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what to do with me." She pushed at her wet hair, and now her fingers were steady. "I wasn't giving them anything.
    I didn't have anything to give. They probably figured I'd do better in a house with no male authority figure, because of the rape."
    He said nothing, simply drew her toward him to brush his lips over her temple.
    "She never yelled at me, and she never hit me—no more than a few slaps. She saw to it I was clean, that I had decent clothes. I know the pathology now, but I wasn't even nine. When she told me I was filthy and made me wash in cold water every morning, every night, I didn't understand. She always looked so sad, so disappointed. If she locked me in the dark, she said it was only to teach me to behave. Every day there were punishments. If I didn't eat everything on my plate, or I ate it too fast, too slow, I'd have to scrub the kitchen with a toothbrush. Something like that."
    I set store by a clean kitchen.
    "She didn't have domestics. She had me. I was always too slow, too stupid, too ungrateful, too something. She'd tell me I was pathetic, or I was evil, and always in this soft, kindly voice with this look of puzzled disappointment on her face. I was still nothing. Worse than nothing."
    "She should never have passed the screening."
    "It happens. Worse than her happens. I was lucky it wasn't worse. I had nightmares. I had nightmares all the time, almost every night back then. And she'd... oh, God, she'd come in and she'd say I'd never get healthy and strong if I didn't get a good night's sleep."
    Because she could, she reached for his hand, let it anchor her in the now while she took herself back. "She'd turn off the lights and lock the door. She'd lock me in the dark. If I cried, it was worse. They'd take me back, put me in a cage for mental defectives. That's what they did to girls who wouldn't behave. And Bobby, her boy, she'd use me there, too. She'd tell him to look at me, and remember what happened to bad children, to children without a real mother to take care of them."
    He was touching her now, rubbing her back, smoothing her hair. "They did home checks?"
    "Yeah. Sure." She dashed a tear away—tears were useless, then and now. "It all looked nice and clean on the surface. Tidy house, pretty yard. I had my own room, clothes. What would I have told them? She said I was evil. I'd wake up from a nightmare where I was covered with blood, so I must've been evil. When she told me someone had hurt me, thrown me away with the garbage because I was bad, I believed her."
    "Eve." He took both her hands, brought them to his lips. He wanted to gather her up, cover her in something soft, something beautiful. He wanted to hold her until every horrid memory was washed away. "What you are is a miracle."
    "She was a vicious, sadistic woman. Just another predator. I know that now." Had to remember that now, Eve thought as she drew a deep breath. "But then all I knew was that she was in charge. I ran away. But this was a small town, not Dallas, and they found me. I planned it better when I ran the second time, and I got over into Oklahoma, and when they found me, I fought them."
    "Damn right you did."
    He said it with such a combination of pride and anger, she heard herself laugh. "Bloodied one of the social workers' noses." And that memory, she realized, wasn't so bad. "Ended up in juvie for a while, but it was better than her. I put it away, Roarke. I put it aside. Then there she was, sitting in my office, and I was back to being scared."
    He wished she'd bloodied goddamn Trudy Lombard's nose, gotten some little bit of her own back. She'd have been better for that. "She'll never hurt you again."
    Eve faced him now, eye to eye. "I fell apart. Disintegrated. I'm feeling just steady enough now for that to piss me off. The Icove case."
    "What?"
    She lowered her head to her hands, rubbed them hard over her face before she lifted it again. "She said she'd seen me giving an interview about the Icove murders, the Quiet