Page 2 of Into the Rain


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“Prove it,” she said through gritted teeth. “Show me your badge.”

“I’m off duty, I don’t have it on me,” he replied. “I live in Boat Harbour. I was out walking my dog, that’s all.”

Something inside her wavered. Was he telling the truth? If so, where was the supposed dog?

“Detective Sergeant Nico Favreau at your service,” the man said, easing his grip but not wholly releasing her.

Ah-ha, his name confirmed she had heard a hint of a faint French accent even as he lay on top of her.

“I work for CIB down at Burnie station.” As if making a decision, he lurched upward, and she found she was finally free. Scrambling to her feet, she backed away from his looming, dark figure.

Shit, it sounded like he was telling the truth. Double shit; had she just assaulted a cop?

Suddenly a furry, wet thing barreled into the man, jumping up to lick his face. “Get down, Smudge,” the detective ordered the frisky dog. This must be the missing mutt. Clearly, the dog had been running in the surf down on the beach. Smudge then turned his attention on Lacey. She liked dogs but Smudge’s salty fur was cold against her hands. “Get away, you’re wet,” the man growled at the dog again, and finally, the damp animal took the hint and stood a few feet away.

By the light of the dim streetlamp, Lacey watched as he lifted his hand to wipe his sleeve across his mouth; then he gingerly touched his nose. Now he was standing, she could make out darker patches on his face. Were they smears of blood? Was that because of her?

She thought back to her lightning-fast attack, rewinding her instinctive actions until she came to the part where she’d kicked him in the face.

Oh, God, had she broken a cop’s nose?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.” She took a step toward him. “But you shouldn’t accost a woman in the dark like that,” she added with a tilt to her head. She had been in the right, she was sure of it. If in doubt, act first, ask questions later. A cop, of all people, should know that.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” he acknowledged. “It was a stupid thing to do.” His words had a nasal quality to them and he pinched the bridge of his nose and grimaced.

“Let me take a look.” It was the least she could do after she’d attacked him. She might have a handkerchief or something she could offer him in the van. She flicked on her flashlight and aimed it up at his face. He winced and shied away from the bright light. “Sorry,” she apologized and dropped it away from his eyes. But it was too late, she’d already seen it. His face was a mess, blood flowing freely from his nose, more blood leaking from a cut above his eye. Fuck. She had caused that. But she couldn’t be sorry for her gut reaction. What if he hadn’t been a cop? What if he had intended to do her harm?

He swiped at the blood running down his face, most of it ending up on his sleeve. A couple of drops landed in the dirt at his feet, and she directed the flashlight down at the red splotches.

Blood—bright red and glistening.

“It’s okay, I don’t think it’s broken. I just need to stop the bleeding,” she heard him say, but she was no longer concentrating on his words, her gaze fixed on the spots of blood on the ground.

Her mind filled with images. Blood. So much blood. All over the linoleum floor. All over the woman’s hands. All over the small child lying on the ground. But the woman wouldn’t stop. Even when Lacey called to her. She kept plunging the knife into the girl’s body, over and over. When Lacey finally reached the pair, it was too late. The girl was dead. Her blue eyes open and staring up at Lacey, pleading with her. Even as Lacey had disarmed the drug-crazed mother, and even as she’d screamed into her police radio for backup, for an ambulance, for someone to come and help her, she knew there was no help for this poor little girl.

Lacey stumbled back a step, a low groan emanating from her mouth as she covered it with her hand. This was the first time she’d seen fresh blood since that horrible incident nearly a year ago. She’d been able to keep those terrible images at bay. Mostly. Except sometimes deep in the night. But now, the sight of that blood had it rushing back. Had her world imploding once more.

She took another step backward but stumbled as her knees gave way, and she landed on her butt on the ground. The edges of her vision blurred, but even when she covered her eyes with her hands, the snapshot of the girl lying on the kitchen floor wouldn’t leave her. Pools of red everywhere. The mother laughing maniacally, covered in her daughter’s blood. Much later, Lacey had found out the little girl’s name. Cindi. That name had become branded into her psyche.

Lacey covered her mouth to stifle a scream that threatened to break free. This was why she could never go back. This was why she could never fulfill her dream of becoming a police officer. She would never be able to overcome this weakness. Never get far enough away. Even running away to some isolated island deep in the Indian Ocean couldn’t absolve her of this tragedy. Her mind was lost in a whirl of grisly images and regret. She was no longer in a parking lot somewhere along the deserted Tasmanian coastline; she was in that dingy little fibro house in Melbourne once more, trying to perform CPR on a child who was already dead.

A small part of her became aware that the man was kneeling in the dirt beside her. Keeping a wary distance this time, not touching her, but something about his voice—deep, calming, gentle, but insistent—broke through the miasma of grief and guilt. It brought her back to the present, and she discovered she was rocking back and forth where she sat, her hands clamped over her face. His dog peered around the side of his crouching form, dark eyes liquid and full of compassion. A pink tongue reached out and licked her face, the warm touch easing some of the dread inside her.

“Are you okay? What’s the matter? Did I hurt you? Should I call an ambulance?”

It was that last question that finally made her vocal cords unfreeze.

“No,” she croaked. “I just… I need a minute, that’s all.”

She dragged in a few ragged breaths. Her deep breathing exercises from her yoga practice days coming back. She could do this. She’d done it before. Dragged herself back from the precipice.

She stopped rocking and drew her hands from her face, but she didn’t trust herself to stand.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” There was compassion and caring in his tone, which surprised Lacey. Most men who’d just had the shit kicked out of them by a woman wouldn’t be this considerate of that same woman. It was the final clue that led her to believe his declaration that he was indeed a cop. He’d recovered quickly after a bout of physical violence. But he also had empathy for the perceived victim.

“I’m fine,” she said, pouring more conviction than she felt into her words. She had to make him believe she was fine, that way she could get him to leave. All she wanted was to be left alone.

She went to stand, but instead, slipped on the gravelly ground.

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