Atone (5 page)

Thank God Vera's color is beginning to return. She watches me with haunted, wounded eyes. I brush the hair back from her face. It's soft. She's soft. On the outside and the inside. She's not nearly as tough as she tries to make people think. I put my hand over hers and lower the bag. She's open in a way I imagine she hasn't been for a very long time, if ever. I
see
her agony. It strikes an answering chord within me. Her pain is an ache in my chest. She lets me look. She lets me see her. The hope shining in her eyes rips and tears at me until every feeling I've ever had pours out of me and pools at her feet in a big, sloppy mess.

What's left behind is stark and cold and empty. I'm left with nothing, and it's everything. She sees me too. I reach for her, and she comes into my arms willingly. We hold on tight. There's nothing outside this room. There's nothing except her and me. The feel of her is an out-of-body experience. I bury my face in the side of her neck and inhale. I was right—lemons and something soft and feminine. She's a resting place to hide in, away from the rest of the world.

I wait for the guilt to come, and it doesn't disappoint. It slips in between us and pushes us apart. I find myself pulling away from her, shoved back by my memories of Cassandra and the promises I made to her…the promises I didn't keep. The image of Cassandra smiling up at me that final night overlaps Vera's confused face as I back away. Needing the edge of the desk to steady me, I stand and move to the other side of the room. Pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes, I wish I could forget. It's the first time I've ever had that thought, and it brings on a fresh surge of guilt.

I welcome it. With it comes perspective, which until a moment ago I'd lost. Vera is a client. She's not my friend. She's not my lover. And I'm not any of those things to her. When we find her sister she'll go back to her life in Colorado and I'll go back to lying on Cora's couch, trying to figure out my shit. My fist makes a satisfying dent in the wall. The pain radiates up into my shoulder. This agony I understand. It has a start and an end. I know where it came from, and I know it will go away. Flattening my palms on the table, I bow my head and take a deep breath, then another. My knuckles burn. Little dots of blood begin to form and I can already feel the swelling.

Behind me, Vera is quiet. I'd give anything to know what she's thinking. At the same time, I'm glad I don't know.

I turn, but stay where I'm safe, across the room from her. “
Who
has Marie?”

“What?”

“You kept saying ‘He has her' over and over.”

As I watch, she picks up her forgotten armor and begins putting it back in place chunk by chunk. Her mask—the final fragment—slides into place and I'm shut out. I'll never know what she was thinking.

“You know who this
Daddy
guy is, don't you?” I press.

Her gaze slinks away. She fidgets with the bag, shredding it into little pieces.

“Who is he?”

She doesn't answer. Her hands shake as she tears the bag, but her shoulders are straight. She's a contradiction of stress and determination.

And then it hits me. “Who is he to
you
?”

“He's not anything to me.” She wants this to be true, but it's not.

“Who
was
he, then?”

She takes a long time to decide how to answer. In the end, it comes down to whether or not she wants me to help her find her sister, and we both know it.

“You came here wanting our help,” I remind her. “I can't help you if you withhold information from me.”

“Javier Abano.” Her voice is ugly and brutal, like it was the other night when she asked me if I wanted to fuck her. “I was with him when I was fourteen until…I wasn't anymore.”

Everything in me goes still as I try to process what she's saying. My brain wants to fill in the gaps with what I read on Marie's Tumblr. I picture a much younger Vera falling into this Javier's manipulation the way Marie did and the things he might have done to her. It overlaps and blends with what happened to Cassandra. I sat in that courtroom during my trial, forced to listen to every vile, cruel thing that was done to her, each description flaying me open until I was a bloody, raw gaping wound.

I don't know what to do or say. Vera's bald statement tears at the old trauma and I'm left stunned motionless. My first reaction is to go to her and hold her, but the look on her face tells me I fucked that up when I pushed her away.

She puts a hand up. “Don't. Okay?”

I nod.

“I was hoping he wouldn't go after her.” Looking at the mess she made with the bag in her lap, she makes a helpless gesture. It's too close to defeat and I hate it.

I make myself move to hold out the trash can while she scoops up the pieces and throws them away. I understand a lot of things about her now, and her need for a new identity. It must have taken every ounce of strength she had to come back here to find her sister. She's risking everything for Marie. Much like Cora did for me. She didn't have to come back, but she did.

“I was also hoping we'd find her before he did,” she says. “But we're too late.”

“Only death is too late,” I tell her gently. “We'll find her and get her away from him.”

“It's not going to be easy. She thinks she's in love with him. And she barely knows me. She's not going to choose me over him.”

“Maybe we don't give her a choice.”

She agrees with a nod. “She's going to hate me for a long time. She'll fight. She might even try to run away.”

“You won't let her.”

“You're not asking me questions about him.”

“No, I'm not.”

“You never ask questions.”

“Is that what you want?”

She shakes her head.

“You'll tell me if you want to. When you want to,” I add.

She doesn't respond.

“You don't ask me questions either. I like that about you.”

Her lips curve into a half smile. “Maybe I only want to know what you want me to know.”

“Maybe it's a way for you to avoid opening yourself up to questions.”

“For you too.”

I can't disagree. We both have things we want and need to avoid. I guess we'll just keep stepping around them in this dance we do toward what I don't know.

“I should ask if you know where this Javier lives and if you have any other information on him other than his name,” I tell her, changing our perspectives, moving things out of the personal and into the professional. “It might help me find Marie. I might even be able to follow him to her.”

“He won't be living where he was back…then.”

“What kind of car does he drive? Where does he like to shop? What habits does he have? I need anything you can tell me about him.”

“I told him about Marie.” She twists her hands together. “About my dream for us to be a family again.”

“It's not your fault, what he's doing to her.”

“No? Then whose fault is it? He wouldn't even know about her if I hadn't told him.”

“You think he might be using her to get to you?”

She nods. “I know he is.” She looks so small and vulnerable.

I edge closer. “What does he want?”

Her eyes are red-rimmed and tired as she stares at me. She dares me with her gaze to draw my own conclusions and to not make her say it out loud. He wants
her,
and he's willing to use her sister to get to her. Another man wanted Cassandra, and that man took her. I couldn't save Cassandra. I couldn't prevent what happened to her and I'll regret it until the day I die, but I can save Vera.

“Go back to Colorado,” I tell her. “I'll find Marie. I promise.”

“No.”

“You're not safe here.”

“I'm not safe anywhere.”

“But you're safer in Colorado.”

“I'm not leaving until we find Marie.”

Sitting in the chair across from her, I put my forearms on my knees and lean toward her. “Be reasonable—”

“There's nothing he can do to me that he hasn't already done. I'm staying, and I'm helping you find my sister.”

“Vera—”

“I'm not changing my mind, no matter what you say.”

“I really don't think—”

“
I
hired
you.
I'm your boss, not the other way around. I'm staying, and that's the end of it.”

I need to try another tack. “You don't have anything to prove here. You don't have to put yourself in danger.”

“Maybe I have something to prove to myself.”

I don't have an answer for that. I know about putting myself through shit just to prove I can do it. For a long time after I got out of prison, something as simple as getting out of bed in the morning was an exercise in self-assurance. Sitting through the trial of Cassandra's murderer, listening all over again to what he did to her, was an act of defiance. If she needs to face this Abano guy to prove to herself she's over him and what he did to her, who am I to stand in her way?

Just because I'm giving up the protest doesn't mean I like the idea of Vera putting herself in potential danger. He can't have her. I won't let him.

I can see the moment Beau decides to give up fighting me on this. I appreciate his concern. It's been a long time since someone thought about my best interests before their own. It might actually be the very first time. I let that sink in for a moment. Since I met him, Beau has backed me at every turn. Even against his sister. I don't know what he sees in me that makes him take up for me—sometimes against his better judgment—but he does. If our roles were reversed, I might not do the same for him. Or maybe I would. I like to think that I would. I mean—why wouldn't I?

He's not like anyone I've ever met. He should be angry at the world or at the very least use what happened to him to his advantage. He could've written a book that might get made into a movie. He could've hit the rounds of TV morning shows and talk shows. He could've cashed in a thousand different ways. But he didn't. He didn't grant a single interview after his release. I know, because right after I met him I scoured the Internet looking for one. I wasn't interested in what everybody else thought about what happened to him. I was only interested in
his
thoughts and feelings.

And there was nothing.

I tried talking about what happened to me once. It was a horrible mistake. I could've written a book and maybe done the same TV morning-show and talk-show rounds. I
could've,
but like Beau I didn't. I don't know if that makes Beau and me normal or abnormal. All I know is that for whatever reason, he's on my side. I need him on my side to find Marie.

We don't stand any chance of drawing Marie away from Javier if I run and hide again. She'll never leave him on her own. In the beginning, I would've died if someone tried to tear me away from him. I thought I was in love. I thought I knew everything. I thought I was
so
smart. I didn't know there were people like Javier in the world. I didn't know how far he took me away from everything and everyone I knew until it was too late and there was no going back. I didn't know that someone who professed to love me so totally and completely could turn on me so brutally and cruelly.

I'm not going to let Marie make the same mistake I did. I know Javier's strengths, but I also know his weaknesses. It's not going to be easy getting Marie away from Javier, and we might have to resort to some things I'm not sure Beau is willing to do.
I
might have to do things I don't want to do. But I can't let Javier have Marie. I just can't.

Even if it means trading my life for hers.

“I don't like it, but you're right,” Beau concedes. “You're the
client.
” He says the word
client
like it's a curse, like I've used my position to hurt him in some way.

I fight the urge to apologize. I don't owe this guy anything. And yet I do. He's done more for me in the short time I've known him than anyone else in my life has.

“I can be more help here than in Colorado.” This is the truth. Well. Part of it, anyway. I don't live in Colorado, but I can't tell Beau that. I
can
tell him Javier's next move and his next. He used them on me and he used them on the others who came after me. And now he's using them on Marie.

“I'll be careful,” I add. “I'm not fourteen anymore, and I'm not helpless.”

He considers me for a long moment, then takes my hands in his, stilling their nervous fidgeting. “No, you're not. But I don't know what I'd do if he hurt you again.”

His words shoot deep inside me, piercing what was left of my resistance to him. I tug him closer and he leans in until our breaths mingle and the only thing in my line of sight is him. I tilt my head and slowly narrow the space between us. He doesn't move away this time. Our lips brush once, then again. I glance up to gauge his reaction. The look in his eyes is intense and thrilling. His hand goes to the back of my head, and then he takes over, kissing me like he never wants to stop. I wrap my arms around his neck and bring him even closer.

We're knee to knee, lips to lips. He tastes faintly of coffee. Sensation spirals through me and I want
more.
More of him and the way he makes me feel. This is what it's supposed to be like. His kiss is too much and yet not enough. His lips on mine are all I want, all I need. I started this. That's shocking on its own. Add to that I don't want it to stop. He's a great kisser. His mouth and tongue are a seduction, coaxing a low moan out of me, which jolts the kiss into a whole other stratosphere. He brackets my face in his hands. That's it. He doesn't press for more. This kiss is all he wants, and it's everything I need.

He eases us out of the kiss and puts his forehead to mine. We're both a little winded, and I wonder if he's as shocked as I am at what we're like together. It started as an experiment on my part. I had no idea how swept away I'd be. I don't feel overpowered at all. I feel
empowered.
He has no idea what he's done, granting me this gift. Maybe he never will.

“That got…out of hand,” he says.

“I'm not sorry.”

He closes his eyes and exhales heavily. “I'm not either.”

“But you don't want it to happen again.”

“It
shouldn't
happen again.” He still holds my face in his hands and isn't showing any sign of letting go.

“But it will.”

He opens his eyes and stares at the way our thighs are bracketed side by side—his, mine, his, mine. His are so much larger and taller than mine. I imagine our limbs twined together and wonder if he pictures it too. If we'd been standing instead of sitting during the kiss, what would that be like? How would it feel to be pressed fully against him?

“It shouldn't.” He moves, disconnecting from me…again. He shakes his head. “I can't do this.”

“It was just a kiss.” No, it wasn't, and I can tell by his expression that he doesn't believe that either.

“Vera…” It's like he doesn't know where to look. His gaze skips around as though he's searching for a lifeline.

“It was just a kiss,” I insist.

“I…can't.”

His gaze finally lands and I follow it to its resting place—on a small photo of Cassandra tucked between the phone and his monitor. I wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't drawn my eye to it. I don't know what to say. I'm in competition with a dead woman? Not that this is a competition or even the start of anything. Except that it is and we both know it. The message couldn't be any clearer than if he threw up a big, giant, blinking STOP sign.

“You're still in love with her.” I can't hide the shock from my voice.

His nod is slow and filled with regret. Misery alters the lines of his face and his body just sort of
sags.
This is the part of Beau he tries so hard to hide from the rest of the world. The part of him that died the day Cassandra did. He was smart not to grant those interviews. The camera would've picked up what I'm only just now seeing when he thinks about her. How would he transform if he talked about her? His grief is a thick fog, hanging heavy in the room. Not only is he still in love with her, he's mourning her.

I don't know what to say. What
is
there to say?

“I should go.” I grab my bag and start to rise.

He grips my wrist, stopping me.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask, flapping my free hand at my side in frustration. I'm not equipped to help him. I've never done this before, and I don't have the energy to fight a losing battle with a ghost.

“I'm sorry.”

“I don't want you to be sorry. It was just a kiss.”

“You keep saying that.”

“I'm trying to make it be true.”

“Okay. It was just a kiss.”

I sit down again. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“No, it wasn't.”

“You're right. It wasn't.”

The knuckles on his hand that hit the wall are purple and swollen. I don't like seeing him hurt, physically or emotionally.

“You need ice,” I tell him.

He flexes his hand. “It's fine.”

“What was she like?”

He makes a fist, breathing through his nose like he's pulling in patience with each breath. “Don't go there.”

“She was pretty. She looks nice.”

He glares at me, nostrils flaring.

“What do you miss most about her?”

“Stop it.”

I reach for the photo. He doesn't stop me. I saw tons of pictures of Cassandra when I searched for interviews Beau might have given, but this one's different. This one's personal. It was obviously taken by Beau. There's no mistaking the look in her eyes. He's it for her—the sun, the moon, the stars, and everything in between. There's a hint of sexual desire in the curve of her lips. It's the smirk of a woman who's been well and truly pleasured and looking forward to more of the same.

Sunlight makes the right side of her glow and her eyes look two different colors. She clutches her shirt closed. Or maybe she's in the process of unbuttoning it. It's hard to tell. Either is a seduction. What made him pick up the camera and capture this moment? What significance does it have for him? What was said just before and just after it was taken? Why did he choose this photo to look at every day? What does he see when he looks at it now?

He stares down at the picture in my hand. He's unguarded. His love for her is naked and stark on his face. So is his loss. They're intertwined. No one's ever looked at me the way Beau looks at Cassandra's picture. I'm jealous—I realize—of a dead woman. It's so stupid I almost laugh out loud. What would he trade for one more day with her? Six years of loving and grieving. A quarter of his life. How much longer will he carry it around?

I hand him the photo. “You're very lucky to have loved and been loved like that.”

He tears his gaze away from it to look me in the eye. “I know.”

“What does it feel like?”

My question surprises him.

“Never mind.”

“No. I don't know. I don't have the words for it.”

“Try.”

He looks for a moment like he's going to cop out again, then changes his mind. “It's…” He makes a frustrated sound and tries again. “Being with Cassandra was like…like the sun shining on me
all
the time.”

I close my eyes and try to imagine what that would feel like, but my imaginings are a pale wisp of the emotion in his voice and have none of what I saw in his eyes when he looked at her picture. Blinking my eyes open, I find Beau watching me. He's got a funny look on his face.

“I tried to see if I could picture it. What you described. I can't. I loved Javier and thought he loved me, but that wasn't love. There was no sunshine.”

“Ah, Vera.” He brushes the knuckles of his uninjured hand along my cheek. “You deserve endless days of blue skies and sunlight.”

There's a note of regret in his voice. He's a tempest and I am too. There is no sunshine in either one of us. Together we'd be a perfect storm of misery, regret, and lost youth. I'm just beginning to learn all there is to Beau and I already know he'd be worth the effort if only
I
had something to offer
him.
I haven't even started to unpack my baggage. He's seen only the outside. He has no idea the horrors that lurk inside.

It's just as well he shot me down. My past is a Pandora's box I never want opened, and something tells me that Beau could be the one to release it all.