, jaw and pelvis and punctured lung—and get this—his right testicle was completely severed.”

“What?”

“Yep. Never found.”

“How could that happen?”

“A freak accident. They think glass.”

“From the safety glass of the windshield?” He didn’t buy it.

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