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Lucy pushed open the door and was relieved that no one was inside. She walked into the small powder room off the main restroom. She leaned against the vanity counter, arms holding her weight, forcing herself to breathe slowly. She stared at her hands. Her nails were cut short but neat. Clear polish kept her nails strong and provided a finished look. Her fingers were long and slender, and she’d always imagined she should be good at piano, but the five years she took lessons proved she had no musical talent. These fingers flew over the computer keyboard, though, almost with a mind of their own, telling lies to sexual predators, enticing them through words to lure her. She had no guilt about how she helped put predators in prison.
Her arms, like her legs, were lean and muscular from spending hours at the gym. But no amount of physical strength could have prevented her from being kidnapped and raped six years ago. She’d been attacked from behind, grabbed and injected with a drug that had immediately weakened her muscles. Only street smarts might have prevented the attack, but she would never know. She had none then, and now? She imagined every scenario where someone could get the drop on her and she did everything she could to protect against it, but nothing was foolproof.
After that first year, Lucy realized she couldn’t live in a plastic bubble. She refused to be a victim for the rest of her life. She was angry with herself, and angry with the men who had abducted and hurt her. But even the rage had faded, because she would not allow them to control her emotions from the grave.
Her family didn’t understand why she wanted to walk in the darkness by being a law enforcement officer, by chatting with sexual predators online, why she continued to read and research and learn everything she could about the men and women who committed horrid crimes. They thought that because she’d been a victim, she should find a career completely unrelated to crime. Her mother wanted her to be a teacher. Her father wanted her to go into linguistics, just as she’d planned in high school. Even Dillon, her own brother who was a forensic psychiatrist and worked every day with criminals, was skeptical of her decision.
But if not her, then who? Who else had the passion and the resolve to dedicate their life to putting these bastards behind bars?
Already she’d had some success, times when she knew she’d helped someone. When she’d spoken at a local high school and a fourteen-year-old girl came up to her afterward with a story that was all too familiar: a thirty-seven-year-old man had befriended her online and wanted to have sex. That man had been arrested two weeks later when the girl and her mother helped the cops locate him. Or the twelve-year-old boy who had almost run away with his online boyfriend, until Lucy had proven to him that his fourteen-year-old cyberpal was really a sixty-two-year-old pedophile.
And there were the people she’d helped who she’d never know. The kids who listened silently to her talks, pretending to ignore her; the ones online whom she’d scared straight; the women and children who wouldn’t be victimized because she’d helped put a predator where he belonged.
So it was worth the watchful eyes, the whispers behind her back, the wrong-headed belief by the ignorant that she’d asked for it, she was to blame, she was different from them. That predators didn’t go after just anyone, they only went after other people.
The door opened and she straightened, glancing in the mirror to see who was entering.
Sean.
“You’re in the wrong bathroom,” she said.
“Not unless you are.” He walked over to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. He held her eyes in the mirror. She didn’t want him to see her like this. Her self-doubt leaked through her expression, and it mattered to her that no one, especially her friends and family, thought she was on edge.
“I’m fine.”
“I know.” But he still held her shoulders, giving her a slow, firm massage. “You’re tense.”
“I don’t like fund-raisers.”
“Something happened out there. Tell me.”
“Nothing happened.” She looked down at her hands, which were still pressed against the marble countertop. She closed her eyes and let herself relax under Sean’s thumbs. The knots in her muscles loosened and she sighed.
“Lucy.”
When he didn’t say anything else, she opened her eyes and saw he was staring at her, his mouth a firm line.
“Cody accused me of falsifying some data. That hurt. We’ve been working together for a long time, and—” She sighed.
“I understand. But that wasn’t what I was talking about. Right before we talked to Fran, something happened. Tell me.”
She stared at him. How could he have such a single-minded purpose? And what could she say?
“It’s—just—” How could she explain it to him? She certainly didn’t want to talk about her past. “I don’t like being the center of attention, and I don’t like people watching me.”
“Who?”
“No one, everyone, I don’t know. It was just that creepy-crawly feeling you get when someone is looking at you on purpose, you know? It’s ridiculous. I know when I come to these things that I’m practically onstage.”
Sean edged closer. “You need to trust your instincts. How long have you felt this way?”
She couldn’t look at him anymore. A rush of humiliation flooded through her. “Six years.”
“But this is different.”
“No—yes—I—”
Was it different? Lately…“I don’t know. It’s my nerves. It’s been a stressful few months, with the FBI application process and then Roger Morton’s murder, and the Brad Prenter situation—”
