confusing. If he meant to control her, he’d have taken a firmer grip on her. The reservoir of hurt was simply too deep to stem now that the dam had been breached. It was as if the supply of tears was bottomless, salty and hot. She would never be cried out, even after months of mourning Gary and hours of late-night weeping into pillows to stifle her noise so Marsh wouldn’t hear. But these tears weren’t for Gary. Instead, she was mourning the loss of herself.
Her fingers clenched in his shirt. One by one her hands crept over his shoulders and caught there as if she were clinging to the side of a building, trying desperately not to fall.
Fifteen months with Marsh hadn’t erased every scrap of trust, though they’d taken their toll. Every action she took had to be examined and reexamined, for fear it would trigger an unpleasant reaction from Marsh. Now she drowned in the torrent of tears, and Latimer said nothing. Did nothing, except allow her to thoroughly wet his shirt, and keep warm palms cupped at her back. She could feel their heat even past the humid sweatiness of her skin in the heat of the late afternoon. No matter how she gave in to her sobs, some part of her kept guard, alert to any hint of tension in Latimer’s body, the telegraphy of imminent violence.
Long minutes later, head throbbing, nose thoroughly stuffed, eyes burning, Abby pulled a scrap of pride from somewhere deep and used it to push back from Latimer. She scrubbed at her face with the sleeves of her shirt, snuffling hard. He made a single quick move and scooped something from the ground as he left the bench—his gun.
When he walked to his truck, Abby sat staring at him. He’d gone from holding a gun on her to turning his back. He no longer considered her a threat. Of course not, why would he? He’s the one with a dog and a gun and the keys. Her stomach lurched. What would he do with her now? Would his new knowledge change anything? She was still a car thief, no matter how she looked at it.
He came back with a roll of paper towels and put them in front of her. She tore one from the roll and blew her nose. “Thank you.” Her voice was thick. Tears were still too near. She knew if she thought even a little about what had happened she would dissolve again.
Latimer set a bottle of water in front of her. “You’ll be thirsty after all that bawling.”
Abby’s glance flicked upward.
He was smiling.
She searched his face for mockery, cruelty, for the blankness she had come to associate with Marsh’s concealment of anger, and found none. Instead, there was amusement, and a wry kindness she hadn’t expected to see. “You’re laughing at me.”
“No.” He made a short gesture and the dog came to sit at his left. “I don’t laugh at women running from domestic violence. Though I have to admit I’ve never seen it taken to the extreme of stealing a vehicle.”
“I’m not—” Abby began the habitual denial, the all-too-familiar lie, and caught herself. Or, rather, was caught by the incisive blue of Latimer’s eyes. She looked away, guiltily, and then looked back. Why am I lying? I never used to lie. I never had a need to lie. It was part of the way Marsh had broken her, changed her, made her over to fit him.
It was what she hated most about herself, even more than the cowardice that made her second-guess every single word or gesture made where Marsh could hear or see. Even more than the way she cringed away from his physicality. More than the way he controlled every aspect of their lives together. She was relieved her parents were dead and she had no siblings to see what she’d become since Gary’s death. She was a nonperson, existing only within the context of Marsh’s rigid parameters for approval and acceptance. In her grief, she had distanced herself even from her friends, and they had respected her wishes, letting her be. Her solitude was the perfect environment for Marsh.
“You can’t tell me you walked into a door in
Her fingers clenched in his shirt. One by one her hands crept over his shoulders and caught there as if she were clinging to the side of a building, trying desperately not to fall.
Fifteen months with Marsh hadn’t erased every scrap of trust, though they’d taken their toll. Every action she took had to be examined and reexamined, for fear it would trigger an unpleasant reaction from Marsh. Now she drowned in the torrent of tears, and Latimer said nothing. Did nothing, except allow her to thoroughly wet his shirt, and keep warm palms cupped at her back. She could feel their heat even past the humid sweatiness of her skin in the heat of the late afternoon. No matter how she gave in to her sobs, some part of her kept guard, alert to any hint of tension in Latimer’s body, the telegraphy of imminent violence.
Long minutes later, head throbbing, nose thoroughly stuffed, eyes burning, Abby pulled a scrap of pride from somewhere deep and used it to push back from Latimer. She scrubbed at her face with the sleeves of her shirt, snuffling hard. He made a single quick move and scooped something from the ground as he left the bench—his gun.
When he walked to his truck, Abby sat staring at him. He’d gone from holding a gun on her to turning his back. He no longer considered her a threat. Of course not, why would he? He’s the one with a dog and a gun and the keys. Her stomach lurched. What would he do with her now? Would his new knowledge change anything? She was still a car thief, no matter how she looked at it.
He came back with a roll of paper towels and put them in front of her. She tore one from the roll and blew her nose. “Thank you.” Her voice was thick. Tears were still too near. She knew if she thought even a little about what had happened she would dissolve again.
Latimer set a bottle of water in front of her. “You’ll be thirsty after all that bawling.”
Abby’s glance flicked upward.
He was smiling.
She searched his face for mockery, cruelty, for the blankness she had come to associate with Marsh’s concealment of anger, and found none. Instead, there was amusement, and a wry kindness she hadn’t expected to see. “You’re laughing at me.”
“No.” He made a short gesture and the dog came to sit at his left. “I don’t laugh at women running from domestic violence. Though I have to admit I’ve never seen it taken to the extreme of stealing a vehicle.”
“I’m not—” Abby began the habitual denial, the all-too-familiar lie, and caught herself. Or, rather, was caught by the incisive blue of Latimer’s eyes. She looked away, guiltily, and then looked back. Why am I lying? I never used to lie. I never had a need to lie. It was part of the way Marsh had broken her, changed her, made her over to fit him.
It was what she hated most about herself, even more than the cowardice that made her second-guess every single word or gesture made where Marsh could hear or see. Even more than the way she cringed away from his physicality. More than the way he controlled every aspect of their lives together. She was relieved her parents were dead and she had no siblings to see what she’d become since Gary’s death. She was a nonperson, existing only within the context of Marsh’s rigid parameters for approval and acceptance. In her grief, she had distanced herself even from her friends, and they had respected her wishes, letting her be. Her solitude was the perfect environment for Marsh.
“You can’t tell me you walked into a door in
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