Page 66 of Knox
“I kissed her. What did you think, that I grabbed her and threw her up against a wall and had my way with her?”
And the very fact that those words came out of Knox rattled Tate.
Worse, Knox blew out a breath and turned away as if,huh?, maybe he’d been thinking that exact thing. “I surprised her, I guess. I should have asked—”
“Yeah. Maybe. I mean, she’s probably pretty sensitive to any sort of physical contact, even if it’s wanted—”
Knox turned back to him, frowning. “What do you mean?”
Tate lifted a shoulder. “It’s not hard to figure out that a girl who’s been raped needs to know she’s safe. And in control, if you know what I mean.”
Knox just stared at him, his face whitening.
Oh.No…Tate’s gut bottomed out. “Knox—”
But his brother had leaned over, was grabbing his knees.
Tate walked over and picked up the trash can, set it in front of him. “I felt the same way when I found out.”
Knox breathed out hard, a couple times, then stood up and ran his hands through his hair.
“Sorry. I thought… Shoot. I shouldn’t have told you.”
Knox glanced at him, then pressed the back of his hand to his mouth as if he might still lose it. Shook his head. “Maybe not, but…yeah, that makes sense. Please tell me she wasn’t—”
“Fourteen. Mmmhmm.”
Knox turned and walked to the window, bracing his hands on either side of the frame, and Tate wasn’t sure his brother wasn’t going to do something crazy like put his fist into a wall. Or through the pane.
“They caught the guys.”
It was a statement, Tate thought, but he wasn’t sure, so, “Yeah. But that’s the thing. The gang leader—Vince Russell—is out on parole.”
Knox rounded on him. “What?”
“Yeah. That’s why we’re here. Why Kelsey’s so freaked out. Because we all know the bombing wasn’t related but…”
“But the randomness reminds her of the attack.” Knox shook his head, then met Tate’s gaze. “And you’re sure that this guy had nothing to do with the explosion?”
Tate frowned. “I’ve been trying to track him down in New York City through some contacts, but, I doubt it—”
And that’s when Knox walked over to his closet and opened the doors.
Tate stilled, enthralled for a second by the masterpiece of his brother’s research. A map of the San Antonio complex, pictures, news articles, lineups, schedules, itineraries, and Post-it Notes all tacked to the place where his clothes should hang.
Tate took a step closer. “What is this?”
Knox stepped up to the grid. Pointed at two sketches. “Do either of these guys look familiar?”
Tate made a face. “Uh, dude, that’s like a second-grader sketch.”
Knox gave him a look. “Okay, remember the guys at the bar the night Kelsey showed up?”
“In the beer tent?”
“Yeah. Maybe you didn’t get a good look, but one had a tattoo of flames encircling his neck. The other has gauged ears and a port-wine stain and these two guys—” He pressed two fingers against the pictures, as if for emphasis. “They were sighted with the so-called bomber, this guy out of Lubbock.”
“Arnie Gibbs, rodeo clown?”