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“All the harassment and humiliation. All the pain and hate and rage within me... I pushed Lynn Tavish off the dock of the lake. Knowing full well—having planned it intentionally this way—that she couldn’t swim.”
The wind blew down his shirt, and he shivered. The swollen clouds moved and shifted, leaving the air damp and dark and cold.
Her voice was quiet and hollow. “She flailed and fought, and I thought it would be louder. But it’s quiet actually. Her body stilled, and she slipped under the black water. One second...two... And then I slipped out of my shoes, and I jumped in. I wasn’t sure if I was going to drown myself too or hold her under. But I just... I brought her to the surface, laid her on the dock and rolled her on her side, smacked her back. She coughed up water and gasped for air. Then she looked up at me, and the horror in her eyes was startling. She was terrified of me, and I’m convinced that’s what kept her from ever telling anyone what I did.” She broke off a piece of tree bark and rubbed it between her fingers. “I was terrified of me.”
“But you didn’t kill her,” John said.
“Not technically. But I hurt her. I knew then Reeva was right. I was my father’s daughter. What kind of person could do that? None. But a monster could. I think she was right to keep me and not give me to a loving family. To monitor my evil tendencies.”
John pawed his face, his adrenaline racing and his brain buzzing. “But you didn’t kill her, Violet. You jumped in, and you saved her because you knew it was wrong. Or...did you think you’d get caught?”
Violet’s laugh was icy and soft. “I knew I’d never get caught. I’d created a rock-solid alibi and slipped into her locker to retrieve the note I wrote. No way to trace it to me. That’s cunning. Like my father.”
“You were fifteen and abused—if not physically, at least verbally. Your rage and pain weren’t really about Lynn Tavish, but Reeva Rainwater. You needed help, Violet. You needed counseling.”
“Monsters can’t be fixed.” She pushed off the tree.
John framed her chilly cheeks. “Violet, you are not a monster. You’re a woman who needs some things in her life untangled and brought to light. You didn’t kill Lynn Tavish.”
“But I wanted to! I plotted and almost executed it. Don’t you understand?”
“But you didn’t,” he said with force, holding her face firm in his hands, leaving her nowhere to gaze but at him. “You didn’t. You saved her. You. Saved. Her. You saved Mason last night at the bar. You save lives every day and stop monsters. Why do you do that?”
“Because I love the hunt. The thrill of tracking them and seeing them behind bars.”
“Why?”
She frowned. “What do you mean why?”
“Why is it a thrill?”
She closed her eyes. “Because I can stop them.”
“Why do you want to stop them?”
She kept her eyes squeezed shut, her lips clamped tight.
“Why?”
“Because they’re monsters. And they deserve to be locked away forever for the destruction they’ve wreaked on victims and their families. Because maybe one of these days...it’ll be my dad. And he’ll pay for making my life a living hell. For robbing Reeva of her innocence and what should have been a wonderful time in her life. For forcing her to give birth to a child she never wanted and shouldn’t have had.” Her voice grew louder, her words faster, tears flowed freely. “One of these days, I’ll be able to put him in a prison and hold him captive. And...and maybe my mom will finally love me.” A cracked sob escaped, and she collapsed against him as the aching sobs destroyed his heart and clenched his gut.
This woman had been alone and afraid her entire life. Never wanted. Never loved. Never told she was anything but pretty. No one had ever championed her, had a tea party with her, told her she could be anything, and yet she’d become a successful, intuitive, intelligent psychologist and federal agent. She was brave. She was resilient. But Violet saw none of these things.
Her body convulsed against him as her hopelessness, fear and pain flowed in tears. When was the last time she’d cried? Had she ever? John embraced her with strength and tenderness. If she was willing to be vulnerable and trust him with her secret, her shame, her deepest hurts, he would not treat it lightly, would not let it be in vain.
His hand smoothed her hair, like he did when Stella had nightmares and needed to feel safe and protected and cared for. He said nothing, allowing her to pour everything out. To collapse against him in her desperation. To feel. This place had brought it out. Seeing another victim and survivor, her half-sibling, had brought all the muck of her life to the surface.
He thanked God that He’d given John the privilege of being the secure place for her to fall and land. Silently he prayed for Violet and for all those lies to be untwisted and truth to prevail. For the light to open her blinded eyes to see that God was real. He existed. She needed Him. And He loved her.
Slowly her sobs turned to steady tears and then to sniffs and shallow breaths. He slid tear-matted hair from her cheeks and looked into her watery eyes.
“Do you hate me?” she whispered.
“No,” he murmured. God help him he might love her. Using his thumbs, he wiped away tears dotting her cheeks. “I think you’re brave and strong, Violet. Thank you for confiding in me.”
“I feel stupid.”
He stared dead into her eyes. “You shouldn’t. You’re not.” He carefully, chastely placed a kiss on her forehead, held on and lingered, feeling the warmth of her skin. His blood raced at the connection.
