Before helping Bea from the car, I glance around the parking lot again, searching for anything remotely suspicious. But with it being the middle of the day, with most of the people in her small complex at work, everything is quiet. Just as I like it.
Once Bea’s tucked against my side, we start heading towards her front door. The sun is out, its light catching the gold streaks in her hair. The sky is a clear wash of blue, nearly the same color as Bea’s eyes.
As she glances over at me, she smiles. “So. What are these ideas you mentioned?”
“Well. We haven’t showered together yet. I thought that could be fun.”
In truth, I hadn’t brought up the idea before because it means having sex without my prosthetic on. But the more time I spend with Bea, the less important that feels. And it’s like she told me before—she was there at the very start. So she knows how I look. She knows what the scars look like. And she doesn’t care.
“Oh.” She turns to me and grins. “Showering together sounds fun. What else?”
As we arrive at Bea’s door, I punch in the code for the new alarm system I installed the day we arrived. The little red light switches to green, and the latch releases. “There are some positions I think you might like,” I tell her. “Nothing too crazy, though.”
“You mean I won’t have to turn my body into a pretzel?”
I laugh. “Not quite. Maybe a little bendy, but that’s all.”
Bea giggles. “Bendy. I can do that.”
I push open the door and scan the living room, checking to see if everything is just how we left it. Nothing appears out ofplace. Not that I’m expecting it to, but it’s habit. And with Bea with me, there’s no such thing as being too careful.
“So these bendy positions,” she continues. “Do I need diagrams for them? Multi-step directions?”
“No.” Bea starts to shrug off her jacket, and I slide it the rest of the way off. After I take off my own, I carry them over to the coat closet to hang them up.
From behind me, I hear the tap of Bea’s footsteps heading into the kitchen. She calls out, “Do you want something to drink? Or a snack? I’m actually a little hungry.”
“You should be,” I reply, raising my voice so she can hear me in the other room. “You barely ate any breakfast. But let me do it. I can cut some vegetables and throw together some sandwiches, at least.”
“I don’t mind,” she calls back. “You know I like cooking. And I?—”
The shocked yelp that follows nearly stops my heart.
“Bea?”
Heart pounding, I race into the kitchen. In the second it takes me to get there, I imagine blood dripping on the floor after Bea cut her hand. Or maybe she slipped. Fell.
Best case, she spotted a giant bug that’s trying to get an early jump on spring.
Butthis.
A man stands behind Bea, his arm wrapped tightly around her chest.
With his other, he holds a syringe to her neck.
Her eyes are huge. Terrified. Pleading.
“Indy,” she whispers.
“Shutup,” the man hisses. He squeezes her chest hard enough to make her gasp in pain.
Rage erupts inside me.
“Let her go,” I growl. From my belt holster, I pull out my Sig and aim it at him. “Now. Or I’ll shoot.”
He laughs. There’s something eerily familiar about it. Though I’m certain I’ve never seen this man before. “Go ahead. Shoot me. But I’ll inject your precious Beatrix with this”—he glances at the syringe—“and I really don’t think you wantthat.”
Bea starts shaking. Tears well up in her eyes. “Please,” she whispers. “Don’t.”
