Page 277 of Faking the Goal

"I tried so hard not to tell anyone," she whispers. "I really did."

She swallows hard.

"But one day... the social worker came to the house." Her voice breaks. "She kept asking if I was okay, and... I couldn't lie anymore." Another sob tears out of her.

"They called the police. They were taking him away... But before they did..."

Her shoulders begin shaking so hard that her teeth chatter. Her eyes squeeze shut, but tears force their way through anyway as she remembers walking into the backyard the following morning with Snowy's bowl in her hands. She called and called, but the kitten never came running. Then she found the small white body at the edge of the yard, soaked in blood.

"...he already killed Snowy." She sobs. "He killed her because I told them."

"No." The word leaves me harsher than I intend, and I immediately soften my voice. "He killed her because he was sick in the head."

She shakes her head as though she cannot hear me. The memories are coming too quickly now, dragging her deeper into a place I can't reach.

She remembers him watching her cry. She remembers the satisfaction on his face and the way he told her this was what happened when she disobeyed him.

"When the police came to take him away..." She swallows hard. "He promised he'd find me. That I belonged to him... and no matter where they sent me, he'd come back for me..." Her voice breaks into another sob. "...for his little kitten."

Twisted fucker.

Taylor finally lifts her head and looks at me. Her eyes are wide, haunted, carrying the same fear she must've worn as a little girl.

"And now..." Her lips tremble. "He's back."

The truth settles over both of us, ugly and absolute. This man had never stopped believing she belonged to him. He had waited years for this—for the day he'd find her again and prove that she could never escape him.

My body goes rigid beside her, shock giving way to a slow, vicious anger that feels nothing like anything I've ever experienced before. But Taylor is still trembling in front of me, so I force it down. I force all of it down because she doesn't need my rage right now.

She needs me.

I reach for her and pull her into my arms, gathering her against my chest so quickly that water splashes over the edge of the tub. She collapses into me with a broken sob, her fingers clutching the front of my soaked shirt as though I am the only solid thing left in the room. I hold her tighter, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other wraps around her trembling body, shielding as much of her as I can even though the threat isn't standing in front of us.

My clothes cling heavily to my skin, and the shower keeps pouring over both of us, but I barely feel it. All I feel is Taylor shaking in my arms and the savage pounding of my heart, each beat harder than the last, as though rage has replaced the blood in my veins.

He hurt her when she was six.

He terrorized her for months, took the one innocent thing she loved, and murdered it just to prove he could. Then he returned years later and began hunting her all over again.

I press my mouth against the top of her wet hair and close my eyes, fighting the violent images tearing through my mind. If I let myself think too long about what he did to her, about how small she must have been, about how alone she must have felt, I am afraid the fury inside me will swallow everything else.

So I hold her.

I hold her while she cries for the little girl no one protected. I hold her while the memories she spent years forgetting rip through her one after another, and I make myself a promise so absolute it settles into my bones.

He may have found her again.

But he will never touch her again.

Taylor looks up at me, her eyes overflowing with tears.

"Please..." she whispers.

Her voice is so small I almost don't hear it over the shower.

"Please help me forget it again."

Another sob catches in her throat.