“You’re not pissed?” he asked.
“A little hurt, maybe,” she conceded. “But I see where they’re coming from. They’re just looking out for their son’s welfare. So whether I think your folks are right, or this is fair—that’s not really the point. They control the purse strings and you’re in a vulnerable position. I’m not going to get in the way of that.”
“I’m really sorry,” he said, his shoulders sinking.
“It’s not your fault, Finn,” she said, as she moved into the hallway. “I’ll get the door.”
"Thanks," he said, and before he could stop himself, added, "See you later."
“Apparently not,” she said and closed the door before he could say anything else.
She turned and hurried down the hall toward the main doors of the building. She kept her head down so no one could see her face. For reasons she didn’t totally understand, she was crying.
CHAPTER SIX
Jessie sent Sam Goodwin ahead.
While he headed straight for Central Station to work with the research team going through Maria Cain’s communications, she stopped by the house to check on her unofficial patients.
Even though Ash Pierce was no longer a threat, the home’s security measures were still in place. There were many other folks who, if they escaped or were released from prison, would love to make a house call on Jessie.
She was just about to go through the home entry procedures, which included a retinal scan, a keypad code, and fingerprint verification, when the door opened. Kat stood in front of her.
All things considered, her best friend looked pretty good, considering that she’d been nearly beaten to death the month before. Then again, Kat Gentry was no stranger to grievous injuries.
Back when she’d served as an Army Ranger in Afghanistan, she was injured in an IED explosion that left her with damage both internal and external, including multiple facial burn marks and a long scar that ran vertically down her left cheek from just below her eye.
“I heard a car pull up and checked through the curtains,” Kat told her, holding the door open so Jessie could enter. What she left unsaid was that she was obviously still pretty jumpy if a car pulling up in front of the house had her peeking outside.
“Well, thanks,” Jessie said, not commenting on that detail. “You saved me precious time. I’m supposed to head to the station but decided to make a pit stop to see how you guys are doing.”
“Some better than others,” Kat said quietly, stepping aside to let her in.
Jessie knew the comment was a veiled reference to Ryan. While his physical injuries had healed far quicker than Kat’s, his psychological recovery had been much slower.
When Ash Pierce had attacked them, Kat at least had the chance to fight back. Yes, their fight had left her with injuries that still had her wincing intermittently. But she'd at least had the cathartic opportunity to tangle up close with the woman who'd made her life a living hell. In the end, she'd come up short and was on the verge of death when Jessie arrived to save her, but she wasn't a victim.
Ryan didn’t have that to cling to. Pierce had shot him with a sedating pellet as he entered the house. When he woke up, he was tied to a chair with bungee cords, unable to move. He was helpless to do anything as Pierce indulged in her sadism.
She’d used a butcher knife to slowly carve wounds into his flesh, sometimes in what she described as “artistic flourishes.” Whenever Ryan would pass out from the pain, which he later told Jessie happened at least three times, Pierce would revive him with smelling salts.
Once he was awakened, she’d taunt him by whispering in his ear, telling him what she intended to do to Jessie when she got home. In the hospital after everything happened, the doctor told Jessie that Ryan had lost so much blood that he’d been about twenty minutes from not making it.
The stitches required hours of work, but his recovery from those injuries were a breeze compared to the emotional torture he was still dealing with. Since he was discharged from the hospital, he hadn’t had a single evening when he didn’t wake up suddenly at least once in the middle of the night, wild-eyed and sweaty. Jessie had taken to draping multiple towels on his side of the bed, so that the sheets didn’t get soaked. She actually bought a half dozen more so that he would have extra replacements available by the side of the bed.
Equally upsetting was what he murmured to himself when he was asleep. Jessie couldn’t understand most of it, but she repeatedly heard the words “please,” “stop,” “don’t,” and once “just kill me.” His waking hours were also a challenge. Sometimes he’d mentally drift off in the middle of a conversation. She’d be talking to him and realize that he was staring off into space, oblivious to her.
He put on a brave face, acting as if these were just temporary setbacks that he'd eventually move past. And he might be correct. But right now, he was struggling. Almost as concerning as his actual difficulties was his refusal to talk about them, either with Jessie or a professional. He'd been to see Dr. Lemmon on several occasions over the years, but when Jessie suggested he go again for this, he shut her down sharply.
“I’ve got this,” he had said without any of the conviction that would have given her confidence.
Jessie walked into their bedroom, where she found him propped up on the bed, his laptop resting on his legs. He was staring in the direction of the screen, but it was clear that he wasn’t looking at anything in particular.
She stared at him silently. Despite all his struggles of late, her husband was still an impressive physical specimen. Admittedly, he’d lost some strength and stamina. But once the sutures were out, he resumed his regular workouts and was almost back to his well-muscled, two-hundred pound, six-foot-tall body. Jessie suspected that, these days, his exercise regimen was less about personal vanity and more a way to keep the nightmares at bay.
He still had the short-cropped black hair. But his warm brown eyes and adorable dimples were harder to come by of late. He didn’t smile often. And the scars on his face, still red and angry, had turned his conventionally handsome face into something edgier, and for those not in love with him, more challenging.
“How’s it going?” she asked quietly.
