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her husband, her flesh bruised and battered. Every cell in her body screamed at the thought of ever going back there. Lucy Eversleigh was dead and gone, a persona Rachel had buried before she’d even left the city limits.
    She didn’t want to think about those days, to remember the furious look in her husband’s eyes as he dragged a knife down her skin, or the way he used to press it against her until she started to bleed. She closed her eyes, trying to erase the memory of blood on the kitchen table, of wire cutting into her flesh until her body was webbed with scars.
    Christ, she needed to focus, to pull herself out of her memories and back to the here and now. That’s where the real danger was.
    “What are you going to do to me?” She kept her voice even and low, trying to disguise her alarm. It was the hardest question of all to ask—mostly because there was no answer she wanted to hear. She was still rational enough to know a guy like Murphy didn’t come all the way down from Boston to West Virginia to pass on a message.
    Not unless the message involved pain. Intense, agonizing pain. The sort of message David was best at.
    Murphy raised an eyebrow. “I’m going to do what I’m being paid to do. I’m going to take you back to Boston and give you to your husband. He wants his money back.” She didn’t want to look at him. The silver-white scar on his face, the one she’d wanted to run her lips along, didn’t seem so attractive anymore. It was a sign he was used to violence, used to pain. Maybe he even thrived on it.
    “What money?” She shook her head. When she’d crawled out of David’s house, she hadn’t a dime to her name. She couldn’t work out what Murphy was talking about.
    He laughed, short and hard. “You’re getting good at this. I almost believe your act. Your husband wants the two hundred thousand you stole.”
    She felt as if she’d been slapped in the face. It wasn’t enough that David had found her and sent somebody to do his dirty work for him. He’d lied too, enough to make Murphy stare at her like she was little more than a week-old piece of shit clinging to the bottom of his shoe. It made her feel guilty, even though she’d done nothing wrong.
    She couldn’t work out why this bothered her so much.
    “I didn’t steal anything.” Tears stung her eyes. “He lied to you.”
    Of course, it sounded like something David would do. Make himself look like the wronged party, the one who had been sinned against. She wondered if that was the story he’d told their friends when she disappeared without a trace. Given the circumstances in front of her, though, did she even care?
    “You can stop lying now. There’s no point.” Murphy said the words like they were his final verdict. The sense of despair that washed over her felt like acid on her skin. “Let’s do this thing… take you home. You give him back the money, and I get my cut.”
    Rachel shook her head slowly. She couldn’t let him take her back.
    “He’ll kill me—don’t you understand?” She wanted to punch the words into his skull. “I was nearly dead when I left.”
    Murphy kept his eyes fixed to her. “I’m not paid to think about what he’ll do. My work is done when I hand you over.”
    Though he sounded strong, there was the tiniest hint of softness in his expression, a questioning behind his eyes. She wondered if he was wavering, even just a little bit. It was something to cling to—the only thing. God knew she needed something. It sickened her when she thought of returning to Boston, to the torture chamber disguised as a house on Beacon Hill. It made the blood freeze in her veins like a river in winter. It had taken everything she had to find enough courage to leave, and the thought of returning made her want to scream. She wanted to beat her hands against the wall until her knuckles were raw.
    She promised herself one thing. The only way she’d be going back to Boston would be in a body bag. If Rachel