“I had concerns there, yeah. It’s always under there, right? And those memories, the feelings are so easily triggered. I didn’t want to trigger yours.”

“You, obviously, look to protect. It’s your nature. I object to being protected. I have to. It’s a survivor trait. On the issue of abuse and triggers, I’m solid. My experience was, thankfully, short-lived, and I came out of it smarter and stronger.”

“Can’t apologize for my nature.”

“Nope, me neither. But if we’re in a relationship…” Tipping her head, she gave him a long look. “Would you say we’re in a relationship?”

“It has all the earmarks thereof.”

“‘Thereof’—lawyer.” She smiled, sipped. “In that case, this is just the sort of troubling event we should be able to talk about. Now, would you like my take on the troubling event?”

“I would.”

“From what you’ve said, it sounds as if Clint was raised to believe men are in charge, and superior. Women are meant to do what they’re told, tend the house, have children. She was pregnant—probably why they got married in the first place. Now she’s not. Whether or not he had anything to do with her losing the baby—and my money’s on he did—she failed in one of her duties. She’s cut off from her family and surrounded by his and their particular culture.”

“She could walk away,” Zane pointed out. “Her family’s right here. So’s the law. I know it’s not as simple as that, but—”

“It’s not, it’s not, it’s not. Yes, she’s an adult—you weren’t. Yes, she has family, she has support if she reaches for it. But—”

She sighed, heartfelt and long.

“After Trent, part of my therapy was group sessions. Jesus, Zane, the stories I heard. Women who’d stayed for years. Women who got out, then went back, again and again.”

“Revolving door,” Zane said. “That’s what we called it.”

“But it wasn’t because they wanted to be hurt, not because they were weak. It was because they’d been beaten down emotionally, spiritually, mentally. Because they were caught in a cycle. Abused by a parent, now a spouse. Or because they believed he’d changed, convinced by him or themselves it wouldn’t happen again. Or if it did, they deserved it. And some, because they had nowhere else to go.”

“I know it. I prosecuted my share of batterers. Just like I know I can’t help Traci Draper, Lee can’t help her, her family can’t help her, until she steps across the line and asks.”

“And you want to help,” she concluded. “Even need to help. So it pisses you off you can’t help.”

“Oh yeah. And since it does, let’s put it away. Put it the hell away. Let’s call Britt, have her bring Silas and Audra and Molly up, hang out.”

Darby cocked an eyebrow. “And what do you plan to feed them? It’s unlikely they’ve had dinner yet.”

“Uh … delivery?”

Darby shook her head. “Big, beautiful grill right there. And if you wait until tomorrow, you could ask your whole family, use that grill—having picked up red meat. And your back wall will not only be finished, but planted.”

“Not as spontaneous.”

“No. But…” She rose, skirted the table, straddled his lap. “We could try a different kind of spontaneity.”

“We could.” He watched, a little stupefied, when she peeled off her shirt. “Here? But it’s—”

“A really pretty evening,” she finished, and took his mouth with hers.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

He hadn’t hit her that hard, and God knew she deserved it. And more. She’d barely lost consciousness after her head struck the floor—with a satisfying thud.

He hadn’t bothered to hit her again, and certainly hadn’t bothered with sex. She’d lost her appeal in that area.

It amazed him now how much passion he’d once felt for her, how perfectly she’d suited him, in every way. My God, he’d even forgiven her for betraying him, accepted her sobbing apology, her excuses about being weak, afraid, being manipulated by the police, her own family.

But now, stuck together in this ugly box of a house, coming home from humiliating work to find her putting some disgusting excuse for a meal together night after endless night?

She reminded him, every day, every hour, every minute, of all he’d lost. Her fault, too. If she’d handled the little brat upstairs, he would have dealt with the disappointing, disrespectful son she’d given him.

Then she’d turned on him, betrayed him, told their secrets in exchange for a lighter sentence.

He’d done eighteen goddamn years due to her weakness.

It was past time she understood she’d cost him everything. Past time she accepted the punishment for it.

If she’d done what she’d been supposed to do, he’d still be Dr. Bigelow. Still be someone important. Still have his life, and not wake up in the middle of the night in a sweat as he dreamed of prison.

Yes, she’d cost him everything, and he should never have let himself forget that. She and the children they should never have had were responsible. She’d cost him nearly twenty years, and she had the nerve to whine to him—again—about getting a car, a job, moving.

Then that sad, sad look she’d given him when she’d come to.

Still, she’d done the dishes—he hadn’t had to tell her that a second time—while he’d watched TV, because what else was there to do with the endless evenings in this shack they rented like a couple of losers?

He hadn’t noticed her slurred speech immediately—he hadn’t been listening to her endless whiny chatter. Then she’d said his name, like a question, before she’d collapsed, before she’d seized.

He’d watched for a moment or two, more fascinated than alarmed before he’d gone to her, dealt with her. But he knew, made his diagnosis, as he watched her slide away.

Subdural hematoma. A brain bleed. Head blows were tricky that way, with all those tiny veins in the meninges. When she died in his arms, he stroked her hair, even wept.

Then the truth struck. Walking out of the prison gates hadn’t given him freedom. But this did.

He had cash in the house. He’d instructed her to withdraw cash every week, every week for all these years. Some instinct, he decided, must have foreseen this very day.

He could get more, would need more, as credit cards left a trail. He’d need two days—report to his probation officer on Friday, report to work on Saturday. He had Sunday and Monday off.

He could—as he’d yet to take a day—call in sick Tuesday and Wednesday. He doubted his supervisor would report him right away, so he would have as much as a week’s head start.

He had a car, and would keep to back roads, to the speed limit, use cash. As steps and purpose ran through his mind, he realized under it all that he’d planned for this all along.

He knew not only what to do, but what had to be done.

He’d spent years saving lives, and they’d taken that from him. Wasn’t it true justice for him to now take lives? To take the lives of the people who’d stolen his?