Ocean Kills:Book One of Ocean Breeze(3)

By: Jade Hart


Officer Wade refused to meet my eyes, instead he stood and opened the door. “Um, Callan? I mean, Officer Bliss? Can you come in here a tick?”

Now what? Calling for reinforcements to deal with the screwed-up girl? Of course. I was just so scary.

Another man entered; this one wasn't bad looking. His sandy blond hair was streaked by the sun—a dead giveaway that he was a surfer. Sun-kissed hair was a signature trademark in Aussie: Women with fake boobs had trophy children; men with sun-bleached hair surfed.

His muscular chest stretched the material of his blue police shirt. The snaps hung on for dear life, holding the fabric in place. Either he shrunk his shirt in the wash, or it was the wrong size. Not that I minded. I appreciated a good physique as much as the next girl.

Was he as perfect beneath the shirt and trousers as he appeared? Not that I cared.

A dimple appeared on one cheek as he smiled. “I'm Officer Bliss. I'll be sitting in on tonight's talk.” He moved like the sea he obviously lived in—he reeked of salt and freedom.

“Talk? Yeah, okay, let's pretend this is a talk,” I snorted, keeping a careful eye on Mr. Surfer Dude. He cracked a laugh, and took a seat next to Wade.

He dragged the file toward him and I had the pleasure of watching the healthy tan drain from his face. His sea-green eyes darted to Wade's brown ones. A silent conversation took place. Not that it was really silent. I could guess what they were thinking.

Is this real?

The poor girl!

How could anyone survive this?

Some people cannot be saved.

Well, I had news for them: I didn't need saving. I was in control of my life, thank you very much. I liked being me. I liked doing what I did best—killing.

I tensed, pulling energy from my molecules, wincing as my head roared with gushing pain. Time for me to leave. Please let me have enough energy.

“I'm sorry, Ms. Breeze. You obviously didn't have the upbringing I did. And for that I want to tear apart the bastards who raped you,” Officer Bliss muttered. A vein appeared on his temple, his hands curled.

The passion. That voice—like churning waves in a storm. The shock stopped my deportation power, and I stayed put. This might get interesting. He broke the rules. Cop protocol normally included me being ignored while they chatted as if I wasn’t in the room.

“Go on. . .” I invited, while watching every nuance of his body language. Over the years, I’d mastered the art of reading people. I was now a walking lie detector. If his anger was fake, so help him, I wouldn't just disappear—I'd take something of his, too. Namely his gun.

“How old were you?”

“It says it there in the file.” I crossed my arms, wincing a little at my sore elbow. Stupid Wade and his rough hands. I shot him a scowl.

“You don't want to talk about it?” Officer Bliss watched me with a predator stare. His gaze was as intense as if he touched me from across the table.

I barked a laugh. Was this guy for real?

Leaning as far back as the torturous chair would let me, I purred, “Do you honestly think I want to talk about it?” Don’t make me!

Those sea eyes never flinched, but stress lines appeared around his mouth. “Alright. I'll talk about it.” Clearing his throat, he recited, “On the 26th of May, 1996, your parents and older brother were killed by two madmen. You were forced to watch as the murderers sliced limbs off your parents with a chainsaw, and made you stand in pools of blood.”

Saliva pooled as nausea rolled through me. He was going to make me relive it. Bastard.

His eyes flickered to mine before returning to my file, but not before I glimpsed the harsh pity residing in his gaze. It etched his face, tainting the air between us. “Once your family was slaughtered, the men then killed your sheep dog, and used the blood to paint devil signs on your naked eight-year-old body.”

I was no longer in the room. I was back there. Back in horror-filled hell. My eyes only saw blood and death. My heart ceased to beat.

Officer Bliss took a shuddering breath. “You weren't found for two days. By then, you were catatonic. You hadn't moved from the spot where the murderers told you to stay. For two days you stood, naked and covered in blood, watching your dismembered family be consumed by flies. The rape kit came back positive and you didn't speak a word for three years.”

Terror, akin to what coursed through me when I was eight, made me shudder. The corpses of my loved ones were all I could see. Why did he dredge up the past? What did it accomplish? Other than hurt me beyond anything I’d admit to. Shouldn’t he be berating me for the so-called prostitution charge?

The interrogation room swam with ghosts of the past. Memories swarmed me, thick and fast. Bile lined my throat while my stomach squeezed itself to death. I tried to fight it, to keep my anger, but I was small again. Defenseless again. My quavering body was frozen with fear. Blood. Warm. Oozing. My nose full of the copper tang as my parents' life-force turned the lounge carpet into a swamp of death. Strong, hard fingers prying at my body. Grunts and thrusts as the two murderers ravaged my small frame.

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