Redemption Read Online Free PDF Page B

Besides, she was touched that he’d reached out in this way, showing her a part of himself she was sure he didn’t normally show people.
    He cleared his throat. “So anyway, the bed is yours tonight. I think maybe we should both turn in.”
    And that was that, no further explanation, even though she was dying to ask questions, to learn more about this man who had so many layers she was just beginning to unravel them. And also beginning to understand that she would never get to the heart of John Callahan.
    ***
    The dampness seeped into his weary bones. He would have been in pain if he felt pain anymore. Lately there’d been nothing but numbness. At first he’d embraced it. Now he feared it.
    Reality returned a little at a time. That scared him too sometimes. When he’d first arrived, he’d managed to keep alert, barely dozing, taking ten-minute power naps here and there. Now it seemed he was asleep more than awake and that wasn’t safe. Not here.
    It was daylight. He could tell from the chinks in the cinderblock and the weak light filtering through the grates above him. Idly he wondered if it would rain today. He could use a washing off and a cool drink of fresh water. The thought floated through his brain, then disappeared like a puff of smoke. That happened often, the inability to concentrate on one thing for long.
    Something sticky covered his hands. It was too dark to see and only a detached curiosity had him sniffing his fingers. He drew back at the coppery scent and frowned. Blood?
    He tried to remember what had happened the day before but nothing came to him. All his days ran together. If it weren’t for the grate in the ceiling, days and nights would be the same. That, and the beatings. The beatings always set his days apart.
    But there hadn’t been any beatings for a few days, so why did he have blood on his hands?
    The sun began to slant through the grate, so bright he had to squint. He lifted his hands and stared at them as they dripped blood onto his pants and shirt. It was everywhere, not only on him, but splattered all over the walls and pooling on the floor.
    Listlessly, his gaze followed the puddle to the river of red that flowed into it, until it landed on the crumpled, bloody form of a woman.
    ***
    John lurched off the couch with a strangled gasp and kicked the afghan that had fallen on the floor. He stared at his hands in the dying light of the fire, turning them over, seeing in his mind the blood dripping on his pant leg. Drip. Drip. Drip.
    Breathing fast, he wiped them on his pants legs, knowing in a deep part of his subconscious he was dreaming again. No, not dreaming. Reliving. And that was worse.
    He stumbled to the kitchen, where he ran his hands under scalding water, watching his skin turn pink then fiery red in the same detached way he had in his dream.
    Eventually his mind cleared. He yanked his burning hands back and wrapped them in a dishtowel as the nightmare began to fade. Reality slowly returned. The howling wind. The creak of his house as it stood against the elements. The hum of the refrigerator. His ragged breaths as he tried to regain control.
    He fell into a kitchen chair, pressing his throbbing hands to his face, waiting for his mind to turn outward instead of inward. In the next room, his captive moaned, and like the caged animal he’d once been, his head snapped up, ears attuned. When he heard nothing more, he pushed away from the table and made his way to his bedroom where he stood in the doorway and watched her sleep.
    A slim foot peeked out of the blanket, toes twitching. Her eyes rolled beneath her lids as her breath came in deep pants and her body tensed.
    Shame hit him again. Shame at what he’d become. What he’d been. What he had done. Sickened with himself, he turned away.
    ***
    While she waited for the water to heat, she rinsed out her underwear, then leaned over the marble counter, staring at herself in the mirror. Blue eyes stared back, somewhat familiar. An oval