Bitter Sweets

room.

    She thought of what this monster might do to her child, if all its rage hadn’t been spent after finishing with her.

    The nurse inside whispered, You’re going to lose consciousness soon. If you’re going to do it, you have to do it now.

    1 don’t have a chance, she told the logical, still-rational nurse. If 1 try, I’ll die. If you don’t try, you’ll die anyway. What do you have to lose?

    Her ex-husband had accused her of being all intellect, no emotion. Maybe he had been right.

    At that moment, she wanted desperately to throw all reason aside. To naively believe that maybe her abuser would tire of the game and let them both go. To scream and beg for mercy. To admit anything and everything...whether it was true or not. To give in to the pain, the horror of her circumstances and just be a terrified child.

    But she knew she couldn’t afford the luxury of hysteria. She was a nurse and, more importantly, a mother.

    Do it! Now! For yourself. For Christy!

    She gathered everything within her, stood on her swollen, bleeding feet, and struck out at her attacker with wire-lacera ted hands.

    Susie O’Donnell had always been a fighter!- And old habits die hard

    CHAPTER SIX

    “Oh, my dear Savannah, how perfectly dreadful for you.” John Gibson sat beside Savannah on the diamondtucked, burgundy leather sofa, patting her hand and giving her more sympathy than she could have hoped for in a month of Sundays.

    She loved coming here to this elegant apartment, high in the foothills overlooking San Carmelita. Among the classic antiques, gilt-edged books in mahogany cases, and paintings of sylvan English countrysides, she could truly appreciate the art of fine European living. It was such a genteel pleasure to drop by, sip Earl Grey tea, and nibble on scones warm from the oven.

    John Gibson and Ryan Stone might be gay, but they surely knew how to treat a lady.

    Looking like a model from a GQ ad, Ryan sat in the wing chair across from them, holding his own mug of tea, an equally concerned look on his face. “You don’t believe that any of this is your fault, do you?” he asked.

    “At the moment, I don’t even know what ‘any of this’ is. Until I find out what’s happened to Lisa Mallock and her little girl, I won’t know how guilty to feel... or not feel... or whatever.”

    “If any harm has come to Mrs, Mallock,” John said, continuing to stroke the back of her hand with his perfectly manicured fingertips, “I’m certain it will be in spite of your diligence, not as a result of your neglect. Savannah, you are truly one of the most responsible young women I’ve ever known.”

    “Thank you,” she said, suppressing a case of the sentimental sniffles.

    “But you are responsible,” he repeated, “and it is my pleasure to say so.”

    “No, I mean, thank you for calling me young.”

    Ryan reached across the cocktail table to refresh her cup of tea. “How can we help?”

    Savannah started to dab at her eyes with her napkin, then remembered it was monogrammed linen. Instead, she dug into her purse for a tissue. “Earl Mallock,” she said. “I need to know everything you can find out about him. All I have is a birthdate, a DMV photo, and basic physical description that isn’t even close anymore.”

    She began to feel better already. As former agents in the FBI, Ryan Stone and John Gibson seemed to be perpetually flowing founts of information regarding almost anyone she asked them to investigate. Although John had retired and Ryan had become a highly paid bodyguard for the rich and famous, she wouldn’t want either one of them on her trail if she were trying to play hide-and-seek.

    “Do you have an address for Mallock?” Ryan asked, taking notes with a gold-trimmed, rosewood fountain pen.

    “The one I have is obsolete. Neither he nor Lisa have lived there since they divorced. The place was sold; I checked.”

    “He has to have been living somewhere,” John said. “Has the police department assigned a detective to investigate?” “Yes, and fortunately for us, it’s Dirk.” The looks exchanged between the two men were less than enthusiastic. With Dirk’s homophobic views and caustic cornments, he hadn’t exactly endeared himself to either of them.

    “Detective Coulter is a... talented... investigator,” John replied carefully. “And he’s very fond of you. I’m sure he’ll share whatever information he has with you.”

    Notably less impressed with Dirk’s