Chapter 33 #2
“Of course.” The doctor gave a firm nod. “We’ve already discussed that step. Paula will be monitored twenty-four seven. At no additional expense to you, of course, until we’ve cleared up this . . . situation.”
Baxter thanked the doctor, then led the way out of the building and back to where they had parked.
It wasn’t until they were off the property and barreling down the road in her rented car that her ice bitch persona fell back into place.
“Paula has had the occasional episode related to her autism. She would be uncooperative or mildly violent . . . but this is different.” She shook her head. “There’s no question in my mind now.”
“What does that mean?” Carson prodded. He was completely lost here.
“It’s Wainwright,” she said. “I know it’s him.”
Although Carson was doubting his mentor for the first time, he couldn’t deny that, but this—he didn’t see how Wainwright could have anything to do with this. “We didn’t know you had any living relatives.”
She slammed on the brakes, sending the car skidding to a sidelong halt in the middle of the road. “I’m telling you,” she shouted, “he’s dirty. He’s behind this, Tanner. Accept it.”
Carson twisted to stare directly at her. Any softer emotions he’d stupidly felt vanished. “Why the hell would he or anyone else do this? How is putting mice in some poor woman’s bed relevant to anything?”
Long pulse-pounding seconds of silence elapsed.
Baxter moistened her lips, then met his gaze.
“Because the last foster home we shared had rats. Hundreds. They’d come out at night after we went to bed.
We woke up dozens of times with one or more crawling around in bed with us.
They terrorized Paula. Somehow he found out.
” She exhaled a weary breath. “All her worst fears are annotated in her file, along with any allergies and medications.” Her eyes searched Carson’s.
“Don’t you see? All these years, there’s never been a staff member who wanted to hurt Paula.
And now, suddenly, someone is out to get her. Think! Where’s the motive?”
Carson hardened his heart. Refused to feel that pang of sympathy stabbing at his gut.
“Life sucks sometimes. Having to share a home with a few rats isn’t the worst that could have happened to either of you.
” As soon as the words were out of his mouth he wanted to take them back.
He knew that wasn’t the worst . . . what the hell was wrong with him?
Annette stared coldly at him. “You’re right. It wasn’t. The worst was the sexual abuse.” She let off the brake and maneuvered the car back into its proper lane.
“That’s”—he took a breath—“unfortunate.” No sympathy. No goddamned sympathy. This couldn’t be about how devastating her life had been. It had to be about the truth. They were wasting time.
“Like you said,” she snapped without taking her gaze off the road, “life sucks sometimes.”
It took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to reach out to her on some level.
No one deserved to be treated as she and Paula had been.
Whatever Annette Baxter had done, she hadn’t deserved that.
But he couldn’t let her see sympathy, not even for a second.
If she suspected he was sympathetic, he would lose the upper hand. He had to be in charge here.
Stick with the facts.
“How long have you been taking care of her?” He hadn’t meant to ask that question.
He’d intended to shift the conversation back to Wainwright and Dane.
But sitting here in the dark with her, her fear and desperation palpable, he couldn’t not ask.
The dim lighting from the dash allowed him to see more than he needed to see of her pain.
She stared off into that darkness that enveloped them like a blanket. “Since we were kids.”
“I’m sure it’s been difficult.” Dammit. He had to get back on track . . . but then maybe he could use this moment to get what he needed. He rolled that idea over. Catching Annette Baxter in a vulnerable place had so far been impossible. He had the perfect opportunity now.
Dear God.
Was he really that desperate?
Yes.
“Sometimes it’s hard,” she murmured, almost to herself, “sometimes it’s harder. But it’s what I have to do.”
He rested his head against the seat. He understood that all too well. Memories of dozens of incidents with his uncle invaded. Don’t get distracted. Focus. “I need answers. Or things are going to get a hell of a lot harder for both of us.” He squashed the persistent sympathy.
She glanced at him, allowed him to see the full depth of the desperation in her eyes. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to give you, Mr. Hotshot DDA.”
Anticipation had him sitting up straighter. Now maybe they were going to get somewhere that would make a difference. He studied her profile, noted the rigid set of those delicate muscles. “What’s that?”
She glanced at him again. “Everything you need to nail those bastards.” Her full attention returned to the street. “Every damned one of them.”