Keep Me Safe (19 page)

Of course she wasn't imagining it. She wasn't an idiot and it had been as plain as day the night before last when he'd told her there was nowhere she was safe from him. She wasn't a hysterical person by nature, though to anyone seeing her now it would appear she was a complete nutcase.

Dane didn't wait for confirmation or for her to refuse his offer. He simply left the room.

When he didn't reappear within a few minutes, Eliza frowned and checked her watch. Her foot tapped impatiently on the floor and then she glanced at Ramie, apology in her eyes.

“I know how hard this must be for you, Ramie. Or maybe I don't. I'll spare you any condescension by claiming I know what you're going through. I'm not trying to say I've experienced anything on the scale that you have. But I can
imagine
how scared you must be and I can also imagine me not having the courage to see it through like you have.”

Ramie laughed, the sound jarring and abrasive, scratching like a steel wool scouring pad over her skin.

“Scared? Absolutely. Courageous? Not even
close
. If it weren't for Caleb, I'd still be out there hiding, trying to cover my trail and praying that each day wouldn't be my last. If I was brave—or whatever . . .” she said derisively.

She paused a moment and swallowed back the knot in her throat. Then she looked straight through Eliza.

“If I had courage, then all the women he killed in his efforts to get to me would still be alive. If I was brave, I would have taken a stand much sooner instead of acting like a frightened child and burying my head in the sand.”

She held up her hand when Eliza launched an immediate protest.

“Save your breath,” Ramie said, fatigue swamping her. “I didn't say that to earn your pity or to get you to argue and tell me it wasn't my fault. Nor do I expect or want validation. Rationally I know I can't be held accountable for the actions of others. But at the same time, if I had only tried to confront him instead of spending the last year running and constantly looking over my shoulder then maybe he'd be in prison right now. Or dead. And all those women who died would still be alive, enjoying their families, children . . .”

“Or maybe
you'd
be dead and he would still be out there stalking his next victim, still taking innocent lives because there was no one to bring him down. There are a lot of maybes, Ramie. A lot of what-ifs and second guesses. You forget that you
saved
a hell of a lot of victims. You saved Tori from certain death. They got to her mere hours before he planned to kill her. And the others you helped. They'd all be dead if you hadn't intervened. Focus on those lives you
saved
. Not the ones you didn't.”

Dane returned just then, a bottle of water in one hand, his jaw tight. His eyes glinted with anger and Ramie saw Eliza's eyebrow go up. Evidently she saw the same thing Ramie had. Ramie didn't need to touch him to know he was pissed.

“What is it?” Ramie asked softly.

Dane ignored her and held out the medication. Ramie eyed it dubiously, knowing she likely wouldn't be sensible in an hour's time. She was sensitive to any medication that altered her level of consciousness in any way, no matter how weakly it might affect her.

She was at her most vulnerable when she took medication. She couldn't school her thoughts as well and didn't have protective barriers in place. From past experience she knew that memories and dreams of past victims would be unleashed, and she would be unable to control her thought patterns. She shuddered, her skin prickling, the hairs standing on end.

“Take it, Ramie,” Dane urged.

Though he wasn't in the least bit threatening and he'd tempered his voice in deference to her sensitivity to sound, she could sense his steel resolve that she down the pill. With a sigh, she allowed him to drop it into her hand, but still she paused after he handed her the bottle of water.

Emotion swamped her. She jerked in surprise at the strength of the impressions from just a tiny pill. But Tori—and Dane—had touched it and so the remnants of their volatile encounter was transferred to Ramie.

Dane studied her, his eyes sharp as he took in her reaction. His lips thinned as if he realized what had happened and had little liking for it. She could barely hear the muttered curses under his breath.

“Before you get pissed, understand that it's high time someone quit coddling her and pulled her back into the real world where everything doesn't revolve around one individual,” Dane said.

It was obvious that Tori and Dane had faced off about something. Her? Giving her relief from the mental strain of a migraine and the psychic weight of so many souls, pulling her left and right, all demanding justice for what was done to them?

That heaviness gave her much-needed impetus to face the task ahead. If everyone thought Tori unreasonable and recalcitrant then what must they think about her? Tori had more reason to be angry than Ramie. After all, no matter that Ramie shared the same fate, it still wasn't the same as being there, suffering it firsthand and being helpless to stop it. And there was the fact that Ramie had been so difficult to find. And unyielding, only giving Caleb the information he demanded after it was forced on her.

She swallowed the pill, grimacing as it went down. She'd never been able to swallow pills. Even as an adult, she often resorted to crushing tablets into a fine powder and mixing it with a tiny amount of liquid.

It took a few more sips to wash it completely down and then she leaned back, focusing her attention once more on the drawing. In an hour's time she wouldn't trust herself to remember details accurately so she needed to get this right. Every minute the killer walked free was another minute his victim had to endure the unimaginable.

Even the effort it took to get the pill down sent shards of pain through the base of her skull. Her stomach lurched and she inhaled sharply through her nose in an effort to stave off the nausea. She felt as though tiny little fractures formed a spiderweb over her skull, cracking and splintering as they raced, weaving a crisscross pattern through her hair.

She reeled precariously, her stomach revolting once more. She swallowed furiously, forcing herself to keep the pill down and not promptly throw it up.

Dane swore colorfully. “That's enough for right now. She can't do this. This can't be good for her, and Caleb will have my ass if we allow her to continue as is.”

The sketch artist looked mildly surprised but shrugged as though he didn't care one way or another and that angered Ramie. It was irrational. She knew that. But the unfortunate artist just happened to be an outlet for her anger, and she was at her boiling point.

Anger was a more acceptable emotion than fear. Anger didn't make her weak. Just careless and volatile as she unleashed her rage.

The artist's apathy infuriated her. Made her feel as though no one really cared about all the women who'd been victimized. Or cared that
she
had endured hell with each and every one of them. It made her feel negligible. Overlooked just as the other women had been forgotten about, just another sad statistic in a growing stack of them.

“Do you
really
want the next victim to be on your conscience?” she asked in a frigid tone, her gaze narrowing at the artist. She continued to coldly stare him down until he fidgeted under her scrutiny. He at least had the grace to look abashed but he refused to meet her challenging stare. With a sound of disgust, she glanced up at Dane. “We'll stop when we get it right and not a minute before.”

Eliza reached for Ramie's hand, squeezing it in a silent show of support. Ramie immediately flinched and braced herself for the inevitable onslaught. Eliza's shocked gaze met hers and Eliza swiftly removed her hand, as though she'd forgotten all about Ramie's ability to read people through touch and she had secrets she wanted to remain hidden.

Ramie carefully schooled her features, forcing herself not to show any outward reaction to the flood of rigid anger buried beneath Eliza's cool façade. Rage. Billowing like a black thunderhead at the front of a huge storm.

It put Ramie into sensory overload. Her pupils constricted and then dilated in a few blinks. It was like being caught in the path of an avalanche and knowing there was no escape. Just waiting for the white wall of snow to envelope her.

“Don't touch her,” Eliza said sharply.

Ramie assumed she was talking to Dane and that Dane had in some way reached for her, perhaps to steady her.

“No,” Ramie whispered. “Don't touch me, please.”

She curled inward on herself, pushing the dizzying rush of fragmented emotions as far from the epicenter of the storm as possible. She closed her eyes and pulled her knees to her chin, rocking back and forth in an effort to sooth the raw edges that had been seared through her mind.

For several long minutes she rocked, her forehead touching her knees, her arms hugged around her legs, a barrier to anyone in the room. It was a protective gesture, not that it ever did her any good because there was no defense for the mental onslaught she experienced.

She blew out steadying breaths, determined to get her thoughts back under control. The last thing she wanted was for Caleb to return to this. He couldn't pick up the pieces and put her back together forever. She had to learn to cope. Her old defense—denial—was no longer an option.

She knew too much. She understood far too well the consequences of her closing her eyes and shutting out reality. Her doing so had far-reaching ramifications. Women died. Families were destroyed. Children had a future with no mother.

“The eyes are wrong,” Ramie finally whispered. “The bridge of the nose should be flatter and wider, the eyes set farther apart and more rounded at the corners.”

Respect gleamed in Dane's eyes. She could feel his approval, broadcasting in waves as he stood silently by and watched. Eliza's expression eased as she turned her attention back to the artist.

Ramie's brow wrinkled in concentration when the artist presented the next draft. She studied the face, looking for signs of evil. But he looked . . . ​
normal
. Above average. As she'd done before when she'd stared him in the eyes, she was struck by how handsome and wholesome he appeared. There was nothing to outwardly indicate the demon behind the polished façade.

“That's him,” she choked out.

TWENTY-FOUR

WHEN
Caleb entered the living room he stopped dead in his tracks, his leather briefcase falling from his grasp and landing on the floor with a resounding thud. The only other sound was coming from Ramie. She was trying to gather herself and be stoic and that made it worse because she was fighting a losing battle. She made small noises, much like a wounded animal might make. And she had her arms wrapped tightly around her legs, her knees drawn up to hide her face. She rocked back and forth, her knuckles white from where she dug her fingers in where they rested on her arms. There would be marks, small bruises from her own grip.

Caleb surveyed the room, took in the grim mood of Dane and Eliza and confusion in the eyes of the artist. “What the hell happened?” he demanded.

Not waiting for an answer, he crossed the room and went to his knees in front of where Ramie rocked herself on the sofa.

“Ramie?” he said in a gentle tone.

There was something about the way she held herself that suggested utter fragility. Her head never came up. Her face wasn't visible. Her hair was in disarray and her knees covered her eyes, the rest of her face hidden behind the tops of her thighs.

Caleb rounded ferociously on Dane and Eliza, both of whom were watching intently, worry marring their expressions.

He let out a low growl, the sound rumbling from his chest. “What did you do to her?”

“She identified the killer,” Eliza said in a low voice. “The artist has his likeness, so we can distribute it through the proper channels and hopefully someone, somewhere, will recognize him.”

Caleb's gaze drifted to the sketch lying on the coffee table in front of where the artist sat and his brow wrinkled, his gaze narrowing as he took in the killer's likeness.

He looked like the last person who'd ever commit such atrocities but then wasn't that the case with most serial killers? He recalled several famous cases where the criminal was the picture of bland mediocrity. Certainly nothing that indicated the viciousness of the crimes he committed.

“I gave her one of Tori's pain pills,” Dane said. “She had a horrific migraine and I was afraid she was going to stroke out on me. If she's not any better soon, she'll need to take another. She was in a lot of pain and she needs relief.”

Caleb blew out his breath and turned his attention back on Ramie. He couldn't very well take her to the hospital or even a private clinic. No way would he expose her. As long as she remained here, behind the impenetrable fortress he and his brothers had created, then she was safe from harm.

“If she's not better soon I'll call a doctor to see her here.”

Dane nodded. “I told her that. I don't think she believed me. You operate in a world completely alien to her. She's lived such a Spartan existence that she doesn't know any other way. Your kind of wealth and means, your connections and power mystify her. That is if she even comprehends the full scope of your world.”

Caleb reached for one of Ramie's small hands, gently rubbing the fingers to restore circulation.

“It's your world too, Ramie. Maybe it wasn't but it is now.”

She lifted her haunted gaze to his and he winced at the starkness of her features. She didn't refute his statement nor did she confirm it. She just stared blankly at him as if trying to comprehend the ramifications of his quiet vow.

Then to his utter amazement she wrapped her arms around his neck and slid from the couch to the floor in front of him. She pressed her face into his chest and he could feel her trembling uncontrollably against him.