Chapter 28

Caine

What the fuck?

I’d been pacing since I returned from dropping Rachel at her apartment. She’d known something was off, known I was full of shit when I said I had the start of a migraine coming on. I don’t even get migraines, yet I was pretty sure the pounding in my head was leading in that direction.

It couldn’t be a coincidence.

Could it be a fucking coincidence?

I dragged my hands through my hair. Think, West, think. What the hell was that little girl’s father’s last name?

Then I remembered the file in my desk drawer. Or maybe it was in the cabinet in the office where I kept old band crap. I was certain I’d kept a copy of the police report. God knows why I’d saved it when my parents had paid a fortune to have the incident expunged and make sure my records were sealed.

I ripped my files apart looking for it. By the time I came across the faded yellow page, my office looked like it’d been ransacked.

Victim’s name: Benny Nelson

Nelson. I’d thought for sure finding out would make me relieved it wasn’t Rachel’s last name, but instead it only raised new questions.

The little girl’s mother had died the year before. That would’ve made her around nine or ten when she lost her. Same timeline as Rachel losing her mother.

Fuck.

That feeling. That goddamned feeling I’d had since the day I met her. I knew her from somewhere, but could never put my finger on it. What was it that made me feel that way? I never really saw the little girl close up—only a flash of a ten-year-old face across the span of a church and through lattice work more than fifteen years ago. Nothing was clear.

Fuck.

Rachel had said she was raised by her aunt. She’d never mentioned a stepfather. Then again, if my stepfather was an abusive child molester, it wouldn’t exactly be conversation to bring up during a date.

Bypassing the wine, I grabbed the scotch from the liquor cabinet and poured myself a double. It burned as it slid down my throat, but it felt good, like I should be on fire at the moment.

I knocked back another gulp.

Rachel had said she’d grown up a town away from me. Pleasantville is a small, blue bicycle ride away from St. Killian’s.

Another gulp.

The little girl had an older sister.

Rachel has an older sister.

Teen years where she spiraled out of control—living with that fucker Nelson would definitely make anyone turn to shit trying to forget.

I tossed back the rest of the glass and stared out the window, trying to bring the picture of the little girl to the forefront of my mind. But it was so long ago and so distant.

Finally feeling the liquor seep into my blood, I collapsed on the couch and rested my head on the arm to stare up at the ceiling.

How the fuck was I going to find out? I needed to know.

It wasn’t like I could come straight out and ask her. Say, did you befriend a priest as a child? A man you trusted with all your secrets?

Yeah. That was me. A stoned sixteen year old who got his kicks listening to a little girl talk about her shitty home life.

By the way, were you molested as a child? Or was that just your sister?

Fuck!

FUUUUCK!

I hurled my empty glass at the window. Luckily, it bounced off of a wood panel and only the glass shattered, not my floor-to-ceiling windows.

I closed my eyes and let my head spin some more.

How do I find out?

How do I find out?