8:20 P.M.
The knock on Miranda’s door didn’t surprise her. Nor did seeing that it was Jake standing on the other side of it. She hadn’t contacted him after Buddy relieved her of duty for the day, and he hadn’t called her.
But even so, she’d known he would come.
“Hey,” she said, opening the door and stepping aside so he could enter.
“Hey,” he said back. “You okay?”
“As well as can be expected. Want a beer?”
“Sure.”
She motioned toward the couch as she passed it on her way to the kitchen. She got them each a bottle of Abita Amber, popped the caps, and carried the bottles back to the living room.
She handed him his and he took a long swallow. He looked tired, she thought. And tense. The same as she must look. How different from the way they had been that morning, sleepy and satisfied, relaxed with each other.
And hopeful, she thought. For the day, the future. Maybe even a romantic relationship between them. Now, that seemed impossibly optimistic.
The memory was bittersweet, and Miranda forced it aside and sat in the chair directly across from him. “What happened with Lund?”
“She clammed up after you left. Her mom showed up with a lawyer.”
Miranda lifted the bottle in a mock toast. “Clammed up and lawyered up, no surprise there.”
“Tracked down a local dominatrix. Calls herself a lifestyle mistress.”
She nearly choked on her swallow of beer. “Lifestyle mistress, no kidding? And right here in little old Harmony, Louisiana.”
“She said Stark contacted her six or so months ago about interviewing her for a book he was writing. They met several times.”
“You ask whether he was into the real thing?”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a grimace. “He had no interest in the submissive role.”
“But the dominant?”
“Asked if he could watch her and a client. Strictly for research.”
“Right.” She rolled her eyes. “And?”
“She had a client that was into it. So she made it happen.”
“Name of the client?”
“She wouldn’t say. Not sure it would help us anyway.”
“What else did she say about him?”
“What do you mean?”
“She say he was a nice guy?”
“Actually, yeah, she did.”
“Figures,” she muttered, taking another swallow of the brew and making no attempt to mask her incredulity and disapproval.
He frowned, looking confused. “What gives, Miranda?”
The elephant in the room, she acknowledged. Sitting squarely between them.
“This is about what happened to you all those years ago, isn’t it?”
She glanced away, then back at him. “Yes. But probably not in the way you think.”
“What am I thinking?”
She lowered her gaze to her hands, clenched around the beer bottle. “Not this, I’m confident of that.”
“Then tell me. Miranda—” He lowered his voice. “Look at me.”
She did, and in his eyes she saw her future. It was a crazy, weird sensation, like a reel of a lifetime playing out in a glance.
She could trust him. He wasn’t like anyone else.
She let out a pent-up breath. The release was almost painful, as if with it she was opening a part of herself that had been sealed shut for a very long time.
“Richard Stark—” She had to force the words out. Saying them aloud, sharing them with another, made them real. Once she did, she could never take them back. “It was him, Jake. He’s the one.”
“The one what?”
She didn’t look away, didn’t even blink. She lifted her chin as if in challenge. “He’s the one who abducted me and the other girl. He’s the one who tied us up, who raped her and meant to rape me.”
For a long, silent moment he simply held her gaze. Then, finally, he asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your proof?”
“I don’t have any. Yet.”
“That night … you recognized him? Why didn’t you say something before now?”
“I didn’t recognize him, not at first. I’ve come to realize who he was. I know I’m right about this, Jake.”
“Oh man…” He dragged a hand through his hair, skeptical too mild a term to describe his expression. “How, Miranda? How do you know?”
“It’s why he had the clipping,” she went on. “And it’s why he was killed.”
“You think.”
Too anxious to stay seated, she stood and began to pace.
“I got a call this morning. From a woman—”
“Who?”
“I promised her complete confidence. I can tell you she knew Stark from the university. She said he wasn’t a nice guy. All that kindness and charm was just a front.”
“Listen to yourself, Miranda. That’s one woman’s opinion. A woman who doesn’t want to be identified, one whose motivation could be anything. Maybe he rejected her?”
“That’s what men always think, isn’t it? That women accuse men of rape because they’re jealous, or rejected, or just plain liars?”
“Wait, now we’re talking about rape? This woman claimed that Stark raped her?”
“She stopped just short of it, yes. That he drugged her, then raped her.”
He shook his head. “Do you really think this guy, this handsome, successful guy—the same one women were drooling over—you think he drugged women so he could have sex with them?”
“Not sex, Jake. Don’t you get it? Sexual assault isn’t about sex—it’s about power, control, and punishment.”
“Why hasn’t anyone come forward?”
“It’s obvious—just replay your last comments. Who would believe them?”
“So, what’s your plan?”
“Lund’s one of his victims, I’m certain of it. And so is the woman I talked to this morning.”
“So that’s where today came from?”
“Yes.” She stopped, met his gaze. “Stark raped her. And Lund was ready to admit it when Buddy yanked me out of there.”
“Big problem, Miranda. You put the thought in her head. And if she is guilty, you gave her a strong motive.”
“She didn’t kill him.”
“Then who did? That’s what we’re supposed to find out.” He paused a moment. “It’s what we’re paid to find out.”
“We’re paid to protect and serve. All citizens. All victims.”
He dragged a hand through his hair again, leaving it standing on end. Oddly, she recalled the way his hair had felt when she ran her hands through it.
“What are you hoping to prove?” he asked. “What’s your outcome?”
“Justice.”
“For Stark?”
“No. For everyone he hurt.”
“He’s dead, Miranda. Someone violently took his life. It was a horrible, terrifying death. You don’t think that was enough?”
“That was vengeance, Jake. This is for every woman he violated, every woman he took something from that wasn’t his to take. When the truth comes out, they’ll be heard. And they’ll be believed.”
He crossed to her, took the beer from her hands, and drew her to her feet. He cupped her face in his palms. “I’m so sorry that happened to you back then.”
“It’s over.”
“Is it?”
They both knew it wasn’t. She’d been foolish enough to think she had moved on. Before Stark’s murder. Before the news clipping found in his desk, before her fingerprints uncovered at the scene. Before Lund and Paula.
It seemed like a long time ago.
Miranda searched his gaze. “Are you going to stay?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes,” she said, standing on tiptoes. “Stay.”
And then she kissed him.