from hers. “I’d like you to be truthful with me, too, Ms. Rush.”
Her eyes flickered. “Call me Kendall, and I’ll be as truthful as I can. What do you want to ask me?”
So he wouldn’t be tempted to touch her again, he dragged his notebook in front of him and tapped the eraser end of his pencil on the first page. “What do you remember about that night?”
“That’s an open-ended question.”
“Okay. Why were you and your sister spending the night at your aunt’s house instead of your own?”
“If you read the case file, you know the answer to that question.”
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
Tucking her hair behind one ear, she ran her tongue along her lower lip. “I’m trying to make it easy on you and save some time. A lot of that stuff is in the case file. I don’t see the point in rehashing it with me.”
“You’re the therapist. You understand the importance of reliving memories, of telling someone else your version of events. Isn’t that what therapists are supposed to do?” His lip curled despite his best efforts to keep his feelings about therapists on neutral ground.
“You’re trying to psychoanalyze me?”
“I’m trying to see if you have anything to offer that doesn’t come through on a page written twenty-five years ago.” He snorted. “Unless you’re trying to tell me talk therapy doesn’t work. Does it?”
She studied his face, staring into his eyes, her own dark and fathomless. Could she read the disdain he had for therapy? He’d brought up the therapy angle only to make her feel comfortable.
She tapped the table between them with her index finger. “Therapy is supposed to help the subject. You want me to start spilling my guts to help you, not to help myself.”
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. God, he wished he was questioning Wyatt again and not this complicated woman.
The gesture must’ve elicited her pity because she started talking.
“Kayla and I were at Aunt Cass’s that night because my parents were fighting again. Aunt Cass, my mother’s sister, felt that my parents needed to work out their differences one-on-one and not in front of the kids.”
“The police suspected your father of the kidnapping at first because of the fight.”
“I didn’t realize that at the time, of course, but that assumption was so ridiculous. I’d given a description of the kidnapper, and I would’ve recognized my dad, even in a mask. I suppose the police figured I was too traumatized to give an accurate description or I was protecting my father.”
“What was your description, since the guy had a ski mask on?” He doodled in his notebook because Kendall had been right. All this info was in the case file.
“He was wearing a mask, gloves, and he was taller and heavier than my dad. That I could give them. Oh, and that he had a gravelly voice.”
“He just said a few words, though, right? ‘Get off’ or ‘let go’?”
She shifted her gaze away from him and dropped her lashes. “I’d grabbed on to his leg.”
“Brave girl.”
“It didn’t stop him.”
His eye twitched. Did she feel guilty because she didn’t stop a grown man from kidnapping her twin?
“No surprise there.”
Her dark eyes sparkled and she shrugged her shoulders.
“He took something from you, didn’t he?”
“My twin sister. My innocence. My security. My mother’s sanity. My family. Yeah, he took a lot.”
He wanted to reach for her again and soothe the pain etched on her face, but he tapped his chin with the pencil instead. “Not that it can compare with any of those losses, but he also took a pink ribbon from your hair.”
The color drained from Kendall’s face, and a muscle quivered at the corner of her mouth.
“Do you want some water?” He pushed back from the table. “You look pale.”
“I’m okay.” Her chest rose and fell as she pulled in a long breath and released it. “I’d forgotten about that ribbon. Pink was Kayla’s favorite color. Mine was green. That night Aunt Cass had put our hair in pigtails, and Kayla had insisted on tying pink ribbons in my hair while she tried the green. I was glad he took that ribbon.”
“Why?” He held his breath as Kendall’s eyes took on a faraway look.
“I always thought that when Kayla woke up and found herself with this strange man, she’d feel better seeing the pink ribbon. Now...” She covered her eyes with one hand.
“Now?” He almost whispered the word, his throat tight.
“Now I think that he just killed her, that she never saw the ribbon.”
When her voice broke, he rose from his chair and crouched beside her. He took the hand she had resting on the table and rubbed it between both of his as if she needed warming up.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m forcing these memories and thoughts back to the surface.”
A misty smile trembled on her lips. “This is exactly what I put my clients through every day.”
“And it’s supposed to help them. Is it helping you?”
Sniffling, she dabbed the end of her nose with her fingertips. “This is well-traveled territory. It’s not like I haven’t been through all of this before with my own therapist.”
“You see a therapist?” He sat back on his heels.
“All therapists do at the beginning. It’s part of our training, and most of us keep it up because it helps our work.”
“So I must be a poor substitute.” Although he could probably do a better job than half the quacks out there.
She curled her fingers around one of his hands. “She never holds my hand, so you’ve got her beat there.”
He squeezed her fingers and released them as he backed up to his own seat. “Did your therapy ever bring up any memories of that night that you hadn’t realized as a child? The man’s accent? Someone he reminded you of?”
“Nothing like that.” She stretched her arms over her head. “I don’t have any repressed memories of the event, if that’s what you’re driving at, Doctor Sloane.”
He stroked his chin, wishing he had a clean shave. “You know, sometimes I feel more like a psychiatrist than a cop when I’m questioning people.”
“So tell me.” She wedged her elbows on the table and sunk her chin into one cupped
