Kelley Armstrong: Wild Justice

“Never left the house.”

I frowned at him.

“Paul called the father,” he said. “Told him what happened. Father phoned his daughter’s house. Left a message. That’s it. Wouldn’t have mattered when you called. Never left his goddamned house.”

“Which means I didn’t explain the situation clearly enough.”

“What situation? Same shit Wilde’s been pulling for years. Father knew that. You want to blame someone? Blame the idiot who gave her the weapon. Here’s a fucking gun . No lessons. No instructions.” He shook his head.

“I still feel—”

“Like you could have saved her. You couldn’t.”

I pulled up my legs and sat cross-legged. After a few minutes of silence, he walked to the door.

I took a deep breath. “Okay, get my shit together or I can mope alone, right?”

He glanced at me, frowning slightly. “No. Not that. Just getting something. Be back.”

Jack was gone about twenty minutes. When he returned, he was carrying two steaming cardboard cups.

“Coffee,” I said. “You’re a mind reader.”

“Not coffee. Not for you.”

He handed me a cup. The smell of chocolate wafted out. I smiled.

“You need sleep,” he said. “Figured you wouldn’t take pills.”

My dad used to make me hot chocolate when I couldn’t fall asleep. I’d mentioned it once to Jack and he’d never forgotten. I wonder sometimes if that’s how he sees me. His student, his protégée, his surrogate daughter.

How do I see Jack? Definitely not as a father figure, no matter how many times he brings me hot chocolate. I see him as a mentor. As a friend. And, as I realized this spring, as someone I’d like to be more than a friend. But there’s never been a hint of reciprocation, and it’s for the best. Jack is not dating material in any way, shape, or form. That’s one of the reasons I’d stopped circling Quinn and given it a shot. Which had gone so well . . .

Except it had gone well with Quinn. I’d screwed that up, too. I’d been a disappointment to someone I really hadn’t wanted to disappoint.

“Nadia?”

“Thank you, for this.” I managed a smile for him as I lifted the cup, then took a deep drink. “Mmm.”

“Still warm?”

I nodded and scooted back on the bed and motioned for him to sit on the edge, which he did.

“How’s Scout?” he asked.

I smiled, genuine now. Jack had given me Scout last spring, as a thank-you for his stay at the lodge. Also because he’d been wanting me to have a dog for years for protection. He knew I wasn’t opposed to the idea. I’d taken in a stray when I was a kid, only to come home and find my mother had made it disappear. I’d wanted a dog; I just didn’t feel my life was stable enough for one. It was and he knew that.

I told Jack a few Scout stories, including her encounter with a “black-and-white kitty” last month. That relaxed me, along with the hot chocolate. Soon I was crawling under the covers. He kept me talking, about the dog, the lodge, anything not related to Wilde and last night, until I finally drifted off.

I dreamed of Rose and Alan Wilde. And of my cousin Amy and her killer, Drew Aldrich. I dreamed that Amy and Drew were Rose and Alan, a version of them, the two stories merging. I was at the marina, arguing with Amy, telling her Aldrich was dangerous. She laughed and said I was being silly, I was always being silly.

Then Drew came with another girl and they fought and Amy drove off. Drew went after her. I didn’t try to stop him. I just headed to my car, telling myself it was nothing, they always fought, no big deal. Then Paul Tomassini called and told me Amy was dead. And I knew it was my fault.

It had always been my fault.

I half woke and heard Jack’s distant voice, telling me it was okay, everything was okay, go back to sleep.

When I did, I fell into a memory. I was thirteen, walking home from the train station with Amy. We’d spent the day at the Canadian National Exhibition in Toronto, and Amy’s dad was supposed to pick us up at the station, but he wasn’t there. I’d wanted to wait. She’d started walking, so I had to walk, too, had to stay with her, keep her safe. That was my job.

Amy was a year older than me, but reckless, impetuous. Her dad had told me to keep an eye on her that day, knowing I would.

We were still walking when Drew Aldrich offered us a ride. I said no. He was twenty-four, and I didn’t like the way he looked at Amy. Didn’t like the way she looked back, either.

Drew wanted to take us to his cabin for “some fun.” I was sure—absolutely sure—that Amy would refuse. As wild and impulsive as she was, she was still a cop’s daughter, like me. She knew better.

When she said yes, I freaked out. She begged. She really liked him and if I was there, it would be fine. We could talk. Maybe smoke a joint. I didn’t have to, of course, but she wanted to try it. Just once. We’d go for an hour. That was it. One joint. One hour.

I was furious. Yet I didn’t feel that I had a choice. If I refused, she’d go alone. So I had to go and keep her safe. Later, I’d make sure she never did anything this stupid again.

There was no later. Not for Amy.

I dreamed I was back in that cabin. That horrible cabin, stinking of rotten wood and mildew and dirt. I could hear Amy in the next room. Crying. Telling Aldrich no, please no, please stop.

He’d left me tied up, but I got free. I should have gone in there and saved her. Instead, I did what my father had taught me from the time I was old enough to walk to school alone. If there’s trouble, don’t try to handle it yourself. Just run. Get help.

So I ran.

In real life, I’d raced to the station, where my dad was on duty. He’d jumped into his car and taken off to that cabin. I stayed with the dispatcher.

That wasn’t what happened in the dream. When I got to the station and told my dad, we both ran back to the cabin on foot, tearing through the forest, me in the lead, running so fast I thought my chest would explode. I could hear Amy. Screaming. The faster I ran, the farther away the cabin got. I shouted for her to wait, just wait, we were coming. She just kept screaming, horrible, terrible screams.

And then she stopped.

She stopped screaming and the cabin was suddenly right in front of me. I looked back for my father, but he was still in the woods, so far away I could barely see him.

I threw open the door. The smell hit me. The stink of rotten wood and mildew and something else, something sharp and acrid that I didn’t recognize. And when I smelled that, I froze. I felt a cord around my wrists, a cold blade at my throat, hot breath on my neck, fingers digging into my thighs, rough clothing rasping against my bare skin, Drew Aldrich’s voice in my ear.

“Nadia. Pretty, sweet little Nadia.”

I could hear Amy whimpering and crying in the next room and I knew I had to get to her, but I was frozen there, Aldrich whispering in my ear.

Except none of that happened. Not to me. It was Amy he’d raped. I needed to snap out of it, save her.

Finally, I forced my feet to move. One step, then another, leaving those false memories behind as I walked into the next room where—

Amy was there. Naked. Sprawled on the floor. Covered in stab wounds. Blood pooled around her. Dead eyes staring up at the ceiling. Then, slowly, her head turned my way, eyes still wide and unseeing.

“You did this, Nadia,” her voice came out in a raspy whisper. “You ran away. You left me. You killed me.”

I started to scream.

I was still screaming when someone began pounding on the cabin door.