“Oh, Leslie was much too pretty. Everyone wanted her, and she thought too much of herself to be easy prey. Not like me.”
He nodded, not correcting her assertion that Leslie was the pretty one. Of course he wouldn’t—he knew everything about her. But he’d missed the most important, most devastating piece of her past.
“How old was he?”
Telling him she didn’t want to talk about it would be a waste of time; he’d already ignored it. “He was sixty-three.”
“Jesus, how did he even manage?”
She was already too deep in the mi
re and he wouldn’t let her climb out. “He had me help,” she said. Would he put two and two together? Of course he would.
“I see,” he said in a voice that made it clear he saw everything. “You said was.”
“What?” She was trying to pull herself out of the muck, but it was clinging to her.
“You said your professor was the kind of man who had power over people. Is he dead?”
“Yes. Heart attack in his early seventies. He was in bed with a nineteen-year-old.”
“At least she was the age of consent.” His voice was absolutely bland, and her curiosity got the better of her.
“Why do you care if he’s alive?”
“Because otherwise I’d have to kill him.”
It was lightly said, and it sounded like a joke. It wasn’t, and she knew it.
“Does he have any children?” he said casually, and her eyes flew open in shock.
“You’re not touching them. I won’t tell you his name.”
“Angel, with the little you’ve told me I can find out anything. Apparently it had hardly any lasting effect on your interest in sexual matters.”
“It was boring. I didn’t care one way or the other.” A small lie, but he couldn’t prove otherwise.
She’d given something away again, she thought as his jaw tightened. She should just shut up and deal with whatever torment he tried on her. “What’s that?” she said, thankfully distracted. Something large and white had loomed up in front of them, and Bishop slammed on the brakes, yanking the wheel to the left. She could smell the burning rubber, and she put her hand on Dolores’s dashboard, gentling her, a thank you and farewell. She suspected she wasn’t going to see her again.
Fortunately Bishop was also distracted by the large vehicle, forgetting his questions, and he slammed the truck to a stop, turning it off. “What are you doing?”
“Saying good-bye to Dolores.”
If he thought she was crazy, he didn’t bother to say so, and simply nodded. “Your dreams are about to come true.”
“You’re letting me go?”
“That’s not what you want,” he said quietly. “And you and I both know it. Climb down and check out your new ride.”
Merlin hopped out of the driver’s side after Bishop, and slowly, carefully Evangeline slid out the opposite side. Her bruised leg gave way for a moment, but she managed to disguise it behind the open truck door. When she finally got a good look at the monstrosity, words failed her.
It was a Winnebago. Not a brand-new, gorgeous RV, but a very old, very rusty Winnebago with a cracked windshield. It was covered with dust, and she looked at it dubiously. “We’re taking that? An old wreck we found by the side of the road?”
“Don’t judge a book by its cover. And we didn’t just find it—it was waiting for us.” He’d taken a flashlight . . . her flashlight . . . out of the glove compartment and he was shining it over every rusty inch of the damned thing. There was even something that looked like an old analog antenna, which would do them absolutely no good.
“It probably leaks,” she said morosely.
“Looks like it, doesn’t it?” he said, sounding more cheerful than he had in a long while. He pointed his ridiculous cell phone at the door and she heard a click as it unlocked. That was certainly a lot more high tech than this old wreck should have been; Bishop moved past her to open the door, then stepped aside and gestured her to go in.