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She didn’t want to go inside with him. She wasn’t afraid of him—she was past such idiocy. He’d already done his worst and she’d survived. But this place was her sanctuary, her haven, even if she got here far too infrequently. And if she went inside with Takashi O’Brien, her home would be permanently tainted.
“I’ll just wait here—”
He pushed her into the house, slamming the door behind them, plunging them into darkness. The place smelled like a closed-up house—mothballs and dampness. Someone came in once a month to air the place out, and must be due for a visit, because the air was thick and dusty.
And she was standing alone in the middle of the darkened hallway with the man who’d left her shattered and helpless. Wondering why the hell she wanted him to touch her again.
Jilly didn’t bother to look up when the woman walked into her cell. She had found her best defense was ignoring them—ignoring the droning voice that was coming through the speakers, ignoring the milky water they kept bringing her no matter how thirsty she was, ignoring everything. She’d been stuck here for at least a day, though there were no windows, nothing to tell her how many hours had passed. She had a small, windowless bathroom off the cell, with just a shower and a toilet, and for all she knew there was a video camera hidden behind the light, but she didn’t care. Growing up with Lianne strutting around partially clothed had given her a skewed sense of modesty, and if the Shirosama’s creepy goons wanted to watch her on the toilet then let them.
The door closed behind her new intruder, and Jilly turned her head. It was a woman this time, wearing white, of course, but a designer suit of some sort that even Lianne wouldn’t have sneered at. The stranger was flawlessly beautiful, with a perfect face, dark hair in a neat bun at the base of her neck, carrying a white leather case under one arm. Wearing gloves.
Jilly couldn’t help the sudden anxious jolt in her stomach, but she fought it. She wasn’t going to let these people terrorize her, not even the dragon lady who’d just walked in.
The woman’s smile was cool. “Miss Lovitz, my name is Dr. Wilhelm. I’ve been brought in to help with your reintegration.”
Oh, shit. She had a German accent and was almost a parody of a Nazi torturer from an old black-and-white movie. Jilly sat up, scooting back on the narrow cot.
“I don’t need reintegration, thank you very much.”
The woman snapped open her bag, drawing out a small pouch and setting it on the metal table beside the bed. It clanked ominously. “We are clouded by the mists of our past lives and our earthly desires,” she said. “I can help you to free yourself from all that. If you let me.”
For a moment Jilly wondered if there was something beneath the woman’s chillingly benign words. Freedom was exactly what she wanted, but she didn’t think she was going to get it at the white gloved hands of the Shirosama’s enforcer.
“No, thank you.”
The woman opened the little satchel, and Jilly braced herself, expecting a scalpel. She wasn’t afraid of pain—she had a fairly high tolerance for it, as she’d discovered when she’d broken her leg a few years ago. And she wasn’t afraid of scarring, Ralph could hire the best plastic surgeons in the world if they cut her. She wasn’t afraid of anything.
Except the hypodermic needle the woman pulled out.
“Oh, shit,” Jilly said weakly. And that was the last thing she said for a very long time.
15
Taka hit the light switch, but nothing happened. “The breaker’s turned off,” Summer said. “I can show you where—”
“Never mind. We’re better off in the dark.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out something the size of a small pencil, knocked it against the door and was immediately rewarded with a bright beam of light.
“Who the hell are you, James Bond?” she demanded, staring at the little thing in fascination.
“Not quite.”
“Why shouldn’t we turn on the lights?”
He didn’t say anything, and the answer came to her with uncomfortable accuracy. “You think someone might be watching?”
“I think it seldom hurts to be careful,” he said. “Where did you hide the urn?”
“So much for small talk,” she muttered. “I already told you. It’s in the closet in my bedroom.”
“And you’re going to take me there.”
She didn’t like the ramifications of that simple statement, but she knew she was being ridiculous. He had no interest in her and bedrooms—he’d already taken care of that. She still wasn’t sure why she’d awoken to find him holding her in the plane, but she wasn’t about to ask. He’d have some coolly deflating response, and besides, she hadn’t wanted him to hold her, to touch her. The moment she’d come to she’d moved away. She didn’t want him anywhere near her.
The old cottage had been built in the early part of the last century, along Mission lines, and once she grew used to the damp odor she could smell the comforting, familiar scents of cedar siding and lemon polish as well, mixed with the lingering tang of the ocean. The wonderful smells of her childhood summers spent there with Hana-san for company. Summer had had friends there, too; other families with children her age lived nearby. The Bainbridge house had always been such a safe, welcoming place, and she hated that Takashi O’Brien had invaded it, hated that even worse threats might be lurking outside.
“This way,” she said, moving down the narrow, wood-paneled hall to her bedroom. She knew her way in the dark, but the bright light behind her illuminated the space. Her bedroom door was ajar and she pushed it open, not wanting to step inside. Not with him.
“Here you go. The urn is in a small trunk on the top shelf of the closet.”
