All the Pretty Girls - J. T. Ellison [63]
Lucy paused for a moment, as if deciding whether to tell the truth or not. Marcus was reminded of a kid caught in the candy store, debating whether to admit she had the candy in her pocket or deny its existence till her dying breath. Conscience apparently won.
“It’s not that I can identify him, exactly. It’s just that something about him seemed really…familiar.” She drew the word out slowly, like it had never been tried before, like she wasn’t quite sure of its pronunciation.
Marcus rubbed his chin, trying to look thoughtful. “Okay, I can understand that. You don’t want to finger the wrong man. Perfectly acceptable. How about this. Tell me where he seems familiar from.”
“Well…everywhere. It’s like he’s always around, ya know? All the places I go to. The gas station for coffee, the gym, the grocery.”
“Do you think he’s stalking you?”
“Naw. He doesn’t realize I recognize him. It’s just that I seem to run into him everywhere I go. It’s the arms. It was the only thing I could see, you know. His face was covered, his hair was covered, but he had these arms, and they were all strong and ropy and he held me down so hard. It’s the arms that I keep seeing.” There was a catch in her throat, but her eyes were dry.
“Ma’am, do you know his name?”
She shook her head, miserable, trying not to cry. “No.”
“Anything about him? The way he smelled? A certain phrase he may have used?”
Lucy shook her head. “No, no, nothing like that.”
“But you still think you know who it is.”
“No, I didn’t say that. I don’t know who he is. But I recognize the car he’s in,” she added, a sly grin on her face.
Marcus gave a hopeful glance to Lincoln, who had also gone on alert. This could be a huge break. Imagine, they could solve the Rainman case in one day while the Sex Crimes Unit had been trying for years.
Marcus stepped a bit closer, put a hand on her arm. She didn’t jerk away, just stared at his hand like she’d never been touched before. Marcus had an inkling that she had, just not in such a gentle way. She looked up at him, looked him straight in the eye.
“It’s an unmarked car. The man who raped me is a cop.”
Twenty-Five
Christina Dale woke leisurely, cloudy and warm. She clung to the last vestiges of the dream, images from her childhood, a park, or no, was it her backyard? It was green and warm, and she could smell a hint of onion in the freshly mown grass. The sky was as blue as a robin’s egg, clear and heavy, with puffy white clouds floating by. She felt content, it was the best kind of dream, the one where you wake up and just know it’s going to be a wonderful day. A languid smile moved across her face, and as she began to swim into focus, the images drifted, blown away on the winds of her mind.
She started to roll over and realized her body wasn’t following her brain’s command. That was weird. She must still be drunk from last night. That happened sometimes, she was still drunk when she woke up. Especially when they did those dumb drugs the college kids liked so much. The roofies always made her boneless the next day.
She tried to reach down and massage some feeling back into her legs. Her eyes flew open and she knew something was dreadfully wrong. There was rope tied around her arms and legs. She came fully awake, panicking, adrenaline rushing through her body and bringing everything into focus. The rope cut bitterly across her ribs, her arms were stretched above her head, painfully pulling her shoulders from their sockets. She tried to wriggle but only succeeded in drawing the ropes tighter, nearly cutting off her breath.
“Oh my God,” she moaned. It all came back to her. The lazy grin, the shock of black hair that fell across his forehead, those intense cobalt cat eyes. Her mother warned her time and time again that she was too open, too trusting, that if she kept on sleeping with every Tom, Dick and Harry she met around that she could end up hurt or dead. But who wouldn’t respond to the gorgeous creature of a man that she had stumbled out of the bar with?
She stared around