Her Forgotten Betrayal(38)

Every few pages, amidst the array of neatly assembled images, were missing photos. No more than one or two blank spots at a time, but it was enough disorder to seem odd to her now. Someone had ripped pictures out. Photos of her and Cole? That was why she hadn’t recognized him, not by sight. If she flipped through the other books, she expected she’d discover the same pattern. Someone had systematically removed every visual trace of the courageous young man her teenage self had been head-over-heels in love with.

All along, Cole had been the memory she’d been searching the pictures for.

She scanned the bedroom around her. She’d been instinctively drawn to this charming room that said so much about the grandmother she couldn’t remember. And she’d felt just as drawn, even more so, to Cole. She found herself more confident than ever that she was safe in his arms. When she touched him, she was powerful and demanding and independent. She was herself. That’s what was real. Him and her, and here and now. Not the mania that had temporarily shaken her confidence downstairs, because his kisses had helped her regain another piece of who she’d been.

She touched her lips. They were still throbbing.

Her and Cole’s explosive passion had called back her last awful memory about Sebastian, but that had to mean something beyond the obvious. Yes, her father had been understandably furious and grieving. After her brother’s death, he’d likely removed from the mansion all evidence that Cole had ever been in her life. But that didn’t make Cole responsible for what had happened to Sebastian.

So why hadn’t he told her the truth when she’d asked him why he’d left High Lake? She’d felt his protectiveness each time his body had sheltered hers. But had he been ashamed, too? Were the circumstances of her brother’s death what she’d sensed him hiding all along? And if so, what had really happened?

God, she was going to be sick if she didn’t stop thinking in circles. Her aching head was about to throb off her shoulders. She needed the questions to stop for just a little while. She slipped into the dated bathroom that instinct said she’d spent precious time in as a little girl.

She inhaled. The subtle scents of soap and powder and perfume seeped into her consciousness. The tiny black and white tiles on the floor never failed to make her smile. The decor belonged in a fifties-era sitcom, including the fluffy pink rugs scattered everywhere. The enormous claw-footed tub called to her the way it always did. A soaking bath wasn’t the most practical solution for washing away the adrenaline coursing through her. But it sounded light years better than heading back downstairs to confront Cole about how her brother had been burned alive and her teenage lover had ended up accused of setting the blaze.

Her arm shaking, she reached for the taps, opening both spigots as far as they would turn.

Cole wasn’t responsible for Sebastian, she scolded herself, any more than he was at fault for the crazy things that were happening in this house. If he were, why would he have held her, cherished her, the way he had? Why would he have let her go? He hadn’t charged after her or made excuses like Dawson. He was giving her the time and space to pull her panic back from its latest edge. And somehow she knew he’d stay until she pulled herself together. Because he’d promised not to leave.

She walked to the mirrored vanity, leaving the water to warm before setting the stopper. She stared at her reflection, searching for memories in her haunted eyes. Steam rose around her, obscuring things to a haze of white. Her image disappeared, an omen perhaps of how little of herself she’d managed to get back. It was like watching herself fade away for real.

She grabbed the nearest bottle of bath salts with a vengeance, prepared to do battle. Her fears would be waiting for her after her bath, but she refused to let them destroy this peaceful moment, too. She read the bottle’s label as she returned to the tub. She bent to place the rubber stopper over the drain. Her hand dipped into the inch or so of liquid in the bottom.

Her world exploded in agony.

“Ah!” she screamed, dropping the bottle. Glass shattered against porcelain. Pain streaked up her arm, through her body. “Damn it!”

Too late, she realized the reason so much steam had built up around her. The water coming from the tap was burning hot. She looked down at her stinging hand. The skin below her wrist was lobster-red, as if she’d dipped in it fire.

…

A handkerchief protecting his prints, Cole had carefully resecured the hidden door, then replaced the key in the center desk drawer. He’d been mentally kicking his own ass for kissing Shaw again and for not keeping his hands off of her when she’d been practically shaking from the shock of how quickly she was recalling things.