Stolen: A Novel of Romantic Suspense (38 page)

“I …” Shay squeezed her eyes closed. “Can we come back to him later?”

Hilliard smiled. “Of course.” Hands folded in front of him, he studied her face, his gaze thoughtful. “Just what do you want to know?”

“Other things.” It was a bare whisper and she had to clear her throat before she could go on. “My … my mother. Can you help me find out anything about my birth mother? I … she …”

Shay groaned and tugged her hand from Elliot’s, leaning forward to brace her elbows on her knees. Elliot rested his hand on her back, stroking it up, then down. “I
have nightmares, Captain Hilliard. Before I went to live with Virna when I was little, I have no memory of much of anything—just these flashes from my nightmares. Sometimes, there’s blood. I hear a baby crying …”

The tension in the air was so damn thick, it could have choked her. Slowly, she lifted her head, finding herself staring at a man who hadn’t had any trouble looking her in the eye a moment earlier. He’d faced her and told her the man who raped her was still living in this same city and he’d done it without blinking.

Why couldn’t he look at her now?

“Captain Hilliard?” she whispered.

“You really are piecing things together, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice hoarse. A muscle jerked in his jaw. “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

Shay shook her head. “No. I don’t want to hear it at all. I want to run away and hide, and never think about this again. But my life is falling apart, and it all seems like it goes back to then. It’s somehow connected to my mother, to those nightmares …”

“Michelle …” He frowned. “It’s not Michelle, now. I have a hard time thinking of you as somebody other than Michelle Lassiter, you know. You were the little lion who faced a monster.”

She blinked, caught off guard for a moment.
Little lion …
no. She’d never been a lion. She’d barely made it through that time with her sanity intact. “Michelle. No. That’s not me anymore.”

“I guess not.” He came out from behind the desk to squat in front of her. He held out a hand and although touching people went against everything she had in her, she placed her hand in his.

“Shay … your mother had nothing to do with the nightmares in your life. From everything I could find out about her, she was a good mom. I don’t know anything about your father—there wasn’t anything listed
on your birth certificate—but everybody I spoke to said she was a good mother and they all said she loved you.”

She nodded jerkily. “I thought that seemed right. I’ve been having vague bits and pieces come through. Nothing concrete, but … well. I was pretty sure I remembered that much.” She blew out a breath and then focused on his face. “Tell me what happened to her.”

“She died giving birth …” He blinked and then looked down. “I imagine the baby you hear in your nightmares is your baby brother.”

My baby brother …

The little kitty was sleeping comfortably in a box in the hotel room.

He had food, so much his tummy looked about ready to pop. He’d sleep for a while, she knew, which gave Leslie some time.

This wouldn’t take long. She’d kept tabs on the dragon from Shay’s past. Leslie had conquered all of her dragons. She’d conquer Michelline’s now.

Life hadn’t been kind to him in prison.

She’d been amused when she read the reports about him.

There had been a series of bad fights in the prison where he’d been serving his time, and one of them had left him paralyzed from the waist down. He was in a wheelchair now. He wouldn’t even be able to run away from her.

As she made her way to his squalid little hellhole, she planned.

Cut the phone lines. He had a landline, but she wasn’t sure if he had a cell phone. She’d figure that out once she got inside. He wouldn’t have a security system. The pathetic idiot could barely get by on the check he got working the night shift at Wal-Mart.

It was getting late now, and she’d wait for him to leave before she broke in. Once he left, she’d go in. And wait.

Get the lay of the land, so to speak.

And then she’d slay Michelline’s dragon.

“I have a brother.”

Shay closed her eyes. She’d known. Somewhere inside, she’d known it for a long time. But
knowing
it deep inside and having it confirmed, hearing it, were very different things.

“Shay.” Elliot’s hand closed around her neck—that gesture, possessive as all get-out, should have bothered her. Especially as often as he did it. But it comforted her. Usually. Right now, she didn’t feel at all comforted. It was the tone of his voice, she suspected.

That … and her own deeply rooted fears. Swallowing, she made herself look at the cop. No wonder Elliot had sounded so tense. It was in Hilliard’s eyes. Grim, bleak sadness. “Yes, you did. He died twenty-nine years ago.”

Twenty-nine years ago …
when she was four. When she was taken away, out of hell. A sob built in her throat, but she swallowed it back. “Jethro killed him, didn’t he? He was always screaming about the baby—always wanted somebody to shut him up …”

Even as she said it, though, she knew. Hurtling up out of the chair, she rushed for the garbage can. There was nothing in her belly, but that didn’t keep her from retching.

Images, so obscene, so vivid and real, danced in her mind.

Bloody. Vicious. Awful.

Somebody finally shut that baby up … know who did?

And a girl’s voice. Laughter.
You’ll be the princess again, now …

“Oh, God … oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.”

There had been blood on her face when they led her
out of the house. It hadn’t made sense to her young mind, then. But now, as those memories sharpened with painful clarity, she knew.

It had been a partial handprint … mostly the fingerprints. From when somebody had touched her cheek. Somebody with a small, childlike hand.

“Oh, God …”

Pathetic
, Leslie decided as she studied him.

He looked pitiful and pathetic.

Granted, he was too gaunt for the wheelchair—that might have something to do with his miserable appearance. Plus, there was the long, stringy gray hair that fell to his shoulders, the balding pate. Why did men do that? Bald on top, yet they let the hair get all nasty-long and stringy like that?

She just didn’t get it.

From her rental, she watched as he let himself out of the house, maneuvered the wheelchair down the small ramp, down the sidewalk, and began to wheel himself to the bus stop. No car … she knew that, because she’d made it her business to know about everybody connected to Shay. Jethro Abernathy was a connection. Michelline’s dragon.

She was going to kill this fucking dragon and if she could figure out a way, she might just drag the dragon’s corpse back for Michelline to see.
See, sweetie? He’s gone … you don’t have to be afraid anymore …

Of course, if Michelline wasn’t afraid anymore …

“No.” Leslie shook her head. She’d still need her. A little girl needed her big sister. Always. Mama had even told her that, before she left. Left and went away … never to come back. Instead that squalling, nasty little Jeffrey had come back. And Jethro had dumped the thing on Leslie. She was expected to take care of it, change it, feed it, make it quit crying.

Well, she’d done all of that …

Leslie grinned, amused. She’d definitely done that.

Through the windshield, she continued to watch Jethro as he wheeled his chair about a block down. He swung it around and just sat there, hands hanging limp in his lap, staring out, straight ahead. The guy didn’t look around at
all
. If he had, he might have at least seen Leslie’s car.

Not that it would do any good, really, just seeing her car. He wouldn’t even recognize her. Maybe, like Michelline, he’d forgotten all about her, too. He’d given Michelline scars for forgetting. If he’d forgotten Leslie, she’d have to do something about that before he died.

But scars didn’t matter to corpses.

She’d have to find another way to hurt him.

A way to horrify him. Scar him …

It would scar him, he knew. The look in her eyes. The horror. The pain.

He’d never seen anybody look that pale, that fragile. That broken. Crouching in front of her, he pushed a Coke into her hands and wished it were some sort of magic cure, something that would take all of this away.

Not only could he
not
take it away, it was going to get worse. They hadn’t even learned how the baby died. And Elliot knew it was bad. The cop looked sick. It would take a lot to put that kind of look in a cop’s eyes.

Shay held the Coke and stared at it dumbly. “Shay … baby, take a drink, okay?”

She grimaced. “I don’t drink regular Coke. It’s too sweet.”

“You need it,” he said. “Trust me.” Considering the shock to her system, she needed more than a Coke. Whiskey. Something. But he doubted Captain Hilliard kept Jack Daniel’s on hand.

Her hands were shaking and some of the fizzy drink
splattered out. He steadied one hand as she took a sip. A few seconds later, she took another. He wanted her to drink more, but he wasn’t surprised when she put it down on the cluttered table at her side. “I’ll try to drink more in a few minutes,” she said, forcing herself to smile.

He doubted she’d remember. Sighing, he caught her hands in his; they were shaking, as cold as ice. He rubbed them between his own for a minute, then lifted them to his lips, pressing a kiss to one wrist, then the other. “Shay, I wish you didn’t have to be here,” he said quietly.

She just stared at him.

“Whatever you’re about to learn, it’s going to hurt, baby, and I can’t stop it.”

“It already hurts,” she whispered. “And it would be better knowing … than not knowing.”

As she shifted her gaze to the captain, who continued to wait quietly, patiently, Elliot stayed where he was. He couldn’t get any closer to her unless he pulled her into his lap, and he wasn’t ruling that option out, either.

“Tell me,” she said, her voice shaking slightly, but beneath it, there was a steely undertone.

She had to know. He just hoped he was enough to get her through this.

“Your brother was murdered. Twenty-nine years ago,” Hilliard said, his voice flat and steady. His eyes were also flat, and if you didn’t look too closely, they might look steady as well.

But Elliot had already seen the lingering horror.

What in the hell had happened …?

“Let me guess … it was October ninth, wasn’t it?” Shay whispered.

Elliot shifted so he could watch the cop but still be right there, crouched by Shay’s feet.

Hilliard inclined his head. The only answer he gave. But it was enough.

“What—” Shay closed her eyes and took a deep, uneven breath.

Resting a hand on her knee, Elliot stared at the cop. “She’s not going anywhere until this is done. You already know what she’s gone through. If she can handle that, there’s little you can do that’s going to sway her. Just tell her.”

So I can start to pick up the pieces
.

Hilliard’s lashes lowered, shielding his eyes. Then, finally, he said, “Your brother was found butchered, Shay. Somebody had cut him. Very badly, very deliberately.”

“My stepfather?”

“No.” The cop stared at Shay, his eyes intense. Focused. As if he were trying to tell her without actually saying the words.

He’d have to say them, though. If Shay wasn’t going to take the easy way out with this and hide, nobody else could do it, either, Elliot thought.

After a long, tense moment, the man sighed and passed a hand over his timeworn face. Then he looked back at Shay and softly said, “You weren’t the only child in the house that night, Shay. Two female children were removed from the household.”

Two female children …

Shay stared at Hilliard. If she allowed herself to look at Elliot, for even a moment, she was going to beg him to take her out of there. Far away where she never had to think about this again.
Ever
. But she couldn’t do that. That little brother of hers … she needed to know about him. Needed to know more. Needed to know who had hurt him. And why.

“I have a sister,” Shay whispered, forcing the words out despite the fact that she just wanted that knowledge to stay hidden deep, deep inside her gut.

“Yes. Jeanette Hall was survived by two daughters
 … Michelline Hall and Leslie Hall, and her infant son … Jeffrey Abernathy, as well as her husband, Jethro Abernathy.”

The sound of
that
name was like a slap, but at that point, she was practically numb. She could take only so much shock before she exhausted herself. She was at that point.

“Leslie. My sister’s name is Leslie,” she said quietly.

Hilliard looked down, once more staring at the page. “I don’t have much information on her. Her case was sealed and I’d need a reason to open her file.” He flicked a glance in Shay’s direction. “I have your information because of our connection. The report of your brother’s death, all of that, was public record. Sealed records aren’t so easy to access.”

“Why are her records sealed … did he hurt her, too?”

Hilliard sighed, reaching up to rub his hands over his face. He seemed to be aging before their eyes. “Shay, how much do you remember?” he asked quietly. “Anything?”

“Screams. Blood … I had blood on me and I remember screaming.” She flinched and when she started to tremble, Elliot muttered under his breath—he didn’t give a damn that the cop was in the room. Scooping her into his lap, he cradled her against him, one hand cupping her head, the other draped over her legs. Shay huddled against him, shaking like a leaf. “I saw myself in a mirror, and there was blood all over me. On my nightgown. On my clothes.”

“Yes. But you weren’t hurt. There was blood on Leslie, as well. She wasn’t hurt. And your stepfather had no blood on him. There was a knife found in the closet where you liked to hide … you told Virna about that closet on previous visits. That’s where the police looked for you when the call came in about the screams. You were found in there. Alone. With a knife.”

Shay jerked. “No. I wouldn’t—”

Hilliard continued. “Your sister was found in the backyard. She was singing and trying to dig a hole. There was a baby’s body beside her. She was singing about—”