But was he bad?
The judge’s door opened, and a twenty-something uniformed officer poked his head out. I think he was one of the Carisea kids—maybe one of the younger cousins. “Devlin? Let’s get you processed out.”
I stepped away from Aiden, instantly feeling cold. “So, good luck.” It was doubtful I’d be prosecuting him.
He paused as if he wanted to say something. “You became a lawyer.”
It wasn’t what I’d expected. I nodded, the memories hitting me so hard my ears rang. So many moments, seconds really. The ones that marked you for life.
“I guess it isn’t surprising.” He stepped away. “I’m glad to see you.”
Was he? Then why hadn’t he called? Or written. Suddenly, anger slid though my veins, piercing the veil of numbness I’d had all day. I welcomed it; this return to reality. “I’m sure.” Without waiting for him to answer, I turned on my wedge and strode down the aisle, ignoring his friends and not looking back.
As such, I had no clue if he watched me go or not. From the way my butt tingled, I’d bet he had.
* * *
The DEA cordonedoff our offices but promised we could return the next day, so I headed home after trying to get the gossip in the office, but nobody knew anything about Scot or his arrest. So, why not go home? I probably should’ve called one of my sisters, but at the moment, I wanted to burrow into a good book and force reality away for a short time. Or maybe forever.
My body felt electrified and oddly numb. So I drove automatically through the quaint town, driving toward the mountains and a much smaller Tamarack Lake, the top of my Fiat down. The black car was circa early eighties and reminded me of one of those old detective shows with the gumshoe and electric blond criminal. It didn’t have airbags, a radio, or even effective seatbelts, but I loved it because my Grandpa Enzio had refurbished it for me. I couldn’t wait to get it out of storage every spring to drive during our short-lived summer.
I’d been renting a guesthouse situated far away from a main house made of wood and stone. Trees surrounded my bungalow, which faced the sparkling water of Tamarack Lake. By the time I’d parked on my gravel driveway, my hands were shaking.
I took several deep breaths and walked up the stone walk bracketed by yellow and pink tulips to unlock my door. Quiet and peace instantly surrounded me, and I locked the door, heading straight through the comfy living room for the one bedroom. It was a sweats and ratty T-shirt afternoon.
After changing clothes and popping a Xanax, I sacked out on the overstuffed sofa to read a book. Soon the pill took effect, and I dropped off into an uneasy sleep, ready to face my demons.
Demons really existed.
It was a nice June weekend, and the camping season was in full force for the entire Silverville community. I was ten years old again, skipping rocks across the river with my cousin, Lacey O’Shea. She was my best friend in the entire world, but the contest was heated, and I needed a good skip. She had a trick of twisting her wrist at the last second, which gave her at least one—if not two—extra hops each time. We’d walked up a ways from our family’s campsite, shoving through the brambles and slipping over moss covered stone.
But we’d reached a place where the river was wide and somewhat calm. The perfect place to skip rocks, away from all the kids on dirt bikes and four-wheelers finally enjoying the semi-decent spring weather.
I twisted my body, aimed, and sent a rock spiraling. It clipped hard the first hit and then went nine more.
“Nice,” Lacey breathed, her twin braids bobbing as she acknowledged my expertise. Her light brown eyes narrowed, and she shrugged her shoulders to loosen them to prepare for a big throw.
I felt a little smug as I watched her toss, but an arm came out of nowhere and wrapped around my waist, jerking me off my feet. My lungs sucked in air, and I screamed. The hand slapped across my mouth. My skin pricked and I started to fight, kicking and hitting back, even though I was off the ground.
Lacey turned, and her eyes widened. She grabbed a rock and ran toward us, screaming so loud the birds scattered across the water.
The man holding me struck out, hitting her in the side of the face. She went down hard, and I stilled, shocked.
Then he was moving. Fast through the weeds until he reached a four-wheeler. The hand at my mouth hurt, and tears flowed down my face. I couldn’t fight. He was too strong. My chest ached, and my heart started hitting my ribs. I couldn’t see, and my vision went all fuzzy.
He shoved me into the front seat; a rope was already attached to the dash. He tied my hands, and I tried to jump away, but then we were driving wildly over the rocks and up the mountain.
I turned toward him. He was old—probably around twenty-five with brown hair and a big nose. “Don’t hurt me,” I whispered.
He turned and looked at me, and his hands were dirty on the wheel. “I won’t. Just need a bride.”
Chilly pins snapped down my spine. “I’m only ten.” What was wrong with him?
He shrugged and turned back to the narrow trail.
I gulped, my stomach hurting. Stranger danger. It was true. How was I gonna get free? I twisted against the ropes around my wrists, but I couldn’t get them loose. I wanted my dad. Right now. My dad would punch this guy and get me free. “Who are you?” I asked, my voice shaking.
“Jareth Davey,” he said. “I live in the mountains.”
