Dane swore colorfully. “That’s enough for right now. She can’t do this. This can’t be good for her, and Caleb will have my ass if we allow her to continue as is.”

The sketch artist looked mildly surprised but shrugged as though he didn’t care one way or another and that angered Ramie. It was irrational. She knew that. But the unfortunate artist just happened to be an outlet for her anger, and she was at her boiling point.

Anger was a more acceptable emotion than fear. Anger didn’t make her weak. Just careless and volatile as she unleashed her rage.

The artist’s apathy infuriated her. Made her feel as though no one really cared about all the women who’d been victimized. Or cared that she had endured hell with each and every one of them. It made her feel negligible. Overlooked just as the other women had been forgotten about, just another sad statistic in a growing stack of them.

“Do you really want the next victim to be on your conscience?” she asked in a frigid tone, her gaze narrowing at the artist. She continued to coldly stare him down until he fidgeted under her scrutiny. He at least had the grace to look abashed but he refused to meet her challenging stare. With a sound of disgust, she glanced up at Dane. “We’ll stop when we get it right and not a minute before.”

Eliza reached for Ramie’s hand, squeezing it in a silent show of support. Ramie immediately flinched and braced herself for the inevitable onslaught. Eliza’s shocked gaze met hers and Eliza swiftly removed her hand, as though she’d forgotten all about Ramie’s ability to read people through touch and she had secrets she wanted to remain hidden.

Ramie carefully schooled her features, forcing herself not to show any outward reaction to the flood of rigid anger buried beneath Eliza’s cool façade. Rage. Billowing like a black thunderhead at the front of a huge storm.

It put Ramie into sensory overload. Her pupils constricted and then dilated in a few blinks. It was like being caught in the path of an avalanche and knowing there was no escape. Just waiting for the white wall of snow to envelope her.

“Don’t touch her,” Eliza said sharply.

Ramie assumed she was talking to Dane and that Dane had in some way reached for her, perhaps to steady her.

“No,” Ramie whispered. “Don’t touch me, please.”

She curled inward on herself, pushing the dizzying rush of fragmented emotions as far from the epicenter of the storm as possible. She closed her eyes and pulled her knees to her chin, rocking back and forth in an effort to sooth the raw edges that had been seared through her mind.

For several long minutes she rocked, her forehead touching her knees, her arms hugged around her legs, a barrier to anyone in the room. It was a protective gesture, not that it ever did her any good because there was no defense for the mental onslaught she experienced.

She blew out steadying breaths, determined to get her thoughts back under control. The last thing she wanted was for Caleb to return to this. He couldn’t pick up the pieces and put her back together forever. She had to learn to cope. Her old defense—denial—was no longer an option.

She knew too much. She understood far too well the consequences of her closing her eyes and shutting out reality. Her doing so had far-reaching ramifications. Women died. Families were destroyed. Children had a future with no mother.

“The eyes are wrong,” Ramie finally whispered. “The bridge of the nose should be flatter and wider, the eyes set farther apart and more rounded at the corners.”

Respect gleamed in Dane’s eyes. She could feel his approval, broadcasting in waves as he stood silently by and watched. Eliza’s expression eased as she turned her attention back to the artist.

Ramie’s brow wrinkled in concentration when the artist presented the next draft. She studied the face, looking for signs of evil. But he looked . . . ​normal. Above average. As she’d done before when she’d stared him in the eyes, she was struck by how handsome and wholesome he appeared. There was nothing to outwardly indicate the demon behind the polished façade.

“That’s him,” she choked out.

TWENTY-FOUR

WHEN Caleb entered the living room he stopped dead in his tracks, his leather briefcase falling from his grasp and landing on the floor with a resounding thud. The only other sound was coming from Ramie. She was trying to gather herself and be stoic and that made it worse because she was fighting a losing battle. She made small noises, much like a wounded animal might make. And she had her arms wrapped tightly around her legs, her knees drawn up to hide her face. She rocked back and forth, her knuckles white from where she dug her fingers in where they rested on her arms. There would be marks, small bruises from her own grip.

Caleb surveyed the room, took in the grim mood of Dane and Eliza and confusion in the eyes of the artist. “What the hell happened?” he demanded.

Not waiting for an answer, he crossed the room and went to his knees in front of where Ramie rocked herself on the sofa.

“Ramie?” he said in a gentle tone.

There was something about the way she held herself that suggested utter fragility. Her head never came up. Her face wasn’t visible. Her hair was in disarray and her knees covered her eyes, the rest of her face hidden behind the tops of her thighs.

Caleb rounded ferociously on Dane and Eliza, both of whom were watching intently, worry marring their expressions.

He let out a low growl, the sound rumbling from his chest. “What did you do to her?”

“She identified the killer,” Eliza said in a low voice. “The artist has his likeness, so we can distribute it through the proper channels and hopefully someone, somewhere, will recognize him.”