Sal shudders, feeling victimized and disbelieved. The cop speaks to her as if she is a small child. Sal digs her nails into her palms. She despises him. Despises everything about her situation.
How does she make them understand that she knew? Deep down, if she tried to leave, she knew Roy would kill her. It was in his body language, a snake ready to strike.
They don’t understand because she doesn’t understand. How a man could have taken her and kept her as his own. How she was trapped in a shack in the backwoods of Florida. How if she tried to leave the house, Roy would block the door, so she played meek and quiet until she could run. How she wasn’t raped, but wasn’t it rape being kept there? Being forced to live a lie? They don’t understand how lucky she feels to be out of there, to be done with that life, to know who she is, even though she still ultimately doesn’t know just who in the hell Sal Kincaid is.
She didn’t know any better, but these men don’t either.
Sal glares at the detective. Her lips tremble, but she forces the words from her mouth. “No,” she says, interrupting his bullshit attempt to pacify Luke. “No, you don’t understand at all.”
All eyes swivel to her. Luke’s especially are extra pained, his brow creased, his dark eyes pinned on her face. Gripping the rail bars, she pulls herself tall and pushes her voice to the ceiling.
Loud, louder. They have to hear her.
“So, what you’re telling me is that the man who found me, who pretended to be my husband when I have no memory, who choked me when I tried to leave, you can’t do anything to? You won’t?”
Sal breaks off in vocal fry. The police in the room look awkward and uncomfortable. Though her eyes fill with hot tears, she wills herself not to cry. Not to give this asshole detective a glimpse of her pain.
Then the world’s blurring around her, and Sal feels herself sway.
Thankfully, Luke comes to her rescue. He’s beside her instantly, gripping her elbow and helping lower her back into the pillows. Exhausted, Sal sags down into the cool comfort of the bed. His touch is tender as he brushes a hand across her brow, smoothing her hair back.
Their eyes lock, in a way Sal’s never experienced. She sees the silent question Luke’s asking: Are you okay?
She gives a small nod.
After a second of hesitation, Luke tears his concerned eyes from Sal’s face and turns to the room.
“I think that’s enough, Detective,” Luke says, standing tall over Sal, using his lean, muscled body like a shield. “You find this guy. But we ain’t stickin’ around here. I’m taking my wife home as soon as she’s well enough to travel.”
The detective considers it, then nods his assent. “That’s fine. We don’t want to overwhelm Mrs. Kincaid any more than necessary. We’ll do whatever we can not to put her through a trial.”
Luke gives a curt nod. “I’d appreciate that.”
As Luke ushers everyone out of the room, a sense of determination fills Sal like nothing she’s ever known.
Sure, she’s been down for the count for a few long months. But she’s not beaten. Or broken. And the one thing Sal knows for certain? She will never live a lie again.
Jace whistles as the men gather together in the hallway. “That was, uh, intense.”
“That’s because Sal isn’t real,” Seth says, scowling at the back of the detective as he disappears around the corner. “She’s made of miracles and nine fuckin’ lives.”
“That’s the damn truth.” Luke’s still marveling over the strength of his wife, keeping it together when all he wanted to do was deck that son of a bitch detective. The pain and sorrow in Sal’s eyes. How they asked her to share her truth, her pain, while simultaneously burying her alive with their questions.
“So?” Seth rubs his hands together. He’s almost as eager as Luke is to roll and get the hell out of Florida. “How’re we gettin’ Sal home?”
Luke gives a fierce shake of his head. “No way in hell I’m puttin’ her on a plane.”
Mort, leaning back against the wall, glances up from his phone. “Already on it. I got us a tour bus ready to go when you say so. It’ll be a long drive, keep Sal comfy.” His rotund belly quivers as he chuckles. “Also, I have Emmy Lou and Martha over at your house right now getting it pretty and sparkling. I hope you like tuna noodle casseroles, because your fridge is stocked.”
A boatload of gratitude fills Luke. He has to choke down a rock in his throat the size of Texas. Their country music family is a hell of a wonder. Jumping into task mode. Coming together when Luke needs them the most.
Jace snorts and holds up his phone. “Emmy Lou says you should be ashamed of yourself.” He flashes a text from his wife. The attached picture shows her plugging her nose as she throws away crusty pizza boxes.
Groaning, Luke smears his face in shame.
The house. He’d forgotten how shitty he had kept it. How shitty he’d been keeping himself. How deep and dark he had sunk. But now, Sal’s back, and damn if Luke ain’t getting himself back together for her.
He looks at Mort. “Thanks. I owe you.”