Scales: Of Justice (Broken But ... Mending Book 3) Read online

  Weaver grabbed her hand and stopped her headlong rush. With his calming presence, she made it to the door. The cop had moved out of the way as the group headed toward him. She was in the hallway in seconds, sweat pouring down her back, her breath locked in her chest. When she reached a point about six feet past him, she snuck a look behind her.

  Delaney wasn’t even looking her way.

  Shuddering, she leaned into Weaver and let her pent up breath out. Oh Lord. She’d made it. She’d also caught a close up look of the man who’d brought her nightmares for the last decade. His face looked older. Sad maybe. Like he’d seen too much of life. She could emphasize. She had too.

  She wished she had a chance to study his face without him knowing. So she could replace the childhood memory with the up-to-date one. Surely that would help. But then as if sensing her glance, he turned her way.

  More relaxed now that they were out of the room, Weaver’s grip had loosened. Up ahead she saw the stairwell and before either of the men had a chance to register her actions, she’d bolted up the stairs.

  *

  Weaver felt her hand slip away, but she moved so fast he didn’t have time to react until she was gone. He watched her take the stairs two at a time as she ran away. Should he go after her?

  “Weaver.”

  Jenna’s voice called out to him. Reluctantly, he turned and walked back to her. She was in conversation with the cop that Paris was trying to avoid.

  Smiling as usual, she made the introductions. “This is Constable Barry Delaney. He specializes in cases with children at risk.”

  Weaver studied the man with interest. There was a calm steady look to the man. He reached out and shook his hand.

  “I was hoping you could help me talk to Paris,” the constable said. “I’ve been hoping for a chance since I saw her here. I can see she trusts you and I…” He stopped and shrugged. “I have a little unfinished business with her that I’d like to clear up.”

  Weaver didn’t know what to say. Did he help Barry or did he help Paris? Were the issues one and the same? He didn’t know. At a loss, he turned to Jenna. She stared at him, completely neutral. Really? Was she testing him somehow? He wanted to glare at her but knew that wasn’t going to help.

  The man seemed earnest, but the bottom line was simple. “Paris doesn’t want to see you.”

  The man’s shoulders deflated. Rubbing his face roughly with his hand, he nodded. “Understandable. I said something to her that I’d thought was appropriate at the time, but her words and reactions have eaten at me. I misjudged her then. I didn’t know the extent of what she’d just been through. I was new to the department and had just come on to the case.” He stared at the empty space between Jenna and Weaver, his gaze unfocused, distant. “When I learned the details, it was too late. She refused to talk to me again, and I never got a chance to fix it. I can’t take back what I said…”

  Forcing a smile, he continued. “I had hoped she’d moved on and done well for herself, but when I saw her here and she ran from me, I realized I had to clear the air.”

  Shit. Weaver stared at the man who appeared to be earnest and caring. If his words had hurt Paris unintentionally, then that was likely what Paris’s issue with him was all about. She definitely needed to see him. But Weaver knew if he pushed it, she would hate him.

  Yet, it was holding her back right now from having a full life.

  Really shitty timing.

  He glanced over at Jenna and this time, maybe she’d seen the change in his own stance. Maybe she’d been on that side since the beginning. But there was a decidedly positive look in her eyes as if to say, You can do this, Weaver.

  It was true that he could, but he also felt like he was betraying Paris. How did he reconcile that?

  He sighed. “What do you want me to do?”

  Chapter 19

  Paris stared up at the ceiling. She had her phone out and had already tried to call her brother several times. So far he hadn’t answered even though she really needed him to.

  Things were crashing here and her foundation was slipping. This was huge and when she said huge, she meant huge. Too huge. She couldn’t handle it. But she just knew it was going to require handling.

  That truth hit her stomach and came back up – with her coffee and muffin from lunch. She bolted for the bathroom and just made it as her stomach emptied.

  On the floor, tears in her eyes, hating herself for hitting this point, she could feel herself unravel.

  Somewhere along the way she should have grown up. She should have found a way to deal with this years ago. Not here and now when she was looking to move on. Moving on meant going forward, not dealing with these huge chains around her soul holding her back – well it did – but she hadn’t realized how big and cumbersome the chains where. How ingrained the hurt was into her psyche. And if she couldn’t walk through a doorway and see a person without puking up her lunch, they were bigger than she realized.

  That bothered her more than anything.

  Had she been so blind to not see the effect this man had on her every action? Had she just been so accustomed to her own reactions that they’d been commonplace and ‘part’ of her? So that nothing looked or felt different enough to be noticeable. Had this man’s words controlled her reactions since? If they had that much power back then, how much effect had they had on her since? When she hadn’t even realized they were there, like little marionette strings yanking her chain all these years.

  Was she so weak? No. She wasn’t.

  Was she so powerless? No. Not now.

  Was she so incapable of moving past this she couldn’t function? At the moment…yes.

  And that couldn’t continue. What had happened, had happened a long time ago. She’d done the best she could in a really shitty situation. Where survival had been the goal. Her brother had survived. She had survived.

  Her father had not.

  It was her fault, and at the same time it wasn’t her fault.

  Her own fear had brought her down this pathway. Her survival instincts had been right on. She’d been traumatized, then the cop had traumatized her more.

  Now her own future was dependent on her accepting this. Not just accepting, but acknowledging her actions. By saving her brother’s life and her own, she had to live with the consequences of her actions. Only she hadn’t.

  Trying to build a life. Trying to get through each day without letting her history define her present and not affect her future.

  But what about the cop’s words? Said in warning. Taken as a threat. She’d internalized his words and held them up as the one fight she still had to win. Yet did she? Still?

  All these years. She was still living with a victim’s mentality.

  Had she made no progress at all?

  Dry-eyed now, she stared down the long history of her life. At the damage her childhood had on her. The impact her actions had played in her life. The effect the others around her had on her then, and now.

  Being a victim, in her case, had meant not showing any kind of reaction, just locking everything inside. In her early years, she learned quickly that to show a reaction was to take a beating if she showed the wrong one at the wrong time. Her father never left clues as to what was right or wrong, and she’d been beaten regularly. She’d always gotten back up. In fact, it had been a point of pride. Maybe not at the time, like Sean had, but later after the danger had passed. She’d gotten up again and carried on.

  She thought she’d grown out of it, changed her attitude, and become stronger. Now as she considered how she’d let the constable impact her life, she realized she was – at least in his case – still in victim mode.

  In many areas she had moved forward. After going to school, she had a good career and loved her work and the people she worked with. Always went when called in. Always stayed late when needed. Always worked hard. Not because she wanted to but because she was afraid not to.

  Sadly, still in victim mode, still afraid of the consequence
s of saying the wrong thing. Of saying “no.”

  Truly she’d gotten nowhere. All of the goals and dreams she had, and yet she hadn’t taken the steps to fulfill them. She hadn’t put in an application for adoption because she was sure she would not be accepted. Nor had she tried relationships because she was sure it would go bad. If she didn’t try, she didn’t fail. But maybe that was because the right person hadn’t come along yet.

  Weaver was here and interested – she didn’t even know how interested because she hadn’t given him that opening. Every corner of her life, she held back just in case she did it wrong and got beat back down. Instead of living, she was waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for something to go wrong.

  Victim mode.

  *

  Weaver felt like he was betraying Paris. “I don’t want to do anything that will make her feel ganged up on,” he said to Jenna and Delaney. Jenna had been mostly quiet through this exchange, but he had a strong sense that she wanted his help. That it was fine to help, but they might not understand the long-term impact this man had on Paris.

  “No, of course not,” Jenna said. “We’d like her to be happy to meet Barry, but if that isn’t going to happen, we need to give him a chance to say what he needs to say to her before she runs. Maybe then she’ll have time to process the words.”

  His head was already shaking. “She’s going to run as soon as she sees him. There’s no way she won’t.”

  Jenna frowned, and then turned her head to see if maybe Paris had come up behind her. “I’ll talk to her.”

  “Good,” Weaver said. “You do that. I’m all for helping her, but not for hurting her.”

  “And you know she has a lot of hurt to go through to get to the help?” Jenna watched him, as if looking for a chink in that armor of his.

  Nodding, he felt defensive. “She’s already had a lot of hurt, and I don’t even know the full story. I don’t want her to feel betrayed by us and have all that hurt magnified.”

  Constable Delaney spoke up. “I had no idea I hurt her that badly.” He looked devastated.

  As much as he wouldn’t mind letting the man suffer for all the fear Paris had been through these last many years, he couldn’t let the man suffer more as well. “It’s a combination I think. There was a lot going on before you and whatever you did compounded it.” He shrugged. “I’d love to know the history of this but as she won’t tell me, I’m kind of in the dark here.”

  “And it’s not my confidence to share.”

  Jenna looked over at Barry. “Let me talk to her first. See if I can get her to see reason here.”

  With a sad look, the constable nodded and turned away. “Make sure you tell her that I don’t want to hurt her. I never wanted to hurt her. I just want to apologize.”

  And he left, heading in the direction of the restaurant and bar. If Weaver were a betting man, he would put his money on the bar.

  “Thank you, Weaver.”

  Startled, it took a couple seconds for Jenna’s words to soak in. “Thanks for what? I didn’t exactly agree to your plan.”

  She smiled again, and damn, he was going to lose himself in the depth and compassion in her eyes if he wasn’t careful and he forgot his focus. “You did what was right for you. That’s all we can ask of anyone.” Her gaze intensified. “How are you doing this week?”

  He thought about it. “I don’t know. I’m a bit lost actually. The seminar is what, half over? Almost half over and I haven’t written the report on the workshop or even started the project in the workshop.”

  “Life isn’t just about the academic side of things. There are a lot of emotions flying around here. How are you handling that?”

  “Trying to stay separate and detached is difficult,” he admitted. “I don’t know how you manage it. I’m not sure I could do something like this.”

  “You don’t have to.” She laughed. “There are many fields where your expertise and input would be welcome.”

  “Well, I don’t feel that I have any expertise,” he said, “and I haven’t had much to input anywhere yet.” That note of chagrin in his voice had her grin deepening.

  “Yes, the joys of being a student. We know everything one minute and we know nothing the next.”

  “Exactly.”

  “How are you getting along with Paris?”

  That question slid in so smoothly he’d already reacted before he could answer. And he knew that sharp gaze of hers caught every nuance. He decided to be honest. “I’m getting along fine with her. She fascinates me,” he admitted. “She’s so strong and in control one moment then so broken in the next. She has amazing defenses in place, and if Delaney hadn’t shown up, it’s quite likely she’d have blazed through this workshop without a dent to that cool, blasé control she shows to the outside world.”

  “Yet you see inside?”

  He nodded. “I’m seeing inside. Just not sure I’m seeing very far inside. She’s very complex,” he said in what he hoped was a neutral tone of voice. At her knowing look, he realized he’d failed. A tide of color washed up his neck.

  “It’s not like that.”

  She nodded, but her smile didn’t dim. “Good.”

  Already looking for the elevator, he stopped and said, “Good?”

  “Well, if it’s not like that, then you won’t toy with her affections.”

  He blinked. “Sorry?”

  “If it were like that, then you’d be interested and she might be interested back. As you’re not interested, then she won’t get hurt more.”

  Blinking again, he stepped toward her. “Am I missing something?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Are you?”

  “Damn it, Jenna,” he snapped. “Don’t play games.”

  “I’m not. You just said you’re not interested.”

  “No, I didn’t. I said it’s not like that,” he corrected. “She’s not interested.”

  Now she gave him a fat smile. “You need glasses. You don’t seem to be seeing too clearly.”

  Then she walked past him to the restaurant. He stood there and stared at her in bewilderment. Was Paris interested? He had been getting mixed vibes from her all week. Then she was a huge mix of all emotions. He didn’t think it was very healthy to start a relationship under these conditions.

  Then he stopped once again. And groaned.

  Hell, one way or another, he was already in a relationship with her.

  Chapter 20

  Paris knew what she wanted to do. But she wasn’t sure she could. She had to think about it carefully. Failure was not an option. There were many times in her life she’d said something similar, but this time she knew the consequences would be horrific.

  But she’d always been a survivor.

  She had to take the chance. Had to.

  Right?

  No. It was a choice, but one she needed to make.

  God, this was going to destroy her. She flopped backwards on the bed once again, confused and upset. Torn. What she thought and felt seemed to change every few minutes. She was an idiot who couldn’t even make up her own mind on what to do. How to do this.

  The conference was wearing her down. She knew it was deliberate on Jenna’s part. They started with little exercises to take the top layer off, leaving everyone feeling a little exposed. A little vulnerable. Then they started digging at the newly exposed tissue, trying to open another level of pain. Of hurt.

  Her stomach growled, putting her focus on more mundane issues.

  Damn, lunch had been a long time ago.

  She glanced over at the clock. It was almost seven. Was her one-on-one session with Jenna tonight? She couldn’t remember if it was. No. If so, she’d cancel. Postpone it. Panic once again rose at the thought of meeting Jenna. Another layer, or ten, would be ripped away. Something that was supposed to happen, but the pain and fear she was going through right now was excruciating. And then there was the panic. That immediate response to the stressor that said, No. Run. Hide.

  S
huddering, she climbed further into the blankets and buried her face.

  Someone knocked on the door. She froze. Was it the cop? She leaned over to make sure she’d locked the door, then she curled up in a tiny ball and just rocked herself gently on the bed. Whoever it was, they’d go away. Soon. Surely.

  Instead, she heard Weaver’s voice. “Paris, open the door. I brought dinner.”

  In a low voice, she protested. “What if I’m not hungry?”

  But she was. She was starved. And Weaver wouldn’t give up as easily as another man. He didn’t look like he had much give in him at all.

  “Open up, Paris. It’s Greek.”

  “What if I don’t like Greek?” she called out as she walked toward the door, wiping her eyes, knowing she looked a mess. Well, that should send him away if nothing else. But she really liked the guy. Knew he liked her, but there wasn’t any way they would get together. At least not permanently. She was good with that. And having Weaver in her room would be a distraction. His warm laugh, piercing eyes and muscular physique would be a welcome change to the gnawing uncertainty that wracked her thoughts.

  She opened the door to see Weaver, wearing an aura of concern, standing and holding a large takeout bag of Greek food. His muscles bunched as he held the bag, and he frowned when he saw her. It made her smile.

  Maybe she wasn’t good with that.

  “You’re making me crazy,” she said, pushing the door open wider and letting him in. Turning back inside, she tried to calm the rolling emotions in her head, stomach, and damn it – her heart. She didn’t want to care about him. She didn’t want to care about anyone. She’d be opening herself to a world of hurt. And him with his lopsided grin and light-hearted manner, what if it was all a game to him? A fleeting thing. She didn’t know that she could do that.

  She really just wanted to do what she wanted to do and forget the rest. Liar, her head whispered. You want what Sean has. You want someone special. You want to see where the warmth of his touch will take you.