clutched at the sink and closed her eyes, the scissors point cutting into her palm. She could still dredge up the excitement, the satisfaction of the pain. When she thought she would explode, she’d etch a line in her skin, and the blood would leach the rage.
She’d probably be dead by now if the camera hadn’t saved her. If she hadn’t learned to show that rage on film.
In her head she repeated the mantra she’d learned so long ago she’d forgotten where.
It isn’t my fault. It isn’t my fault.
But the words didn’t stick.
A knock on the door made her jump. The scissors clattered into the sink.
“Miss Gray?”
She swallowed. She was sweating in the heat. “Yes?”
“They’re asking for you downstairs.”
“Be right there.”
She looked at the scars on her arm. At the metal point that glittered against the porcelain bowl. It took great strength, but slowly she picked up the scissors. Forced herself to put them back in their hiding place. Her hands were shaking, but she managed to set the tile in place.
Then she slipped on her bathrobe and went to get dressed.
18
Ray leaned against the sideboard in the dining room and watched Carlson work Chip Gray. The two men were standing over charts and papers on the dining room table, and if he didn’t know before, Ray knew now why Carlson owned the company. Because he could sell the hell out of it.
Gillian entered, barefoot and encased in tattered jeans slung low on her hips. The house was warm from the afternoon sun, but sleeves covered her arms from shoulder to wrist. Her shirt, tight enough to outline a pair of small, lush breasts, was cropped to reveal a line of skin that winked in and out as she moved.
Against the formality of the room, the clothes seemed as much a “screw you” as anything else about her. She brushed past him, leaving the smell of soap and shampoo in her wake. Nothing floral and girly, but spicy and sharp. Sexy. Another way of thumbing her nose at the grandparents. Or him. Either way, the bare skin and the fragrance reeled him in, more strands in the sticky web around him.
She cut him a small, private look, as though she knew exactly what he was feeling and why, then padded to her grandfather like a jungle cat creeping up on its prey.
“We’ll get the gate off its hinges and set up a remote opener—you really should have done that years ago— with a camera system. We’ll put motion detectors here.” Carlson was pointing to a rough map of the estate. “Install cameras here and here. We’ll have to cut down some trees, of course. Rewire the house. Refit the windows for more efficient electronic alarms—”
“This is ridiculous,” Gillian said. “You’re suggesting permanent changes. Turning everything into a prison camp. They could catch whoever it is tonight, and this will all be wasted effort.”
Chip’s aging broad body stiffened as he rose from bending over the table. “We’re not relying on the police for your safety.”
“You don’t even use the security system you have.”
An indignant flush tainted Chip’s cheeks. “That will have to change.”
“I’m just saying that all this”—Gillian waved an arm to indicate Carlson’s reams of paper—“is unnecessary.”
Ray agreed. And though Carlson was salivating over the job, Ray voiced his concurrence. “Solution is simple.” Keeping his expression neutral, he looked straight at her. “Get on a plane and go back to New York.”
She raised her chin. “The police said not to.”
He crossed his arms. Shrugged. “The hell with the police. They can ask. But they can’t hold you here.”
But there was something in her face, some hard determination. The hell with the police was right. She
wanted
to stay.
Before he could probe why, Chip waved Ray’s observation away. “We don’t want her to leave. We’ve made that clear. Whoever this lunatic is, he could follow her. At least if she’s here, we can keep an eye on her.”
“Then the security
She’d probably be dead by now if the camera hadn’t saved her. If she hadn’t learned to show that rage on film.
In her head she repeated the mantra she’d learned so long ago she’d forgotten where.
It isn’t my fault. It isn’t my fault.
But the words didn’t stick.
A knock on the door made her jump. The scissors clattered into the sink.
“Miss Gray?”
She swallowed. She was sweating in the heat. “Yes?”
“They’re asking for you downstairs.”
“Be right there.”
She looked at the scars on her arm. At the metal point that glittered against the porcelain bowl. It took great strength, but slowly she picked up the scissors. Forced herself to put them back in their hiding place. Her hands were shaking, but she managed to set the tile in place.
Then she slipped on her bathrobe and went to get dressed.
18
Ray leaned against the sideboard in the dining room and watched Carlson work Chip Gray. The two men were standing over charts and papers on the dining room table, and if he didn’t know before, Ray knew now why Carlson owned the company. Because he could sell the hell out of it.
Gillian entered, barefoot and encased in tattered jeans slung low on her hips. The house was warm from the afternoon sun, but sleeves covered her arms from shoulder to wrist. Her shirt, tight enough to outline a pair of small, lush breasts, was cropped to reveal a line of skin that winked in and out as she moved.
Against the formality of the room, the clothes seemed as much a “screw you” as anything else about her. She brushed past him, leaving the smell of soap and shampoo in her wake. Nothing floral and girly, but spicy and sharp. Sexy. Another way of thumbing her nose at the grandparents. Or him. Either way, the bare skin and the fragrance reeled him in, more strands in the sticky web around him.
She cut him a small, private look, as though she knew exactly what he was feeling and why, then padded to her grandfather like a jungle cat creeping up on its prey.
“We’ll get the gate off its hinges and set up a remote opener—you really should have done that years ago— with a camera system. We’ll put motion detectors here.” Carlson was pointing to a rough map of the estate. “Install cameras here and here. We’ll have to cut down some trees, of course. Rewire the house. Refit the windows for more efficient electronic alarms—”
“This is ridiculous,” Gillian said. “You’re suggesting permanent changes. Turning everything into a prison camp. They could catch whoever it is tonight, and this will all be wasted effort.”
Chip’s aging broad body stiffened as he rose from bending over the table. “We’re not relying on the police for your safety.”
“You don’t even use the security system you have.”
An indignant flush tainted Chip’s cheeks. “That will have to change.”
“I’m just saying that all this”—Gillian waved an arm to indicate Carlson’s reams of paper—“is unnecessary.”
Ray agreed. And though Carlson was salivating over the job, Ray voiced his concurrence. “Solution is simple.” Keeping his expression neutral, he looked straight at her. “Get on a plane and go back to New York.”
She raised her chin. “The police said not to.”
He crossed his arms. Shrugged. “The hell with the police. They can ask. But they can’t hold you here.”
But there was something in her face, some hard determination. The hell with the police was right. She
wanted
to stay.
Before he could probe why, Chip waved Ray’s observation away. “We don’t want her to leave. We’ve made that clear. Whoever this lunatic is, he could follow her. At least if she’s here, we can keep an eye on her.”
“Then the security
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