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“It’s weird hearing my name.”
He put his hands on her shoulders, turned her toward the living room and gave her a nudge. “Sleep tight.”
She almost smiled at hearing that. Mom always said the same when she’d tucked her daughters into bed. “There’s an extra pillow and some blankets in the linen closet.”
“I’ll be fine.”
She went, afraid she’d still lie awake wondering about the consequences of her telling him so much. She peeked in at Jacob, as she always did before going to bed herself, closed her own door while she shed her clothes, then cracked it open again to allow her to hear Jacob. Bedside light off, she crawled into bed and conked out.
* * *
SETH LAY ON the couch, one shoeless foot on the floor, the other extending beyond the padded arm. Considering that it looked as if she’d bought it at a garage sale, the couch wasn’t half bad as a makeshift bed. Just not long enough. That wasn’t all keeping him awake, though.
Every time he pictured her buckling Jacob into his car seat and driving away, his guts knotted. If he hadn’t listened to his instincts, Helen—no, Robin—would be gone, no question. He wouldn’t have gotten her out of his head for a long time.
Mentally replaying her story didn’t help, either. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen plenty of domestic abuse during his career; brutality at home was a staple in any patrol officer’s job, small town or big city. He’d never been sure how he’d controlled his anger in those situations. He’d never get why a man would want to hurt any woman or child, far less the ones he loved. This time, he already felt more than he should for Helen Boyd aka Robin Hollis. Seeing the scar had fired his temper. Now, when he closed his eyes in search of sleep, he saw her face with lopsided swelling, purple bruises, a swollen eye like Iris Wilbanks’s.
Yeah, he sounded capable of being that cold-blooded.
Seth’s thoughts kept veering to the woman down the hall. Better not to wonder if she slept on her back or curled on her side, if she’d gravitate toward the warmth of a man sharing her bed. Hard to stop himself, though. Hard not to wish he’d seen more than glimpses of the woman she’d been before she got sucked into the orbit of a monster.
Her choice of profession before her marriage suggested that compassion was a big part of her makeup. That hadn’t changed; all he had to do was remember her kneeling beside her injured neighbor, holding her hand.
He tried to push away the memory of her saying she’d been tired and nauseated for only a few weeks before she escaped. She had to have hated the SOB by the time she got pregnant. Had she been cooperating, trying in self-defense to please him, or had he outright raped her whenever he felt like it?
Make sure there really is a Richard Winstead who’d been married to Robin Hollis, Seth cautioned himself. He believed in the anguish he’d seen on her face, but call him a cynic. He still needed to see those doctors’ reports and X-rays.
It was a long night despite getting a late start. He got up to use the bathroom once, pausing in the hall after turning out the light to look in the narrow slot of darkness that was her bedroom. He wished he could see her, know whether she’d actually been able to sleep.
He did finally drop off, but the sleep was light. He jerked awake at regular intervals, thinking he’d heard something, lying still listening until he was sure he hadn’t. The deepest sleep must have come toward morning, because he opened his eyes to find a short person staring at him from less than a foot away. He had to blink to bring the caramel-brown eyes, disheveled red hair and freckles into focus. His nostrils flared at the distinct smell of pee.
“Hi,” the little boy said engagingly.
“Good morning.” Seth had to clear his throat. “Do you need a bath?”
Jacob’s head bobbed.
“How about a shower?”
His eyes widened in alarm, and he shook his head hard.
Okay, Seth remembered a time when he’d been terrified of getting water in his eyes or mouth, too.
“Mommy awake?” he tried.
Another headshake.
Well, this would be a first for him, but why not?
Chapter Seven
Waking to the sounding of water running and a huge splat, Helen shot upright in bed. Dear God, Jacob hadn’t turned the tub faucet on himself, had he?
