to an ooze.
“This will probably hurt.” She pinched the edges of the wound together, then stretched strips of duct tape over them to hold them in place.
It did hurt, but being close to her was like a drug. “It’s not bad.”
“This isn’t sterile, but I don’t know what else to do. If you keep it clean, disinfect it every day—” There was genuine worry on her face. How could she care about him after what he’d done today?
“It’ll be fine.”
She finished quickly, covering the improvised butterfly bandage with thick squares of gauze and taping the gauze in place. “That ought to last for a while.”
Marc flexed his arm, shrugged his shoulder. The bandage held. “Thanks.”
“If you thought Megan’s life was in danger, why didn’t you tell the DOC and have them go to the police?” She pulled off the gloves and tossed them into the corner.
He gave a snort. “Come on, Sophie. You know better than that. Even if the good folks at DOC had believed me, do you think they’d have gone to the cops to report one of their own, especially since I have no idea who he is? Besides, if the bastard was once a CO, he’s probably still working in law enforcement somewhere. The last thing I wanted to do was give away what I know or lead him to my sister.”
“You know where Megan is?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She took a step, swayed on her feet.
Marc caught her around her waist as her knees gave. “You should’ve stayed in the sleeping bag. You’re shivering again.”
She tried to shrug him off. “Let go of me.”
“And let you fall on the floor? Not a chance.” He guided her to the bed and helped her get back into the sleeping bag, irritated with himself for accepting her help. Was he so desperate for human contact that he’d let her endanger herself?
He didn’t want to know the answer.
“Don’t fall asleep. I’ll make more coffee.”
Sophie watched Marc while he poured coffee grounds and bottled water into a small aluminum coffeepot and set it on the edge of the fire, her mind reeling, struggling to make sense of everything he’d told her.
You’re a journalist, Alton. Think!
She took a steadying breath, tried to break down what he’d said the way she would in a complicated interview. Marc admitted to killing John Cross and alleged that Cross, with the help of an accomplice, had repeatedly raped Megan when she’d been in juvenile detention. He claimed it was some kind of threat from this unknown accomplice that had driven Megan to take Emily and run. He said that he’d broken out of prison to help his sister.
Was there any chance that a single word of it was true?
Well, he’d murdered Cross. That much was certain. And Megan had spent time in Denver Juvenile, though she’d never said anything about being raped when Sophie had interviewed her. Then again, rape wasn’t a topic most women felt comfortable discussing with the press, and Megan was more emotionally fragile than most women. And although Sophie couldn’t imagine a CO getting away with repeated acts of rape, she knew abuses did happen.
Hunt’s story wasn’t probable , but it was possible .
And then it hit her. “You never really wanted to be interviewed, did you?”
“No.” He turned away from the fire, pulled a pair of blue jeans out of the backpack, and bit off the tag. Then he stepped into them and pulled them over his long johns. “You’d been interviewing Megan and seemed to care about her. I knew you’d come.”
“So the interview was just a pretext for luring me down there, for getting yourself out of the maximum security wing and into a less guarded part of the facility. It was just a way of getting your hands on a hostage and nothing personal.”
He met her gaze, zipped his fly. “Nothing personal.”
She wasn’t sure whether she should feel relieved, angry, or hurt. “Well, I sure fell for it, didn’t I? Stupid me.”
“You’re not stupid.” He pulled a black turtleneck over his head and tucked
“This will probably hurt.” She pinched the edges of the wound together, then stretched strips of duct tape over them to hold them in place.
It did hurt, but being close to her was like a drug. “It’s not bad.”
“This isn’t sterile, but I don’t know what else to do. If you keep it clean, disinfect it every day—” There was genuine worry on her face. How could she care about him after what he’d done today?
“It’ll be fine.”
She finished quickly, covering the improvised butterfly bandage with thick squares of gauze and taping the gauze in place. “That ought to last for a while.”
Marc flexed his arm, shrugged his shoulder. The bandage held. “Thanks.”
“If you thought Megan’s life was in danger, why didn’t you tell the DOC and have them go to the police?” She pulled off the gloves and tossed them into the corner.
He gave a snort. “Come on, Sophie. You know better than that. Even if the good folks at DOC had believed me, do you think they’d have gone to the cops to report one of their own, especially since I have no idea who he is? Besides, if the bastard was once a CO, he’s probably still working in law enforcement somewhere. The last thing I wanted to do was give away what I know or lead him to my sister.”
“You know where Megan is?”
“No.”
“Oh.” She took a step, swayed on her feet.
Marc caught her around her waist as her knees gave. “You should’ve stayed in the sleeping bag. You’re shivering again.”
She tried to shrug him off. “Let go of me.”
“And let you fall on the floor? Not a chance.” He guided her to the bed and helped her get back into the sleeping bag, irritated with himself for accepting her help. Was he so desperate for human contact that he’d let her endanger herself?
He didn’t want to know the answer.
“Don’t fall asleep. I’ll make more coffee.”
Sophie watched Marc while he poured coffee grounds and bottled water into a small aluminum coffeepot and set it on the edge of the fire, her mind reeling, struggling to make sense of everything he’d told her.
You’re a journalist, Alton. Think!
She took a steadying breath, tried to break down what he’d said the way she would in a complicated interview. Marc admitted to killing John Cross and alleged that Cross, with the help of an accomplice, had repeatedly raped Megan when she’d been in juvenile detention. He claimed it was some kind of threat from this unknown accomplice that had driven Megan to take Emily and run. He said that he’d broken out of prison to help his sister.
Was there any chance that a single word of it was true?
Well, he’d murdered Cross. That much was certain. And Megan had spent time in Denver Juvenile, though she’d never said anything about being raped when Sophie had interviewed her. Then again, rape wasn’t a topic most women felt comfortable discussing with the press, and Megan was more emotionally fragile than most women. And although Sophie couldn’t imagine a CO getting away with repeated acts of rape, she knew abuses did happen.
Hunt’s story wasn’t probable , but it was possible .
And then it hit her. “You never really wanted to be interviewed, did you?”
“No.” He turned away from the fire, pulled a pair of blue jeans out of the backpack, and bit off the tag. Then he stepped into them and pulled them over his long johns. “You’d been interviewing Megan and seemed to care about her. I knew you’d come.”
“So the interview was just a pretext for luring me down there, for getting yourself out of the maximum security wing and into a less guarded part of the facility. It was just a way of getting your hands on a hostage and nothing personal.”
He met her gaze, zipped his fly. “Nothing personal.”
She wasn’t sure whether she should feel relieved, angry, or hurt. “Well, I sure fell for it, didn’t I? Stupid me.”
“You’re not stupid.” He pulled a black turtleneck over his head and tucked
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