Cross

"We can sit over here," I prompted. She waited for me to sit first, so I did.

Kim finally sat down herself, perched tentatively on the forward edge of the chair. One of her hands fluttered nervously around the knot in her scarf. The other was clenched into a fist.

"I just need some help trying to understand someone," she began. "Someone who gets angry sometimes."

"Is this someone close to you?"

She stiffened. "I'm not giving you his name."

"No," I said. "The name isn't important. But is this a family member?"

"Fiance."

I nodded. "How long have you two been engaged? Is that all right to ask?"

"Four years," she said. "He wants me to lose some weight before we get married."

Maybe it was force of habit, but I was already working up a profile on the fiance. Everything was her fault in the relationship; he took no responsibility for his own actions; her weight was his escape hatch.

"Kim, when you say he gets angry a lot – can you tell me a little more about that?"

"Well, it's just…" She stopped to think, although I'm sure it was embarrassment and not a lack of clarity that held her back. Then tears pearled at the corners of her eyes.

"Has he been physically violent with you?" I asked.

" No," she said, a little too quickly. "Not violent. It's just… Well, yes. I guess so."

With one shaky breath, she seemed to give up on words. Instead, she untied the scarf around her neck and let it float down into her lap.

I hated what I saw. The welts were easy enough to make out. They ran like blurred stripes around her throat.

I'd seen those kinds of striated markings before. Usually they were on dead bodies.

Chapter 48

I HAD TO REMIND MYSELF – the murders are behind you now; this is just a therapy session.

"Kim, how did you get those marks on your neck? Tell me whatever you can."

She winced as she tied the scarf back on. "If my cell phone rings, I have to answer it. He thinks I'm at my mother's house," she said.

A terrible look crossed her face, and I realized it was too early to ask her about specific incidences of abuse.

Still not looking at me, she unbuttoned the sleeve of her blouse. I wasn't sure what she was doing until I saw the angry red sore above the wrist on her forearm. It was just begi

"Is that a burn mark?" I asked.

"He smokes cigars," she said.

I breathed in. She'd answered so matter-of-factly. "Have you called the police?"

She laughed bitterly. "No. I haven't."

Her hand went up to her mouth, and she looked away again. This man had obviously scared her into protecting him, no matter what.

A cell phone chirped inside her purse.

Without a word to me, she took out the phone, looked at the number, and answered.

"Hey, baby. What's up?" Her voice was soft and easygoing, and totally convincing. "No," she said. "Mom went out to get some milk. Of course I'm sure. I'll tell her you said hi."

It was fascinating to watch Kim's face as she spoke. She wasn't just acting for him. She was playing this part for herself. That's how she was getting by, wasn't it?

When she finally hung up, she looked at me with the most incongruous smile, as though no conversation had taken place at all. It lasted less than a few seconds. Then she broke up, all at once. A low moan turned into a sob that racked her body; she rocked forward, clutching herself around the middle.

"Th- this is too hard," she choked out. "I'm sorry. I can't do it. I can't… be here."

When the cell phone rang a second time, she jumped in her seat. These surveillance calls were the thing that made it hardest for her to be here – trying to juggle awareness and denial at the same time.

She wiped at her face as though her appearance mattered, then answered in the same soft voice as before.

"Hey, baby No, I was washing my hands. Sorry, baby. It took me a second to get to the phone."

I could hear him shouting about something as Kim nodded patiently and listened.

Eventually, she held up a finger to me and let herself out into the hall.

I used the time to go through a few of my provider directories and to calm down my own anger. When Kim came back in, I tried to give her the names of some shelters in the area, but she refused them.

"I've got to go," she said suddenly. The second call had sealed her up tight. "How much do I owe you?"

"Let's call this an initial consult. Pay me for the second appointment."

"I don't want charity. I don't think I can come back anyway. How much?"

I answered reluctantly. "It's one hundred an hour on a sliding scale. Fifty would be good."

She counted it out for me, mostly fives and singles that she had probably stashed away over time. Then she left the office. My first session had ended.

Chapter 49

MISTAKE. BAD ONE.

A New Jersey mob boss and former contract killer named Be

A bosomy blond woman got out of the sedan, stretching her long legs like she was auditioning for the Rockettes. She was a former Miss Universe contestant, twenty-six years old, with some of the best moving parts money could buy. She was also a little too classy and hot for the mobster to have snagged without some cash having changed hands. Be

The Butcher watched, mildly amused, from his own car parked half a block down the street. He guessed that the blonde was setting Be

Michael Sullivan checked his watch.

Seven fifty-two. This was payback for Venice. The begi

At eight fifteen, he took his briefcase from the backseat, got out, and crossed the street, staying in the soft shadows of maple and elm trees. It didn't take much waiting time for a blue-haired woman wrapped in a fur coat to come out of the apartment building. Sullivan held the door for her with a friendly smile and then let himself inside.

Everything was more or less the way he remembered it. Apartment 4C had been in the Family for years, ever since opportunities had started opening up in Washington for the mob. The place was a perk for anyone in town who needed some extra privacy, for whatever reason. The Butcher had used it himself once or twice when he was doing jobs for Be

Even the cheap Korean dead bolt on the front door was the same, or close enough. Another mistake. Sullivan jimmied it with a three-dollar awl from his workshop at home. He put the tool back into the briefcase and took out his gun and a surgical blade, a very special one.

The living room was mostly dark. Cones of light spilled in from two directions – the kitchen on his left, a bedroom on his right. Be

"That's it, baby. That's what I like," Be

Sullivan's silencer popped softly, and just once. He shot the former Miss Universe contestant in the back of her hairdo, and the woman's blood and brains splattered all over Be