the man refused to take a hint. There was no way she was about to go anywhere with this man. But she still tried to be polite. “No, thank you, I’d rather not.”
A flash of anger came and went from the dark eyes. His grip on her wrist tightened. “Don’t be a tease, Claire. Men don’t like that.”
She glared at him. Fear had left, replaced by anger. “And I don’t like being manhandled.”
“What are you, one of them?” he asked contemptuously.
She knew where he was going. It might be easier just to agree, to let him think her preference ran toward the softer gender, but that would have been an out-and-out lie. She preferred a shade of gray instead.
“What I am,” she informed him, tossing her head, “is a nun.” God forgive me for lying.
“A nun, huh?” The news did not have the desired effect on the man. Rather than release her and mumble an apology, Bill leered at her as he let his gaze travel over the length of her and then back up. “Never had a nun before.” His hand tightened even more around her wrist and he pulled her toward him. “Now you’ve really piqued my interest. C’mon, dance with me, ‘Sister’ Claire. Show me what you’ve got.” The leer deepened. “I bet you’re really starved for a little action.”
So much for being polite, she thought. “If I were, it wouldn’t be with such a Neanderthal,” she declared, trying in vain to pull back. She was no weakling, but he was far too strong for her.
“Not the right answer.” The warning came out like a half growl.
“But it’s the one you’re going to accept,” someone said directly behind her. “Now.”
Chapter Two
Caleb McClain ran his fingers along the chunky shot glass sitting on the slick bar before him.
He knew he should be on his way.
Hell, he wasn’t even sure what had made him stop here at Saturday’s rather than simply going to Lucky’s, the bar located near the precinct.
Maybe it was because he wanted the excuse of going to a restaurant rather than a bar. More likely, it was because he didn’t want to run into anyone from the station. Tonight of all nights, he didn’t feel like talking. Not that anyone would expect him to be talkative. Never one to shoot the breeze, the way his partner, Mark Falkowski, did, he’d become one step removed from being a mummy in the last year.
At least that was what Falkowski maintained. Ski was the only man who would attempt to broach the subject that had so viciously scarred him and even the six-foot-six vice detective didn’t venture very far into that territory. Ski knew better. Everyone knew better. Just like everyone knew the reason why he’d withdrawn so completely into himself.
One year. One year today.
How the hell did time go by so fast when it felt like it was standing still, when every second of every day seemed to pierce him with sharpened spears?
And today was the worst of all. Today marked 365 days since it’d happened. Since Ski had come to him with a long face and sorrow in his eyes to tell him what the beat cops in East L.A. had just called in.
Getting out of bed today had been almost impossible. He’d thought of calling in sick, but where would he go, what would he do? Everywhere he went, his mind went with him.
There was no escape.
Staying in the house wasn’t the answer. Danny would be there. He didn’t want his son seeing him like this. The boy needed to be shielded, but he couldn’t pretend that he was all right. He could pull it off for short periods of time. But not today.
The mere thought of his wife had his throat threatening to close up on him. Whatever air was left in his lungs wasn’t enough.
Jane.
Jane, with her bright, eager smile, her desire to put a bandage on the whole world and somehow make it all better through sheer force of will and her infinite capacity to love.
Anger surged, channeling itself through his hand. His fingers tightened around the glass so hard, he realized that he’d wind up shattering it. Loosening his hold took effort. Effort not to go over the edge. Every day was a struggle.
If it hadn’t been for that Mother Teresa attitude of hers, her determination to boldly go where even angels had better sense than to tread, Jane would still be alive today. Alive instead of a victim of the mindless feuding of two rival gangs. She was there, about to get into her car, when the shooting started. Caught in the cross fire, she was one of several people to die that afternoon.
The only one who’d mattered to him.
A year ago. Exactly one year ago today, her young, beautiful life had been senselessly cut short because she had to go see the pregnant girl who was one of the cases she handled as a social worker. The girl was sixteen and already the mother of two. He’d told Jane she was wasting her time, but Jane had been convinced she could turn the girl around, help her get her life together.
She could be so stubborn when she wanted to be. He’d begged her to take a different job, to be reassigned, or, even better, just stay home and be Danny’s mother and his wife and make them both supremely happy. But Jane had to be Jane. She was determined to save the world, one lost soul at a time. So she went.
And instead of saving that pregnant girl, Jane had lost her life that day and he, he’d lost his main reason for living. Nothing else seemed to really matter to him, even though he kept trying to go through the motions. He continued being a cop because that was all he knew and he had to do something to pay the bills and keep a roof over Danny’s head.
He shouldn’t feel this way. Jane wouldn’t want him to be like this and it was because of Danny that he hadn’t pulled the trigger of the gun he’d cradled in his lap night after night that first week, raising it to his lips time and again, desperate for oblivion.
But that would have left Danny an orphan and he couldn’t do that to the boy. It wouldn’t have been fair to deprive him of a father after he’d lost his mother. So he’d put the gun down and stayed alive. In a manner of speaking.
Instead of killing himself, in order to survive, to deal with the huge waves of pain that would wash over him without warning, he’d gone numb. Absolutely and completely numb.
A twinge would break through, every now and then, and Caleb would tell himself that he’d try. Try to break out of his invisible prison and be emotionally available to his son. But every time he did, the pain would find him, oppressing him to the point that he was no good to anyone. So he retreated, telling Danny he’d make it up to him later. And the boy forgave him, each and every time.
I’m sorry, Danny. I really am.
Caleb looked at his near-empty glass. He debated getting another drink. The raw whiskey went down much too easily. But it made no difference. One or ten, the result was the same. Nothing really blotted out the pain and he had to drive home. Killing himself was one thing, but possibly killing someone else, someone who had nothing to do with the tragedy that haunted him, was something he wasn’t willing to risk.
Besides, Mrs. Collins had a home to go to. She’d already been there longer than agreed upon. Edna
