The Gingerbread Man by MAGGIE SHAYNE Page B

off the front seat and tucked it underneath, and then driven out in search of her. He had damn near run her over.
    She’d been sitting there, right in the road, rocking back and forth and sobbing the word “no” over and over, never taking a breath in between. Her hands were pressing so hard to her ears it looked as if she were trying to crush her head between them, and she was crying so hard her back shuddered.
    His first thought was that she’d been attacked. That some son of a bitch had mauled her, or raped her. But, no. That wasn’t it.
    He carried her into her house, cursing at the fact that the door had been left unlocked as he carried her through. She worked at a police station, for crying out loud. Oh, but wait, he thought. Nothing bad ever happens in Dilmun. Yeah, it certainly looked that way.
    He carried her to her bedroom, or what he thought was her bedroom. There were only two in the house, so he figured he had a fifty-fifty shot at being right. They were directly across the hall from each other, both doors open, and he’d glanced quickly left then right. The first bedroom was neat. The other was immaculate. He chose door number two, and took, her in there, yanked the covers back and laid her down in the bed.
    She curled onto her side, buried her face in the pillows, said nothing.
    Vince pulled the covers up over her. “You want some warm milk or tea or ... anything?”
    She said nothing. Just burrowed in more deeply, hiding her face.
    Sighing, he said, “Fine, have it your way.” He backed away from the bed, but he didn’t go far. Just pulled up a chair and sat down.
    She didn’t turn. But she did speak. She said, “Go.”
    “You’re a mess right now. I’m not going anywhere.”
    “Please.”
    He got to his feet, went to the foot of her bed, and yanked the blankets up. Then he bent and pulled off her shoes. “Tell you what, Red. I’ll go as far as the next room. I imagine you like a little privacy when you get like this. I know I do. So I’ll go out there, and I’ll close the door, and I’ll give you your space. But I’m not going any farther. Deal?” She was holding it in. Waiting for him to leave and fighting with everything in her to keep it all back until he did. He peeled her socks off, and tucked the blankets back over her little pink feet. Then he left the room, stepped into the hallway, closed the door, and stood for a moment, just outside it.
    He heard the dam break. Heard the sobs, soft and squeaky. He didn’t want to ache for this woman. But he ached all the same. And for some reason it was taking every bit of his willpower to stay out of that bedroom. There was this part of him deep down inside that was itching to go back in there, hug the woman close, and tell her he’d make everything all right for her.
    “It doesn’t work that way, O’Mally,” he told himself.
    This woman was different from the other needy women he’d tried to rescue. She didn’t want his help, didn’t want him anywhere near her, and seemed determined to keep the fact that anything was at all wrong in her little world entirely to herself. She was stubbornly independent, determined to be strong, even if she wasn’t.
    He stiffened his spine and walked into the Newman family’s kitchen. He made himself a pot of coffee. While it brewed, he slipped out to his car, and grabbed that fat envelope from underneath the seat. It had “Newman” scribbled across the front in his partner’s familiar hand. Vince carried the file back inside, sat down at the kitchen table, and began reading it.
    It was not a pretty story. It was long, and it was chilling.
    He hadn’t finished it an hour later when Holly dragged herself out of her bedroom. She looked bad. Her hair stuck up all over, and her eyes were red-rimmed. She’d changed her clothes, put on a terry robe, and he didn’t know what else underneath. She was sniffling and muttering to herself as she entered the kitchen, but she stopped short when she saw