Indelible (41 page)

Silence. Then softly, “Yeah, I’m a schmuck.”

“You didn’t know. But, Conner, he’s playing for the king. And pawns are expendable.”

Fleur sighed. She had arranged a ride to the art center to get a sense of the place and make a final decision regarding the mural. This morning she had cancelled it. Dinner with Officer Newly had not put her mind at ease, but tortured it.

She paced her home like a cornered cat, only this impaired kitty could not leap past a threat she couldn’t see. A demon bat. She shuddered, then jumped when her phone rang. “Hello?”

Mary Carson’s palsied voice invited her to the church ladies’ knitathon. “Your touch is so delicate, everyone still talks about the scarves you made last year.”

“That’s kind,” Fleur said, about to refuse. How could she go out in a place where babies were left in trees? A knot of anger clenched her hand,
defiance springing up. How dare this scumbag throw her back into that place of helplessness and fear? Who was he to make her feel blind?

“Sounds great,” she told Mary. “Mind giving me a ride?”

“Oh, honey, that was my next question. Want to host us?”

The laugh came with no effort. “I’d love to.”

Turning, Trevor saw Natalie, heart-wrenchingly rumpled and vulnerable, at the sliding door. How much of the conversation had she heard?

She stepped into the misty morning, pulling the nubby robe closer at the neck. “Who was that?”

“Conner.” He curled her into the bend of his arm. “Did you sleep?”

“Some. You?”

“Some.” He nuzzled her hair with his cheek, then looked up, tensing. “I hear something at the door.” He pulled her inside behind him. He reached around to the small of his back and closed his hand around the Colt’s grip. Instead of moving to the peephole, he called, “Who is it?”

“Me. Whit.”

With a hard exhalation, he released the gun and admitted him.

Whit looked from him to Natalie to the holster and frowned. “Something wrong?”

“Just being careful.” Whit should have called before coming. “What’s up?”

“Well, this is probably the farthest thing from your mind, but you have the Farley kids’ climbing lesson this morning.”

He’d come in person to say that?

“You were supposed to take them to Wither Point, but with the weather, we could keep it in house.”

“You want to do it?”

He wiggled his hand back and forth. “Doug’s … all about you.”

“Then cancel it.” Whit was every bit the instructor on the wall, only without the cachet. If that wasn’t good enough, there were hot sulfurous places Doug could visit. He reached around and drew Natalie to his side.

“I can,” Whit said, “of course. But I got thinking, if you stay holed up, it prolongs this whole thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“The weeks you’ve spent at the hospital, there’s been nothing. No photos, no attacks.”

“That’s bad?”

“If they’re trying to catch him.”

The chief had said something to that effect. It had seemed ludicrous, but what if they were right?

Natalie said, “If Trevor teaches, someone else will get hurt?”

“If he knows Trevor’s back, he might come out of hiding. At any rate, we should get back to normal.”

“There’s nothing normal about this.” Dark circles of fatigue bruised her eyes.

Trevor circled her shoulders. “I’m not leaving Natalie alone.”

Whit crossed his arms. “I could stay with her.”

Trevor narrowed his eyes. What else was going on here?

“People are talking. Michaela’s rescue went south. Your girlfriend was attacked. You virtually disappear.”

“And what, I’m supposed to apologize?”

“Your halo’s slipping.”

“That’s not funny.”

Whit shrugged. “Small-town dynamics. We trade on your cachet.”

“You think I care what Doug Farley and others think?”

“I care. Our bottom line cares. Without you, we’re sporting goods.”

He closed his mouth and heard Whit. Their margins were narrow. He might downplay his fame, but it had an impact. His reputation and personality energized the business. And he’d left Whit stranded without rope. “Sorry.”

“Look, I get it.” Whit glanced at Natalie. “But it doesn’t have to be all or nothing.”

He hated leaving her physically and emotionally fragile. But this was Whit. “You’ll stay?”

She turned, surprised.

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “Whit can handle things.”

“It’s you I’m worried about.”

“He’s right.” Trevor tightened his jaw. “We shouldn’t let this affect our lives.”

“Not—”

He drew her up and kissed the corner of her mouth. “Trust me here, okay?”

“I don’t want you to go.” Her lips hardly moved.

“I know.” He clasped her shoulders. “But it’s the right move.”

He glanced over her to Whit, conveying with a look the sacrifice and the expectation. No more ambiguity regarding Natalie’s importance. Whit nodded, getting it.

Natalie fought the panic as Trevor went down the hall to shower. He was all but announcing his return to the field, inviting a new challenge, a fresh attack. Did he realize this adversary was no wild creature? Throwing rocks wouldn’t help.

She slid her hand into her hair and encountered the bandage still covering her wound. She wanted to demand Whit take his stupid concerns and leave. But their business was no smaller concern than her own. She sighed.

How long before she could return to her gallery, try to find her way in the clay? How long before she felt safe there and whole anywhere? She dropped her chin and saw the robe she’d pulled over her pajamas—and looked at Whit.

“You’re fine.”

Anything but. “Do you think he’s still here?”

Whit didn’t ask who. “He came all the way across the country. He’s not finished with Trevor.”

She nodded, chewing her lip.

He narrowed his eyes. “So, how are you? Really?”

She shrugged. The time on the rock had been strange and surreal, but she felt more vulnerable now.

Whit pressed his palm to the counter, his wedding ring making a faint click. “This can’t be easy.”

“I don’t expect easy.” She’d been coping one way or another her whole life. “Are you hungry?”

Whit looked surprised. “I could eat.”

She opened the refrigerator to find a dozen plastic-wrapped dishes. “What’s all this?”

“Sara feeding Trevor.”

“She makes his meals?”

“While you were in the hospital.”

“He was there too.”

“Thus the packed-to-capacity fridge.” He smiled. “That pie plate’s a quiche.”

She slid it out, fumbling with the plastic. Her hands were slow, her fingers clumsy. She was still striving for normal. Fighting another wave of panic, she microwaved the quiche and, when it finished, slid a steaming slice to Whit.

When Trevor joined them, she said, “I heated a piece for you.” As though he were merely going to work.

“Thanks.” He took the plate and wolfed the food down, eager to be off.

She played with hers, not as hungry as she’d thought. When he leaned down to kiss her, she said, “Please be careful.”

“Always.” He brushed her cheek. “Listen to Whit. He’s got good instincts.”

He didn’t get clobbered defending a statue. Her heart caught at that sudden fragment of memory. A crowbar. Destructive intentions. Her heart raced, but she didn’t show Trevor. If she could remember …

“Don’t worry,” Whit said. “Nothing will happen at the store.”

She looked over, unconvinced. “He knows where Trevor works. He sent the photos there.”

“It’s too public. If he’s watching the place, he’ll realize Trevor’s back. But he’s been too secretive to risk interference from bystanders.”

“What then? What’s he going to do, Whit?”

He sighed. “No clue.”

Loading their dishes in the dishwasher, she said, “Do you mind if I shower?”

“Knock yourself out. Not … literally.” He crooked a smile.

The levity eased a little of the strain. She hated this endangered-witness role. Whit should be at work or with his own family, not babysitting her. With an even longer sigh, she locked the door and undressed. Except for a few punctured veins, the rest of her was unscathed. Only the part that mattered had broken.

She painstakingly shampooed the hair around her shaved and sutured scalp—a grizzly reminder of the attack if not the attacker. As she stuck her face in the water, a flash shot behind her eyes. Pain. Scars. Yearning.

She braced herself, palms splayed against the tiled walls. Water spilled around her like the creek around the stone. Her breath came hoarsely as another powerful fragment returned. She groped for the door, pressed it open. Steam billowed out as she grabbed her towel, too impatient to do it right.

Holding the towel against her chest, she rushed into her room, took her phone off the charging cord, and punched the contact. “Chief Westfall?”

“Natalie. What is it?”

“I remember something.”

“Tell me.”

She swallowed. “He had horns. I know it’s crazy—”

“Don’t worry about that. Just tell me what you remember.”

She frowned. “It’s just a fragment. But he had a crowbar. He was going to strike Trevor’s statue. Does that prove it’s the person sending photos?”

“Proof is for courtrooms. All I need are clues.” He cleared his throat. “Back to the horns. Was it a mask? a costume?”

She sighed. “I can’t see. Maybe if I try the clay. Do you have the model I started? If I could see it …”

“It’s at the state lab, but the gouges did a job on it.”

“Gouges?” She racked her brain for gouges.

“Not you, I take it.”

He had gouged himself? Like Fleur boring holes in her eyes. “No, not me.”

“If you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate.”

“Okay.” She pulled on jeans and sweater, laced her leather walking boots, and zipped her fleece-lined jacket, then jumped when she opened to Whit outside her door.

“I heard you talking. Everything okay?”

“I need clay.”

“The gallery’s a mess.”

“I have some at my house.”

He squinted. “Probably not a good idea.”

“I told the chief I’d try.” She moved past him.

“Natalie, Trevor wants you here. For security.”

She reached the door with him right behind. “If I can remember and they catch him, that’s Trevor’s security.”

Whit searched her face. “Just wait for him. Let me call.”

“No, Whit. I need to do this.” She had to try while it was there … almost there. The clay could draw it out, bring it back, make her who she was again. She opened the door and stepped outside. “Will you give me a ride, or do I need to find someone else?”

Expelling his breath, he motioned her out.

Marauding clouds faded everything outside the windows, hiding the mountains as though a giant eraser had rubbed them out, leaving only a dirty, gray smudge. Like the inside of her brain. When Whit pulled up to her house, she started to climb out.

“Stop!” His speed showed his athleticism. “Stay behind me.”

When he had secured the premises, she carried the model of Trevor from the mud room to the kitchen. She removed the cloth and studied what she’d made the night Michaela fell. Would she ever do it again? A soft, bitter scoff filled her throat. Didn’t she want to be normal?