It was a look he’d recognized well. A look that’d haunted his dreams since he’d been fifteen. A look he’d seen in his mother’s eyes right before—
“I grabbed a fryin’ pan and whacked the bastard on the back of the head so hard it was a wonder I didn’t send his brain shootin’ out his nostrils. I knocked him clean off the girl,” he gritted from a jaw that’d locked down tight at the memory.
Even now, days later, all the muscles in his body clenched in fury when he thought back on what that sadistic motherfucker had been doing.
“While he was howlin’ like a coyote and holdin’ onto his head,” he continued, “I snatched his weapon from his holster, pulled the clip, and threw his sidearm out the window into the koi pond.”
There was confusion in Eliza’s eyes. The questions she wanted to ask were obvious.Why unload the weapon? Why not point it at the policeman and hold him hostage until he could be handed over to his superiors and brought up on rape charges?But instead of voicing those queries, she waited for him to finish.
He could still remember the smells in that kitchen, cooked beans mixed with hot spices. And underneath it all, the scent of fresh blood. When he’d reached a hand toward the girl, she’d flinched and scampered backward like a crab, stopping when there’d been nowhere left for her to go. The cabinets had cut off her escape.
Her expression as she’d stared wide-eyed at him had made it clear she’d expected him to take over where the other man had left off. And even now bile climbed into the back of his throat at the thought.
He’d known what he was going to do the moment he’d walked into that kitchen and seen the brokenness in that girl’s eyes. Even still, it’d seemed like someone else’s legs carrying him over to the opposite counter. It’d seemed like someone else’s hand reaching for the blade.
“I yanked a butcher knife out of the block and tested it with my thumb.” A hard knot formed in the center of his throat. His words rasped around it. “It was razor-sharp.”
The coffee machine had done its job. Now the kitchen was quiet enough to hear Eliza’s throat work over a hard swallow. “You…youstabbedhim?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I gave the knife to the girl. Then I walked away.”
Eliza blinked. A little line appeared between her delicately arched eyebrows. “You didn’t stick around to make sure the officer didn’t go after her again?”
Fisher jerked his chin side to side. “Didn’t need to. I knew she was takin’ care of the problem. The sound a knife makes when it’s tearin’ through flesh is unmistakable. So were the policeman’s screams when I closed the door behind me.”
“Dear god.” Her hand jumped to cover her mouth.
“I know.” He hung his head. His gaze was glued to the steel toes of his biker boots, but he wasn’t really seeing them. His mind was still back in that other kitchen. Still seeing the dawning realization on the girl’s face when he handed her that blade. “I shouldn’t have done that. I should’ve—”
“What happened to the girl?” Eliza interrupted.
His eyes jumped to her face. He expected to see revulsion there. Disgust. He was a little surprised when all he saw was concern. “What do ya mean?”
“I mean did the authorities catch her? Is she being held in some sleazy Colombian jail for killing her rapist?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I don’t know where she ran off to, but she was nowhere to be found by the time the local boys discovered that bastard’s body. They assumed he’d been taken down by one of Blanco’s guards.”
“Good.” She blew out a rough breath and fished her locket from inside her blouse so she could rub her thumb over the golden heart. She did that anytime her emotions ran high. “That’s perfect,” she added.
His chin jerked back. “I let that girl kill that policeman. Worse, I handed her the weapon to do the job. Which means I may as well have done it myself. Ishouldhave done the job myself. I wasn’t thinkin’ about the added trauma I caused her by—”
“No.” She cut him off by slicing her hand through the air. “It’s better it was her who did it.”
He blinked so quickly her grim expression took on a strobe effect.
“Rape is an abuse of power. Atheftof power.” Her harsh tone matched her expression. “You gave that girl her power back. And better than that, you allowed her to violate that policeman the way he violated her. You let herenterhim without his permission just like he’d entered her.”
Fisher was taken aback by the vehemence, theviciousnessof her reaction. “Most…uh…civilized societies don’t punish rape with death.”
Her upper lip curled. “Maybe they should. Maybe then women would feel safe jogging alone or wearing their favorite sundress on a hot summer day or leaving their drink on the bar when they go to the restroom.”
“So… ya don’t think what I did was…” He licked his lips and slipped his hand into his pocket, feeling the cool steel of his harmonica. The instrument always brought him a level of peace. She had her locket. He had his mouth harp. “Evil or…immoral or…” He searched for the right word and couldn’t find it. He ended up shrugging.
“I’m sure there are people who would argue the morality of what you did. Or”—she frowned—“it’s more like they’d have to argue the morality of what you allowed that girl to do. But I’m not one of them. And I doubt anyone who’s been raped would pass any judgement on you.”
He was tempted, just for a moment, to tell her about his mother. To admit he’d handed that girl that knife because hehadn’tbeen able to do the same for his mom. To explain that even though it’d been a Colombian police officer committing that awful act, all he’d seen when he’d looked in that man’s face was his father’s sweaty, rage-filled visage.
But then she’d know me for what I truly am. She’d see all the muck and mud I come from.
