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He turned slightly to rest his back against the arm of the sofa, then slung one arm across the sofa cushions, his eyes searing into hers. He needed her away from asking about him.
She swallowed stiffly. “I violently detested what he did. I also hated him, too. I’m not going to lie, beyond the grief, I still remember what he was.” She stared into her wine, in pain, he thought. “I hated him for a lot of things. Mostly my mother’s death. But I hated what he was doing more than anything else. He didn’t think I knew, but oh, I did. I knew. All the men he forced me to call Uncle This, or Uncle That, with their bloodied knuckles and their black eyes, their jackets bulky around the chest, guns holstered. I knew he was addicted to it. Knew he got a kick out of it. I ran as hard and as fast as I could away from all that. I promised myself I would never be like my mother. I’d never be sucked in by a bastard, or relinquish my ambition for some crooked ingrate with nothing but evil in his heart.”
He touched her knee gently.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, as she stared into her drink.
“There’s something I never told anyone, not even him.”
“Ye need not say it. If it’s your secret to keep.” He dreaded hearing the words—he already knew he would commit murder to protect her.
She moved to the fireplace, perhaps to give him her back so he wouldn’t see the pain in her eyes. “When I was fifteen, one of his guys tried to rape me, Caelan.”
“Perhaps it’s your secret to keep,” he persisted, because he really didn’t want to have to kill another man.
Ever.
“When I wasn’t a wee bairn anymore,” she chuckled, “the whole sordid truth gradually revealed itself to me, the more curious I got. So before that day I’d seen things, definitely wasn’t innocent anymore, if you know what I mean. He’d had women over… sex parties in the summerhouse. There was also the underground pool, too. And with so many so-called uncles hanging around all the time, it was hard not to see a cock every day, you know? And that was the least of it. Some of the things I saw… the way women were treated…” Caelan rubbed his forehead, angry at the thought. “I can tell you right now, without the shadow of a doubt, I would’ve had unspeakable things done to me that day… and I might have even lost my life… if I hadn’t fought back. I had no choice but to defend myself. So I killed him… and never told anyone.”
Up until that moment, Caelan had refused to believe Sherry’s notion that Flora was the killer. It had seemed like a ludicrous, crazy claim—designed to get her what she wanted. Caelan had been determined to close in on the truth, but it couldn’t be this easy, could it?
Jimmy wouldn’t… would he?
This was someone else. It had to be.
A sick joke.
Sherry had twisted this to suit her own ends. She’d known about the rapist and had twisted it…
Yes, it had to be that!
A young girl couldn’t have overpowered his uncle.
Could she?
And…
No, he refused to believe it.
“I don’t ever think about it, but it’s there, all the time,” she said.
He had known she must have been hurt at some point, but this? Knives of anxiety surged through him, like he might die unless he went and found that bastard who’d hurt her, right now, and end the fucker.
“You’ve killed in your line of work, yes?” she persisted, but he still didn’t know what she was really angling for.
What did she want him to say?
He merely nodded his head that he had.
“We’re not so different, you and I.” He was utterly horrified by the thought this beautiful lady had been forced to protect herself and he hadn’t been there. “Both you and me, we’re abused people. That’s why we’re loath to love.” But those words, right then, were worse than anything else he’d had to hear that night.
He’d been abused, once. Yes.
She could see him like he was transparent, and what’s more, he’d barely told her anything about his life. It scared the fucking worms out of him.
He bit down hard on his bottom lip and stared at his lap, then rubbed the back of his neck, which had turned crimson. He was in a state of shock.
Maybe denial.
