Behind Closed Doors. Tara Quinn Taylor
of his touch. It didn’t feel in the least exciting. It felt like a man invading her. Taking from her. Using her. And when he climaxed, he reached that particular summit alone.
Half an hour later—hall light off and Laura settled for the night—Harry sat propped up against the pillows, Laura’s head just below his rib cage, and watched. His eyes were fully adjusted to the dark, and so much as a speck of dust moved through the air he was going to know about it.
And if it posed a threat, he’d annihilate it.
The new alarm system was already installed—thanks to a friend of a friend—and the windows had double locks.
Harry stayed quiet and still, his hand in the middle of Laura’s back where it had lain for the past half hour as he did another mental check of their surroundings. Laura wasn’t asleep yet, he could tell by her breathing. She hadn’t spoken a word since her fervently whispered thank you as she’d pulled her pajamas back on before snuggling up against his stomach.
It was only 10:30. And it was going to be a long night.
The first bit of wetness didn’t register as tears. He’d figured, with her skin against his, that they were both sweating. But when Laura’s next breath, more of a sob, jostled his hand on her back, he knew better.
“Come here,” he said, pulling her up to rest her head against his good shoulder. And then, not caring about the ache in his other shoulder, he held her in both arms, rubbing her back, her hair, whispering to her as she released such wrenching sobs he felt his own eyes fill with tears.
Nothing he said seemed to get through to her—exactly like the night before, when she’d locked herself in the bathroom. She let him hold her but hardly seemed aware that he was there, didn’t nuzzle into him—didn’t relax at all. He could’ve been an inanimate piece of furniture for all she seemed to notice him.
His offer of sustenance, of comfort and strength, seemed to go unheeded.
More than an hour later, she settled down on her side of the bed, her head on the pillow, her back to him and, with a shudder, went to sleep. By sheer force of will, Harry stayed there in bed, watching her.
What the hell did he do now?
What could he do?
He couldn’t fix this for her. Couldn’t wipe out the violence. Or the fear.
He couldn’t erase the pain, the violation—or her memory of him being overtaken, bound and beaten, unable to help, while two men took turns raping her.
She hiccupped in her sleep and Harry’s entire body deflated. What kind of man allowed such atrocities to his wife without giving up his own life to protect her? Replaying the scene in his mind for the hundredth time, Harry tried to figure out where he’d gone wrong. What he could’ve done differently.
How he could have prevented the attack.
He should’ve put a better security lock on the sliding glass door. He should’ve invested in an alarm system, although their neighborhood was considered safe. He should’ve insisted on a guard dog, in spite of Laura’s allergy to pet dander.
He should have heeded her father’s warning and kept his black ass away from the white man’s daughter.
Harry reached for the pistol. The touch of cold metal against his skin didn’t take away the rage. It didn’t diminish the anguish coursing through him. It didn’t make him feel any less emasculated.
As he sat there, calling on every ounce of self-control he had, Harry knew one thing. His love for Laura was not weak, faithless or changeable. Somehow he was going to make this right.
Even if that meant keeping his black ass far away from her.
The thought filled him with despair.
Still resolute, he sat beside her, eyes wide open, offering protection through the long hot night.
4
“M r. Moss, if you’re elected to a seat in the U.S. senate, what will you do about our growing border-control issues that our current politicians haven’t already tried?”
George Moss stepped away from the microphone, assessing the young man standing halfway back in the audience at the Tucson elementary-school cafeteria Saturday morning. He was twenty-something and well-dressed, his tie slightly loosened at the neck. Blond hair cut short and chin held high enough to command respect but not so high as to appear egotistical.
Returning to the podium, making eye contact with his questioner, Moss said, “I have the two things you need to make anything happen. Drive and energy.”
At the young man’s nod, he could’ve stopped.
“The number of illegal immigrants in Arizona is rising dramatically,” he continued, speaking for the brotherhood that had given his campaign the financial support that was taking him to victory. “Because there’s no record of these individuals, there’s no way to trace them, to account for them, and if they break the law, there’s no way to identify or find them.”
Sitting now, the young man didn’t smile but seemed satisfied with the response.
The questions went on, all of the current “hot button issues” being raised, just as he’d been coached to expect.
But the answers were less difficult than his advisors had warned him they’d be. He didn’t have to refer to his prewritten responses. He only had to say what he knew to be true.
“We need a renewal of family values if we’re to rescue this great country,” he told the audience at large, engaging with as many of them as would meet his gaze. “Women are successful members of the workforce, but they have another talent, a far more valuable talent, that most men will never be blessed with. A talent this country so desperately needs. They are the keepers of the heart, ladies and gentlemen. The nurturers. It is they who, day by day, moment by moment, instill values in our children.”
As the room erupted in applause, George Moss’s determination to win at any cost solidified. Someone had to save America.
Detective Daniel Boyd finally got a few hours sleep and woke Saturday morning with his mind still in gear.
Sean Williams. The name popped up in his first second of consciousness. The name he’d been looking for in the early hours of Friday morning, just before the Kendall call came in. Sean Williams. A forty-year-old schoolteacher who’d been apprehended late Friday afternoon and charged with the rape and murder of two fourteen-year-old girls—one of them Sherry O’Connor. The crimes had been committed five years apart. God only knew how many more there were that they hadn’t pinned on the bastard yet.
With the DNA sample they’d taken yesterday after the man’s arrest, they had enough to put him away for 150 years.
With a grunt and a sigh Boyd rolled out of bed, shuffled across the hard wooden floors of the bedroom that had belonged to his mother all through his growing-up years and into the bathroom that could also be accessed from the hallway.
He’d had new tile, vanity, toilet and tub put in the previous year, which still gave him pause on days like today when he was coming off a hard case—or starting a new one—disoriented, waking from a deep sleep.
And too little sleep.
He’d get up, somehow expecting to find the room just as it’d been during his childhood.
Williams was off the streets, but the two men who’d beaten Harry Kendall and raped his wife were free. Which led Daniel to the realization he’d accepted years before.
Only one thing in life was guaranteed.
There was always another case.
Harry stayed in bed until nine. He’d finally dozed off just before five. Throughout the long night Laura moaned in her sleep several times. Whimpered once. And slept on. Understandably. The events of the past thirty-one hours had exhausted