In Safe Hands (15 page)

“These are…great, Dad. I'll have to do some research so I know what I'm selling. Dolls are new to me.”

“Yeah.” He laughed. “Even as a little girl, you'd pick a stuffed animal over a doll every time.”

She smiled back, quickly folding the flaps closed to break the dolls' unwavering stares. “Thank you again, Dad. That was really thoughtful of you.”

Brushing off her thanks uncomfortably, he turned toward the garbage can. “I'd better head out. I'll take out the trash on my way.” Pulling a handful of mail from his coat pocket, he laid it on the counter. “I stopped by the post office, too.”

“Thanks.” Her stomach twisted a little. “Want me to make you a sandwich for the road?”

“No, I'll just stop somewhere. Coffee'd be good, though.”

Daisy didn't hesitate to move toward the brewer. It was a relief to have something to do so she didn't have to stand there and watch him scramble to leave as fast as possible. She focused on the
drip, drip
of the brewing coffee until it gurgled to a stop. After she transferred it to a travel mug, she saw he was by the door, ready to go.

Her smile was forced, but it didn't matter, since he was careful not to make eye contact with her.

“Travel safe,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “Thanks again for the books and the dolls.” Daisy was proud at how the word “dolls” came out with barely a pause. Maybe Chris would take them with him next time he stopped by to visit. They could ride shotgun in the squad and terrify criminals into surrendering.

“Bye, Daisy.”

She carefully fastened the locks, one by one, until she was secure again. Alone, but secure.

* * *

She could hear her mom sobbing, pleading, but Daisy couldn't see her face. Everything was blurry except for the gun in his black-gloved hand. Daisy shook so hard that her tremors rattled the snack-cake display she was hiding behind. Although she desperately tried to be quiet, the scream built up inside of her, pressing against her lungs until she had to let it out or she would suffocate. The shrill sound escaped, filling her ears and drowning out everything—her mother's cries, the stranger's threats, the sirens outside. Where was Chris? Chris always came at this point. He wasn't there, though. No one was there. The gun flashed, and Daisy knew her mom was gone. Grief blended with fear, and her scream grew louder and louder until the gun pointed straight at Daisy's face.

She jerked awake with a gasp. As soon as she realized it had been a dream, she scooted to the edge of the bed. The sheets were damp from sweat, and they clung to her skin, slowing her progress.

With a small noise of disgust, Daisy yanked at the material. In her half-awake panic, she just managed to tangle herself further. Her feet caught the edge of her blankets, tripping her as she lurched out of bed. She landed on her hands and knees, the hardwood floor connecting painfully, the throb telling her she'd have bruises later. Twisting so she was sitting on the floor, she kicked her way free of the covers that still managed to cling to her feet.

Finally free, she scrambled to her feet and hurried toward the stairs, whacking her shoulder on her bedroom doorframe as she passed through it. She grimaced, rubbing the spot where yet another bruise would appear. It was like the house itself was punishing her for what she'd done that day eight years ago.

Although she hadn't had a destination in mind when she'd fled her bedroom, her legs carried her automatically to the training room. Ignoring the creeping feeling of menace emanating from the immobile equipment, she jumped onto the treadmill. Daisy arrowed up the speed past her usual warm-up, needing to run fast enough to get away from the nightmares and the memories and her stupid, panicky, shut-away life.

Running was too monotonous, though, giving her too much time to think. She kept thinking she heard things over the steady
burr
of the treadmill—a creak of a floorboard or the click of a latch. Every imaginary sound made her jump and flinch so strongly that, several times, she stepped on the edge of the belt and almost fell. Running wasn't enough to kill her past and present ghosts, so she started a circuit, moving from pull-ups to leg-lifts to jump-ups to burpees to sit-ups to punching the heavy bag to push-ups and back to the treadmill for more sprints. She lost track of how many rotations she'd done, her muscles burning until they finally just went numb.

Numb was good, she decided, as the feeling disappeared from her body and then her brain. She stopped hearing the phantom intruder, her mother's sobs, a gun firing. All she knew was her feet pounding on the treadmill or her fists smacking against the bag, until either she tripped or her legs decided they were done, and she sprawled on the floor.

That didn't hurt as much as it should have, either, so there was another benefit to the numbness. With the current noodle-like state of her muscles, she barely managed to roll over onto her back. The high ceiling was white and bumpy, and Daisy stared at it until her eyes grew fuzzy and she had to close them.

She wondered if she'd really damaged her body, if the lack of feeling was disguising a serious injury. With her phone upstairs, Daisy would have no way to call for help. She'd be trapped in the exercise room, possibly for days, until Chris decided to visit. Or maybe he'd never come. He'd decide she was too much trouble, or the sheriff would order him to stay away, or Chris would find a girlfriend who could actually leave the house and go on a date, and he'd marry this non-messed-up woman, and they'd have adorable blond babies who'd wear Chris's charming grin.

Daisy knew she was wallowing in self-pity, but she couldn't stop. Her muscles and her mind had nothing left to give, no reserves of emotion or energy to help her bounce out of her funk. She could only lie there, tears seeping from under her eyelids and tracking over her temples. Finally, she took the only escape she had open to her—unconsciousness.

* * *

The pounding woke her. It was faint, but persistent, and it seemed to be growing louder. She rolled onto her side and groaned when every piece of her shrieked in agony. The floor was hard underneath her, and she reluctantly opened her eyes to see the legs of a weight bench in front of her face.

Painfully, she hauled herself to a sitting position, blinking a few times to orientate herself.

“You couldn't have made it to the mats before you passed out?” Daisy muttered. She'd never been drunk, so she'd never been hungover, but she wondered if it felt anything like her current state. If so, she'd continue abstaining for reasons other than just because her dad refused to buy her alcohol.

The pounding was getting ferocious, so Daisy stumbled to her feet, straightening her body with a whimper. Her first steps were stilted and uneven, although moving helped the stiffness in her muscles. By the time she reached the front door, she was walking almost normally—normally, at least, for a ninety-year-old woman.

She jabbed at the intercom button. “What?”

There was a pause before Chris's voice came through the speaker. “What do you mean ‘what'? Why didn't you answer?” He sounded pissed.

“I was sleeping,” she snapped, feeling a little cranky herself. “Why didn't—this is dumb.” Releasing the intercom button, she buzzed Chris in and then leaned against the door, taking some of her weight off her complaining legs.

The exterior door closed with a harder thud than usual, meaning Chris had helped it along. For some reason, the idea of him slamming doors like a hormonal thirteen-year-old girl made her snicker as she unfastened the interior door locks.

When she saw his face, her initial theory was confirmed. He was indeed pissed.

Although she expected him to tear into her as soon as he was inside, Chris remained silent until she'd locked the door and made her stumbling way into the kitchen.

“What's wrong with you?” he finally demanded, following her. Instead of heading to the coffeemaker, he stood stiffly by the far counter, his arms crossed over his chest. As always, it really did nice things to his muscles when he stood that way.

Daisy shook off the lecherous thoughts, trying to focus. “What's wrong with me?” she repeated. “You're going to have to be more specific.”

His scowl deepened, and Daisy didn't have the heart to tell him it made him more attractive rather than intimidating. “You're limping. Are you hurt?”

“Just sore.” With a yawn, she figured she might as well take advantage of the brewer if Chris wasn't interested. “I worked out pretty hard last night.” She started a cup of coffee and grabbed a glass for water. From the way her head was pounding, she knew she had to be dehydrated. She downed two glassfuls while Chris glared at her.

“Why didn't you answer your phone?”

Apparently, it was going to take a few more minutes for Chris to get over his snit. “My phone's in my bedroom.”

For a moment, he looked more confused than angry. “You just said you couldn't hear me knock because you were sleeping.”

“I
was
sleeping.” She traded her water glass for the coffee mug. Between the water and the caffeine, one or both should help with her headache. “Just not in bed.” A yawn interrupted her explanation. “I fell asleep in the training room.”

“Why were you sleeping in the training room?”

Sometimes it was a pain to be friends with a cop. “It wasn't really a planned decision. I was tired after working out, so I lay down and dozed off.”

“On the floor of the training room.”

Since her mouth was full of coffee, she just gave an affirmative shrug.

“How long did you work out?”

Seriously, he was a bulldog. “I don't know. A while.”

“A while.” He'd talked about the sheriff's confession-winning stare, but his wasn't too shabby. “Did you fall asleep or did you pass out?”

“Does it matter?” She couldn't hold his gaze. Instead, she focused on tracing the rim of her mug. “Did you want some coffee?”

“Yes, it matters.” He ignored her other question. “What happened? Was it hearing about the Gray case?” His arms uncrossed so he could scrub his hands over his face. “I knew I shouldn't have gotten you involved.”

“No!” she yelped, panicked at the thought of her new friends disappearing as quickly as they'd entered her life. “It's not that. I like hearing about the case. I just had a nightmare. It was probably from eating too many brownies.”

“Brownies.” His tone was skeptical, but he let it go as he connected the brownies-to-eggs-to-father dots. “Your dad's here?”

She shook her head, glad to be focusing on something other than the possibility of getting kicked out of the Nancy Drew club. It wasn't Chris's decision, but she didn't know the women well enough to determine if they'd stay away if he asked. “He stopped by with groceries and demon dolls, but he left right away for a new job.”

“A new job? He didn't even stay one night?” The muscle on the side of his jaw was doing a weird twitchy thing. “Wait. Demon dolls?”

“Yes. I guess it's a huge new house going up outside of Parker. And wait until you see these creepy things.” She hurried over to where the box was still sitting on the counter. She'd brought the kids' books into the study but left the dolls, since the kitchen was the room farthest from her bedroom.

“Daisy. We're not done talking about… What the hell?”

“Hell.” Daisy moved the box closer to Chris so he could get the full creepy impact. “Exactly. Because that is where they are from and where they want to drag us all.”

“Your dad brought those?” He glanced at her in disbelief and then returned his focus to the dolls, as if he couldn't stop himself. “Why?”

“He found them at the junk store in Connor Springs.” Feeling she'd tortured Chris enough—even as high-handed and bossy as he was currently being—she returned the box to its place on the counter and closed the flaps before reaching for her coffee again. “He said they looked old, so he thought I could sell them online.”

“Someone would buy those?”

She shrugged and gave him a small grin. “My dad did.”

His snort was more than half a laugh, and he moved to the coffeemaker, so Daisy assumed lecture time was over. “They look like something we'd find in a serial killer's house.”

“Exactly.” She eyed him over the top of her mug. “And it was the dolls that made him do it.”

That time, Chris really did laugh. “No wonder you had nightmares last night.” The reminder sobered him. “Was it the usual?”

“Yeah.” Her hands were suddenly shaky, and she put her mug on the counter so the hot coffee didn't slosh over the sides onto her fingers. “Mom. You weren't there, though.”

His head whipped around so he could stare at her, his expression stricken. “I'm usually in your nightmares?”

He looked so upset at the thought that she hurried to reassure him. “No. It just normally follows what really happened.” Her hands were sweating now, as well as trembling, so she rubbed them on her pajama-slash-workout pants. “Last night, after Mom…fell, he looked at me. The gun…the gun was…” Her throat closed, not permitting her to speak, barely allowing her to breathe. Even though her palms were dry, she kept rubbing them up and down her thighs.

“Hey.” Chris was suddenly right in front of her, holding her wrists and keeping her hands still. “I
was
there. I shot him before he could even
think
about doing anything to you, okay? I just wish…”

“I know.” Leaning forward, she let her forehead rest against his chest. “I wish that, too.”

His thumbs stroked the inside of her wrists as they just stood silently for a while. Daisy basked in the rare contact of his skin against hers. She was tempted—so tempted—to raise her head, to bring her lips to his. The only thing that allowed her to resist was the memory of his appalled reaction the last time she'd attempted to kiss him. If she tried again, would he stop visiting her altogether? The thought was so terrifying, she felt the prickle of anxious sweat.