telling us about it. You’d be dead. But I don’t suppose they told you that, did they?”
“It just hurts so bad.”
“Did your boyfriend use latex condoms?”
“My boyfriend?” How could she know about Leandro?
“The man who talked you into doing this. I bet he talked real sweet to you, didn’t he?”
Amanda felt her face go red. She was already hot and sweaty. Maybe they wouldn’t notice.
“The balloons . . . they’re condoms, isn’t that right?” the woman asked. “Did he use latex ones?”
Amanda only shrugged. Leandro had said he used the best, the strongest. He tied them so carefully. But she didn’t know what condoms were made of.
“I don’t know,” Amanda finally said.
“You might be allergic to latex,” Hannah said.
The woman crossed her arms over her chest and glanced at Ryder Creed. For the first time, Amanda thought she saw a hint of sympathy in the woman’s face.
“It didn’t hurt this bad the last time.”
And then immediately she realized her mistake, even before Hannah scowled at her. Any hint of sympathy disappeared. She could hear the disdain in the woman’s voice.
“Just how many times you done this?”
“Hannah, come on. You know they made her do this.”
“They put a gun to your head?”
“Hannah—”
“I just want them out of me!”
“The ER will know what—”
“No! They’ll kill me. Don’t you understand that?”
Amanda curled herself into the corner of the sofa, pulling her knees to her chest. She watched them out of the corner of her eye, from underneath sweaty bangs and long hair that she’d let fall into her face to hide behind. She felt tears stream down her cheeks,but she muffled her sobs. She could see them staring at each other and they seemed to do it for the longest time, as if neither one wanted to give in to the other.
“Upstairs bathroom,” Hannah finally told Ryder. “Get me the laxative from the top shelf in the medicine cabinet.”
“Laxative?”
“How else you think they’re coming out?”
He glanced at Amanda in the same way someone looks at a wounded animal, but then without saying a word, he headed out of the room.
“And you,” Hannah said to Amanda, “get ready to start counting. I hope to God for your own sake that you remember how many you swallowed.”
22
NEWBURGH HEIGHTS, VIRGINIA
M AGGIE O’D ELL CURLED into the sofa, bare feet tucked underneath her and her head swirling from the nightcap she had convinced herself she deserved, since she hadn’t finished her second beer at Old Ebbitt’s. Now she wished she had invited Ben to come back to her house.
She had recently rebuilt and remodeled much of the two-story Tudor after a fire had destroyed the front section of the house. The process had been painstaking, but amazingly, she could no longer smell soot or ash or any hint of what had happened. Still, the place felt different.
She knew the fire had destroyed more than the plaster and beams and furniture. It had taken a chunk of O’Dell’s sense of security. The house sat on a wooded acre, isolated by a creek and a natural preserve behind the property. Ironically, she had bought the place with a trust her father had left her—her father, who as afirefighter had died in the line of duty when O’Dell was just twelve. She thought she had created a sanctuary with its high-tech security system and the natural barriers of the high-banked creek that ran along the back of the property. Even the stately pines that bordered the sides reminded her of sentries standing guard, shoulder to shoulder.
She also had two canine bodyguards: one she’d rescued and the other had rescued her. Harvey, a white Labrador retriever, lay on the sofa beside her, his head against her thigh. Jake stayed at her feet, the German shepherd constantly on alert. The dogs put up with her late nights, many of which were spent here in the living room instead of her upstairs master bedroom. She couldn’t remember the last time she had
“It just hurts so bad.”
“Did your boyfriend use latex condoms?”
“My boyfriend?” How could she know about Leandro?
“The man who talked you into doing this. I bet he talked real sweet to you, didn’t he?”
Amanda felt her face go red. She was already hot and sweaty. Maybe they wouldn’t notice.
“The balloons . . . they’re condoms, isn’t that right?” the woman asked. “Did he use latex ones?”
Amanda only shrugged. Leandro had said he used the best, the strongest. He tied them so carefully. But she didn’t know what condoms were made of.
“I don’t know,” Amanda finally said.
“You might be allergic to latex,” Hannah said.
The woman crossed her arms over her chest and glanced at Ryder Creed. For the first time, Amanda thought she saw a hint of sympathy in the woman’s face.
“It didn’t hurt this bad the last time.”
And then immediately she realized her mistake, even before Hannah scowled at her. Any hint of sympathy disappeared. She could hear the disdain in the woman’s voice.
“Just how many times you done this?”
“Hannah, come on. You know they made her do this.”
“They put a gun to your head?”
“Hannah—”
“I just want them out of me!”
“The ER will know what—”
“No! They’ll kill me. Don’t you understand that?”
Amanda curled herself into the corner of the sofa, pulling her knees to her chest. She watched them out of the corner of her eye, from underneath sweaty bangs and long hair that she’d let fall into her face to hide behind. She felt tears stream down her cheeks,but she muffled her sobs. She could see them staring at each other and they seemed to do it for the longest time, as if neither one wanted to give in to the other.
“Upstairs bathroom,” Hannah finally told Ryder. “Get me the laxative from the top shelf in the medicine cabinet.”
“Laxative?”
“How else you think they’re coming out?”
He glanced at Amanda in the same way someone looks at a wounded animal, but then without saying a word, he headed out of the room.
“And you,” Hannah said to Amanda, “get ready to start counting. I hope to God for your own sake that you remember how many you swallowed.”
22
NEWBURGH HEIGHTS, VIRGINIA
M AGGIE O’D ELL CURLED into the sofa, bare feet tucked underneath her and her head swirling from the nightcap she had convinced herself she deserved, since she hadn’t finished her second beer at Old Ebbitt’s. Now she wished she had invited Ben to come back to her house.
She had recently rebuilt and remodeled much of the two-story Tudor after a fire had destroyed the front section of the house. The process had been painstaking, but amazingly, she could no longer smell soot or ash or any hint of what had happened. Still, the place felt different.
She knew the fire had destroyed more than the plaster and beams and furniture. It had taken a chunk of O’Dell’s sense of security. The house sat on a wooded acre, isolated by a creek and a natural preserve behind the property. Ironically, she had bought the place with a trust her father had left her—her father, who as afirefighter had died in the line of duty when O’Dell was just twelve. She thought she had created a sanctuary with its high-tech security system and the natural barriers of the high-banked creek that ran along the back of the property. Even the stately pines that bordered the sides reminded her of sentries standing guard, shoulder to shoulder.
She also had two canine bodyguards: one she’d rescued and the other had rescued her. Harvey, a white Labrador retriever, lay on the sofa beside her, his head against her thigh. Jake stayed at her feet, the German shepherd constantly on alert. The dogs put up with her late nights, many of which were spent here in the living room instead of her upstairs master bedroom. She couldn’t remember the last time she had
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