Even in her misery, she heard the whisper of a body in the air duct followed by the impact of a knife hitting a target. She managed to turn her head to see Raoul, arm around one of the enemy’s neck, holding the body in front of him like a shield, gun trained on the man near the bathroom. The body of the third man lay on the floor practically at her feet.
Instantly a red dot appeared over her heart. “Put it down or I’ll shoot her.” The stranger backed up toward the cover of the bathroom.
Nonny . Flame sent the warning to Raoul.
Hit the floor. Gator squeezed the trigger three times, rapid fire. One bullet in the head, two in the heart.
The stranger fired from reflex, but Flame had dropped down and the bullet went into the wall where she’d been standing.
The man Gator had in a headlock stabbed down with a knife, driving it into Gator’s thigh. He fell backward, stumbling, tracking with his gun a heartbeat too late.
Flame threw the knife from a prone position and the sound of a single gunshot echoed through the room. The enemy went down, knife in his kidney, bullet in the back of his neck. She turned her head to see Nonny lowering the semiautomatic.
Flame crawled to Gator, shouting to Nonny to bring something to tie around the wound. She pressed hard with both hands, ignoring his orders to get the hell out of his way. Nonny returned with towels and her rifle. She put the gun in her grandson’s hands and took over. Flame slid back until her head was in Raoul’s lap. She closed her eyes, feeling his hand in her hair and she gave in, allowing the blackness to take her.
CHAPTER 20
Two months later
Flame sat on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, her knees drawn up, head down, resting before the next wave of nausea struck. She kept the overhead light off. Her eyes were too sensitive to bother.
“I had dreams the other night. Nightmares, really.” The woman sitting next to her shifted closer and rubbed Flame’s back. “I’m beginning to remember sitting on the floor of the bathroom with you. We did it a lot, didn’t we?” Dahlia Trevane said.
Flame nodded without lifting her head. She never thought she’d see Dahlia again. Whitney had hated her almost as much as he had Flame. “The one good thing about this is that I got to see you again,” Flame said. “I thought you were dead when I read about the sanitarium in the bayou burning down. I knew it belonged to the Whitney Trust and I was pretty sure you were locked in.”
“It was my home for a lot of years.”
“I know it’s hard for you to be around so many people, Dahlia. I really appreciate you coming, but you don’t have to stay with me.”
“I want to be with you. I missed you. I missed all the girls. I thought for the longest time you all were figments of my imagination. Lily said Whitney tried to erase our memories.”
“Do you believe Lily when she says she isn’t working with her father?” Flame’s stomach twisted and she knelt up to the toilet.
Dahlia waited until she finished and handed her a washcloth. “What’s all over the floor? I can’t see but it feels like strings of silk…“ She trailed off, suddenly comprehending.
“My hair.” There was a catch in Flame’s voice.
Dahlia reached out and touched Flame’s face, felt the tracks of tears. “This isn’t the first time for that either.” She knew better than to pull Flame into her arms and try to comfort her that way. “It always grows back more beautiful than ever.”
“You didn’t answer me.”
“About Lily?” Dahlia sighed. “You always get upset when we talk about Lily. You have enough to worry about without thinking about that.”
“Tell me, Dahlia.”
“Lily is our sister and friend. She saved your life years ago when she told Peter Whitney you were planning to escape and she’s saving your life now.”
“Maybe. We don’t know that. Whitney only put the cancer in remission. It always came back.”
“She knows that. She worked on new meds to knock it out completely.”
Flame rubbed her aching head. She couldn’t remember how it felt to be normal, not sick every day. Sick and weak and unable to take care of herself. She couldn’t remember the other Flame. Confident, independent Flame. There was only the bathroom floor and the daily shots and the terrible weariness. Days went by. Weeks went by and every day it was the same.
“I hope you’re right. I hope she isn’t working with Whitney.” Because Flame couldn’t do this again-never again. She was so strong in so many ways, but this was asking too much-even of her.
“Lily’s suffered more emotionally than any of us, because we knew Peter Whitney was a monster. We knew he was a liar. She didn’t. He kept her from knowing for whatever purpose. I’ve read his letters to her. I’ve talked to Arly and Rosa, two of the people who were there when she grew up in that house with him. He acted the part of her father. She believed she was his biological child. This is all terrifying to her. It’s like she woke up one morning to discover her father was a madman and every thing she believed in was a lie. At least we knew all along.”
“Nonny says the same thing about Lily,” Flame said after a long silence. “The thing about Nonny is she’s very good at reading people. She says Lily is suffering.” She pressed her fingertips to her aching head. “Everyone is suffering thanks to Whitney.” Flame rinsed her mouth out several times.
“I’m not.”
Flame looked up. “What?”
“I’m not suffering. I have a good life. It isn’t perfect, but then whose life is? I’m not letting Whitney dictate my life to me. I draw energy to me and I can’t be around people for very long. You and Lily are anchors so it’s easier. Nico makes it much easier to get rid of the buildup, but I still have to be careful and that’s all right with me.”
“Whitney isn’t after you, Dahlia. He isn’t shooting up the swamp and killing innocent people. I put lives in danger. Nonny. Raoul.” Just saying his name made her ache. He’d been so good, so patient with her, but she’d refused to talk to him. She hadn’t wanted to hurt like that ever again. He came every day while he recovered from his knife wound. He conversed as if she answered him. He’d been the one to tell her the press had issued a huge story on terrorists attacking the compound. He’d been the one to bring her books and music-especially blues. He had been the one to talk to her night after night when she couldn’t sleep – and she hadn’t answered him. She had refused to offer him forgiveness.