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She had already given that away.
    “I’d like to get up now, please.” He
lifted her chin up and peered into her eyes intently. “I’m fine. Please, let me
go.”
    “I need to speak to you. I want to help
you.” He was the last person she wanted help from. “Please, O’Reilly, let’s
talk.” He let her go but didn’t move back.
    “No one calls me that. It’s just Reilly.”
She pushed him back, marveling for a few seconds at the hardness of his chest. “I
don’t want to speak to you. I don’t know what you think you know, but Benny is
my son.”
    She walked around her car and got in,
and slammed the door before he could grab for it, sad that she’d missed his
fingers. After she started the motor, she started to pull forward when she
remembered the fence. She rolled down her window and gave him a warning.
    “The gate is armed. If you’re not on the
other side when I go out, you’ll be here for a while. The fence is
electrified.” She nodded to the power signs hanging low on the fences around
her home. “I would really hate to have to peel you off it when I get back.”
    “This isn’t over, O’Reilly. I’m a very
persistent man.”
    “Good for you. And it’s Reilly, and I’m
a fucking bitch.”
    She drove around for nearly an hour before
she remembered where she’d been going. She was suddenly glad she’d been
thinking of picking up her mail at the post office first, then running some
errands, or she’d be late for lunch with her agent. She pulled in front of the
restaurant fifteen minutes early.
    She wondered how he’d found out. She’d
been nearly to the point of relaxing for the first time since the frantic call
from the Florida police when she got the phone call from the stranger. Stranger,
she laughed to herself. She had pretty much figured out who he was a couple of
years ago. Humberto Carver had been her sister’s on-again, off-again lover for
years. And if that wasn’t telling, it was the diary she’d found in her things.
    It had been stitched up in a coat. She
didn’t know how anyone had missed it, but then the police had said her things
were boxed up when they got there. They’d only found her phone number to call
because the boxes had her address and phone number on them. She wondered if her
sister had known she was going to get killed that night. She’d never asked
Benny. He didn’t even talk about the night she’d died.
    She knew he had nightmares. She could
hear him scream out a few times a month. When he’d first come to her, she’d gone
to him nightly to comfort him or whatever he needed. But he’d ask her to leave
him alone. He didn’t want her to coddle him. She didn’t tell him it was more
for her than him, but respected his wishes. What did she know about things back
then?
    She got out of her car. She knew plenty
now. As she headed out to have lunch with her friend, she thought about her
life now and how different it was back then.
    She’d been taking defense classes. And
she didn’t take those “woo, I’m going to spray you with something, then run
like hell” classes, either. She was trained by an ex-Navy Seal. He had beaten
her up pretty good those first couple of months. She could also shoot a gun and
had her permit to carry. One thing she was not going to be was a victim.
    “Do you ever spend any of your money on
clothes?” She looked down at her jeans and tee shirt before smiling at Rachel.
“You look like a hobo. He probably dresses better.”
    Rachel Fletcher looked like she always
did—a fashion plate. Reilly thought Mr. Hunter and Rachel would have fun on a
shopping spree together. The man did, however, look very good in a suit, she
thought with a grin.
    “I have lots of clothes. Most of them
have holes in them. Sometimes I get a piece of pottery too close to me when
it’s still hot. I did wear my best out today for you.” She danced around for
her benefit. “See, no holes.”
    “You are by far the most annoying client
I have,” Rachel