The news on television was vague, just that the Bozeman Butcher had been identified as David Larsen and that he was pronounced dead on arrival at Deaconess Hospital.
Her gut churned. She was supposed to protect Davy, make sure he was never hurt, never caught.
She hated him.
Pain pounded her head. She didn’t hate her brother. No, he needed her. She only hated the attention he’d had when they were growing up.
Growing up, Davy had been shy and quiet. Until they went to college, Davy wasn’t even taller than her, scrawny as a malnourished kid. But he seemed to blossom when their mother died in a car accident. He grew six inches and started working out and turning into a man.
Delilah didn’t like it. Not one bit. Davy was hers. Hers to control. Hers to manipulate. Hers to tell what to do and what not to do. He had always listened to her. Always. He had always done what she told him to. And she protected him as best she could. Well, maybe not the best. Like, how could she stop her mother from touching him?
Once, when she was fourteen, she hid in the closet. She watched through the slats as her mother touched Davy’s privates. Davy seemed to like it. His penis grew hard and he spurted sperm all over their mother’s breasts.
She knew it was wrong, what her mother had Davy do. But who would she tell? Who would believe her? And Delilah had her own problems, anyway. Like how to put a snake in Mary Sue Mitchell’s locker and not get caught.
A poisonous snake. After all, Mary Sue had held hands with Matt Drake in the all-school assembly last week. Did that bitch think she wouldn’t notice?
Davy had always had Mama’s special attention, anyway. Delilah had been the unwanted daughter. Sometimes she preferred the freedom that came with being unwanted; the rest of the time she alternated between hating Davy and their mother.
But she did step in front of their mother’s heavy hand many times, taking the brunt of the beating so Davy wouldn’t have to. If she didn’t love her brother, would she have taken the beatings for him?
But he wasn’t normal. She figured that out at an early age. How could he be normal when his own mother raped him?
You raped him, too.
No! I loved him. He loved me. He always came back, didn’t he? He always said he needed me.
You hurt him.
No! Nothing I did marked him. He understood-pain and pleasure. It was her. Miranda Moore. She killed him. She stabbed him. His blood is on her hands.
Kill her.
After sixteen years of marriage, Delilah was surprised she felt nothing but irritation for her husband. He hadn’t loved her. She had done everything for him, kept his house, raised his brat, cooked and cleaned and attended to his stupid functions. She had been the perfect wife.
And he looked at her as if she were a stranger.
The only other thing that bothered her, really bothered her, was Ryan. As if she would hurt her own child! She was not her mother. She painstakingly avoided ever touching Ryan so she wouldn’t be tempted. Not that she was tempted.
She was not her mother.
She hadn’t wanted a child-most definitely not a son. But when she learned she was pregnant-what good was birth control if it didn’t work?-she just knew the baby would be a girl.
A girl to raise the way a daughter should be raised. To be lavished with attention, dressed in beautiful clothes, taken to fancy restaurants, given a big debutante coming-out party.
She laughed bitterly.
What she had was a boy. Another Davy.
But she was a good mother, dammit! She did everything for him, too. Baked fucking cookies. Cleaned his fucking room. Went to every fucking teacher’s conference and play and soccer game.
What more did he want? Her blood? Would that satisfy him? Would it satisfy any of them?
She took a deep, calming breath. It wouldn’t do to lose control. Her control had kept her from doing stupid things.
Like the night she almost suffocated Ryan in his crib. At the last minute, she pulled back the pillow from his face. Richard would have known, have her thrown into prison.
Or the time she threatened to tell the police about the girl in Portland. She almost didn’t give Davy an alibi. The stupid, stupid idiot! He was throwing away everything for some rich-bitch slut from the Delta-something sorority.
But in the end she gave him the alibi and was very convincing. Because without Davy, her life would fall apart. She needed him just like he needed her.
Together they were stronger.
Now he was dead.
It was all Miranda Moore’s fault. The bitch would pay.
CHAPTER 37
Miranda woke up late, the sun streaming through her picture windows. Below in the valley a gray fog had settled, but it would soon burn off.
The day promised to be beautiful.
She rolled over expecting to find Quinn beside her. Instead, she found a note.
Miranda-
I didn’t want to disturb you. I’m meeting Colleen down at Big Sky to do a quick walk-through of the cabin. I should be back by lunchtime, or I’ll call if I’m delayed.
I called the hospital. Nick is the same, which is more or less good news. JoBeth Anderson is awake and alert. Ashley was asking for you. She’s going to be okay, thanks to you.
Stay at the Lodge. I have four deputies assigned there. Until I know what’s up with Delilah Parker, I’d rather play it safe.
I love you.
Q.
P.S. Stay off your leg. If you have to shower, make it quick.
She smiled. Just last week, she would have thought police protection was overkill. But today, she allowed Quinn his paranoia.
Her smile turned into a worried frown. She couldn’t imagine what Delilah Parker was going through right now, finding out her own brother was the Butcher, a rapist. Miranda was certain Quinn’s fears were unfounded; how could a woman participate, even just by remaining silent, in the rape and torture of another woman?
It was sick. Almost as sick as what David Larsen had done.
She slowly maneuvered herself out of bed. Cautiously, she stood. Her injured leg was stiff and sore, but she could walk without crutches if she went slowly. Moving around was the best medicine. In fact, the leg didn’t hurt any worse than the huge bruise on her shoulder from hitting the boulder.
She needed a shower. She’d had one at the hospital, but the water was tepid.
She turned on the water and waited for it to get hot. She wished Quinn were here. She took off her pajamas and looked at herself in the mirror.
Her breasts had been scarred with nineteen slashes, all about an inch long. She had counted them. Over and over. Her nipples had little sensation, her nerves having sustained permanent damage. She closed her eyes, always feeling revolted at the sight of her disfigurement. The scars on her wrists and ankles from being chained and the long one on her inner thigh didn’t disturb her half as much as her damaged breasts.
Then she forced herself to look again, to stare at herself until the mirror clouded with steam and she could no longer see her reflection.
The scars were part of her now. She had to stop feeling sorry for herself. Quinn had never been as repelled by them as she was. Angry, yes. She’d seen the flash of anger in his eyes.
Anger didn’t bother her; pity did.
No more of what-might-have-been! She was growing more comfortable in her skin each day. The Butcher was gone; Miranda had to bury her self-pity and anger with him. She had a full life ahead of her, with Quinn.