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“What right did you have to molest eleven-year-olds? I should wring your scrawny neck just for that.”
She touched his arm with her free hand, trying to calm him. It felt like she was touching a tightly coiled spring. It wouldn’t take too much to provoke an attack, of that she was certain. Just as she was certain he would tear this man apart if he provided the slightest excuse—because of what he’d done to the others. Because of the hurt he’d inflicted on her.
No one had ever cared for her that much. No one.
Tears stung her eyes. She blinked them back, then said, “Tell me what you know, or you can tell the police. Your choice.”
The old man’s glance darted between the two of them. “I don’t know much,” he muttered.
“Then tell us what you do know,” Doyle said. His voice was little more than a scratch of sound—almost, but not quite, the growl of a big cat.
She studied him for a minute, wondering if perhaps he was going to become the panther right here in this room. She wasn’t sure if she was ready to see that—wasn’t sure if she’d ever be ready to see that.
He glanced at her, blue eyes narrowed. Give me credit for a little control. I am not a beast who takes the shape of a man, you know.
Sorry. It’s just your voice …
I only mean to scare him—for now, at least.
“Got a visitor last week,” the old man said into the silence. “Said she used to stay here in this cabin. She wasn’t one of my—” He hesitated, his gaze flicking from her to Doyle. “She said she wanted revenge on the witches, just like me.”
“What are you talking about? We never—” She bit back the rest of her words. If she couldn’t remember attacking the caretaker, how could she say they’d never attacked anyone else?
“Do you know this woman’s name?”
He hesitated. “Felicity Barnes.”
“And you recognized her?” she asked, surprised. After all, they’d all been barely eleven when they were here with this man. Surely they’d changed in the years since.
“No. But I checked the files afterward, and she was here.” He sniffed. “She offered me money.”
His sly look implied they should be doing the same. Doyle’s fingers twitched against hers. He might be controlling his beast, but she had a feeling it was a struggle.
“I’m offering you life,” he ground out. “Give me a description of this woman.”
The old man’s hand twitched and the wheelchair jerked backward slightly. “Petite little thing, she was. Brown hair, gray eyes, boyish figure. Nothing remarkable.”
Heat flashed in his eyes. Felicity Barnes’s boyish figure had excited him, Kirby realized, feeling sick again. God, if they had indeed been responsible for putting him in the wheelchair all those years ago, why hadn’t they just finished him? Why had they let this monster live?
Doyle’s thoughts touched hers again, offering comfort, offering warmth. She took a deep breath and tried to keep calm. “What did she want you to do?”
“Nothing. She just wanted to look at the files, that’s all.”
“Our files are still here?” she asked, surprised. Surely they should be tucked away somewhere safer.
The caretaker snorted. “This was a government-run facility.”
And it had been a safe environment. Until he’d come. Until Mariel had come. She blinked. Who in the hell was Mariel?
“Do you know which files she wanted?” Doyle asked.
“The witches’ files, what else? Three of them, there was.”
“Why?”
“Photos. Last known address, stuff like that. This place was closed down not long after them bitches attacked me, and all the kids here scattered. Makes tracking them down a little hard.”
But track them down she had. And not only killed them, but ripped their remains to shreds. Or at least, had ripped Helen to shreds. Rachel had died in a more dignified manner. Her stomach twisted, and bile rose in her throat. I’m going to be sick …
