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He settled her as gently as he could with her back to the King Billy, then removed his leather jacket and draped it around her shoulders before sitting beside her, waiting until her breathing became more measured. Until his breathing slowed down.
“Nico?”
“You don’t need to talk anymore,” he soothed. “You’re safe now.”
“Yes, but, there’s something I need to tell you.” She lifted her head, the lines around her eyes etched with pain. “There was someone else in my van when it went over the edge.”
“What?” That was the last thing he’d been expecting.
“A man. Gabe put a drugged man into the driver’s seat before he ran us over the edge. I think it might’ve been that young mechanic you told me about, Floyd?”
“Floyd Hamilton? He was in the van when it went over the edge?” Nico tried not to think about the flat-as-a-pancake van.
“I think it was him. At least that’s what Gabriel implied.” She stared at him for untold seconds as he tried to decide what to say. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Most likely,” he replied. “As soon as the team get here, I’ll send someone down to check it out. But…”
“But no one could’ve survived that impact,” she finished for him.
“It’d take a miracle,” he conceded, suddenly realizing just how miraculous Lacey’s survival was. He wanted to pull her into his arms and hold her forever. Never let her go. Let her know just how much he cared. How much he’d wanted this miracle. But she was too damaged, and he didn’t want to hurt her.
Lacey seemed to feel the same sentiments as him, however, and she moved toward, him, wincing slightly as she readjusted her arm, so that she could lay her head against his shoulder.
“That’s just awful.” Her voice was small and fatigued, full of anguish. “How could Gabe do this? To me? To that poor young guy? Gabe is a monster.”
He couldn’t disagree. He just wished he’d seen it sooner.
Lacey sobbed quietly into the turtleneck of his woolen sweater. They sat for many long moments, Nico just feeling her skin beneath his palm where it rested at the back of her neck. Feeling her chest rise and fall as she breathed in and out. Reveling in the aliveness of her.
“And my van,” she sobbed suddenly into his chest. “He killed Dotti, too.”
“I know, baby,” he crooned. “But you’re still alive. And we can get you another Dotti.” That was a promise he’d make sure to keep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
LACEY STARED INTO the rain. It was funny, but raindrops and mist had almost become a comfort to her. Boat Harbour Beach draped in drizzle was fast becoming her favorite place. Tentatively, she crouched down and picked up a flat rock, testing the feel between her fingers. Smooth and round, a perfect skipping rock. But her right arm, her throwing arm, was in a cast so there would be no skipping stones today. Soon maybe.
She twirled in a big circle, taking in the gray clouds, the soft pastel beach sand, and the tall Norfolk Island Pine standing proud at the back of the sand dunes. This place felt like home.
Lacey had spent two nights in hospital after the kidnapping, where the doctors had pronounced that she was one lucky woman to have survived jumping out of a falling car with such relatively minor wounds. Until that stage, she hadn’t thought of her wounds as minor, but in hindsight, they were probably right.
She’d been staying with Nico for the past two weeks, recuperating at his house, taking it easy while her wounds healed. Her broken radius was mending well according to the doctor, and while the cast covering her forearm from wrist to elbow was annoying, it didn’t hamper her doing most everyday tasks. The wound in her leg had needed twenty-seven stitches, which’d been removed a few days ago, and that was also healing well. She was even encouraged to take gentle exercise.
It was actually the myriad of scratches all over her body, but especially on her face, that were the hardest to deal with, more than the broken bone or puncture wound. They’d scabbed over within a day or so, but every time she moved, the scabs broke open again and started to bleed. She looked like a victim of an explosion, as if she’d been cut by millions of pieces of flying glass and shrapnel. The first time she’d looked in the mirror, she’d hardly recognized herself. Then she hadn’t wanted Nico to look at her, because she was so ugly. He’d merely stroked a gentle finger down the only part of her cheek that remained unscathed and reiterated that she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and a few small scratches wouldn’t change that. She wasn’t sure if she believed him, but the compassion in his eyes was enough to make her want to kiss him, even with her damaged lips.
Now, she’d taken to walking along the beach every afternoon. Smudge appreciated getting out even more than she did, and he was bounding up and down the wet sand, barking at a seagull. She almost wanted to join him, feeling some of his joy and exhilaration rub off on her. Most of the scratches were now becoming raised, pink scars, crisscrossing her body. She was feeling practically human again. Ready to face the world. Ready to make decisions that she’d been putting off for so long.
Ready to go back and face her parents.
She had to give them credit. Her mother and father had flown to Burnie to see Lacey in hospital as soon as they heard. Barry, especially, had been beside himself with worry, and he’d sat on the edge of her bed for almost an hour, just holding on to her foot, because that was the only part of her that didn’t hurt.
But after the first half an hour of being solicitous, Elora had reverted to her normal narcissistic self. At first, flirting with the doctors, then when that didn’t garner enough attention, telling everyone who’d listen that her daughter was lucky to be alive, and it was no thanks to the police that she’d survived. Within an hour, she was demanding an apology from Chief Inspector Shadbolt. Lacey had wanted to crawl under the covers and disappear, not wanting to deal with her mother’s antics. But when Elora started to take her vitriol out on Nico, who was standing in the corridor outside her hospital room to give her and her parents’ privacy, Lacey had had enough.
“Go home, Mother,” she’d shouted. “You’re making things worse. How dare you come in yell at my friends, making accusations about things you don’t understand? For once, this is not about you. It’s about me.”
Nico had witnessed her mini meltdown, but instead of running away from her fucked-up family, he’d stood by her bedside and calmly faced down Elora’s wrath, telling her that perhaps it would be best if she left. Elora was incandescent with rage and stormed out, vowing never to speak to herimpossible daughterever again. Lacey was almost relieved at her mother’s words, but she knew it was all for show. Elora would sulk for a little while before deciding enough was enough, act as if nothing had happened, and want to resume her relationship with Lacey, but always surrounded by a slight aura of injured pride, as if everything had been Lacey’s fault but she was too polite to mention it.
She knew she needed to face her mother, but only when she was physically strong enough. Barry had looked bereft, not following his wife as she stormed out the door, and Lacey felt a sudden stab of sorrow for what he had to deal with.
