Meg O'Brien - Crimson Rain

As for Rachel, they thanked God that she had always been quiet and shy, showing no signs of RAD.

“You might want to keep an eye on Rachel,” Victoria had cautioned. “This kind of thing can suddenly appear in the teens, and even later.”

So far, so good, Paul thought that Christmas. Angela seemed to be getting better, while Rachel still showed no signs of the kind of syndrome Angela suffered from. Gratefully he took Gina into his arms, and together they listened to the sounds of carols on the stereo in the living room, the twins making small noises as they played around the Christmas tree.

“How did we get so lucky?” Paul murmured against his wife’s hair. She smelled of apples and cinnamon, and he loved her more than life itself. He wanted to take her to bed right then and there, and thought: If we could just get the girls in bed early…

That probably wouldn’t happen, of course. They were too excited about Santa coming. Paul was looking forward to it, too. The twins were at an age where they understood the Santa Claus story, and he and Gina looked forward to getting up in the morning and seeing their delight over the toys Santa had brought them.

Paul smiled and slid his lips down to Gina’s, pulling her against him and rocking slightly back and forth. Excitement began to build in him, and he could feel her shudder and melt, her arms tightening around his neck as their lips moved. He took her tongue inside his mouth and began the gentle searching that he knew would send her over the top. Gina’s arms tightened and she pressed herself so close there was little room left to breathe.

She did that, Paul knew, when she began to feel weak with arousal, hanging on to him as if to an anchor. He loved that feeling, the one of being needed, and his own arousal became a growing force, taking him over. Neither of them heard as the noises from the twins in the living room became louder and more intense.

The crash brought them back. That, and Rachel’s earsplitting scream.

“Good God, what did they do now?” Gina half laughed as she pulled away from Paul’s arms and ran for the kitchen door. Paul was close behind her, but was caught up short as Gina stopped in her tracks, her hands going to her mouth, eyes wide.

“No!” she screamed, running toward the twins.

Paul couldn’t say, later, if he’d fully understood what was going on. The tableau that met his eyes was too shocking, too unbelievable.

The eight-foot Christmas tree had been knocked over and lay on its side, surrounded by puddles of water. Ornaments had fallen off and broken; fragile shards were scattered everywhere. Foil icicles glittered on the carpet, and the toy train beneath the tree had jumped its tracks.

Angela, in her white Christmas dress with its bright red sash, stood over her sister, a sharp kitchen knife in her hand. Rachel lay on her back on the floor, her arms up in a feeble attempt to fend her sister off. Her screams cut into Paul, sending pain straight through him.

Angela never looked up, nor showed any sign at all that she’d heard when Gina yelled out, running toward her. Paul ran, too, but felt as if he were moving in slow motion. His legs were like lead, and his mind could barely take in what he was seeing.

Before they could reach her, Angela thrust the knife down. Paul somehow miraculously moved ahead of Gina and barreled into Angela, pushing her to the ground and wresting the knife from her hand. She fought him with the ferocity of an animal, her teeth biting into his arm, feet kicking at his groin.

Paul closed his mind to the red-hot pain and held his ground. Looking back quickly, he saw that Gina knelt beside Rachel and was holding the child in her arms. Blood seeped through Rachel’s pink Christmas dress and onto Gina’s blouse.

In the background, carols continued to play. “Joy to the world, the Lord is come…”

Paul looked down into Angela’s five-year-old hazel eyes and saw nothing but evil there. No fear, no remorse. Their color now seemed darker than her hair—huge, black orbs filled with hatred. She opened her mouth and spit into his face.

Paul’s heart plummeted to his feet. To him, it seemed as if Satan, not the Lord, had arrived that night.

Seattle, Washington

December 20, sixteen years later

She walked into the bedroom dressed in a gold satin gown so tight Paul could see every sinewy muscle as she moved toward him. Her hips swayed, and she touched the tip of a finger to her mouth, wetting it, then pushing it farther in, sucking on it as her eyes met his in a familiar promise. The fabric of the dress was so thin, so tight, it was little more than gold sweat outlining her breasts and the deep V between her thighs.

God, she looked good. How many hours a day did it take to stay in such great shape?

Momentarily he thought of Gina, his wife, and felt a pang of remorse. He remembered the way they had been together the first year of their marriage.

But that was more than twenty years ago, and no matter how hard they had tried to hold things together, no matter how they had honestly wanted it, nothing had been the same since that terrible Christmas when Angela…

As fast as the thought came, Paul turned it off. He had learned to do that—to compartmentalize and not dwell on the bad times. Instead he turned his attention to his groin, and the fact that he was growing hard. It was almost painful, the excitement his mistress, Lacey, could invoke in him by the merest look. It was a good pain, though, telling him he was still alive. Rational thought flew out the window as she reached the side of the bed and raised one long, slender leg, straddling him. Leaning down, she swept his cheeks with her waist-length blond hair, teasing and laughing softly as her full breasts nearly fell out of their satin shield.

Paul reached up and yanked the low-cut neckline apart, his arousal intensifying as he heard the buttons pop, the thin fabric rip. Lacey gave a soft laugh. He had bought her the gown so that he could do this, playing out a fantasy that Lacey enjoyed. He could never bring himself to actually hurt her, nor did she ask for that. This pretense at roughness had become part of their foreplay, one his mistress had suggested, and the lingerie was a one-time purchase he could well afford. She threw back her head, shaking her hair in buttery waves as her body began to move over his. Reaching for him with one hand, she slid him inside her while remaining upright and giving him access to her breasts. Rocking back and forth, she moaned.

The tightness in Paul’s throat grew as he grabbed her breasts firmly, the way she liked it. Squeezing her nipples until they were stiff, hard nubs he could fix his mouth around, he stroked the soft fullness of them, letting the feel of her overtake him until all coherent thought left his mind. Only a blank slate was left. A blank slate with nothing written on it—no unhappy past, no painful present, no pallid future.

When it was over, it was as if a job had been done, a commitment met, if only to himself. He had managed to hold the memories at bay.

Spent, Paul stared at the ceiling. For three months, holding the bad memories at bay had been Lacey Allison’s only job. He had rescued her from a string of temporary positions as an assistant to various Seattle CEOs and had put her up in this luxury apartment. For the past three months she had waited for him every evening, whether he was able to come here or not. Even during the day, when she went out to shop, she would take a cell phone with her so that he could reach her at any time. This, too, was her suggestion. She wanted to be with him every possible moment.

As for Paul, from the day he’d made the decision to be with her—unthinkable up until then—he couldn’t get enough of her. He wanted to drink her down, make her a part of him that would never leave, never go.