ON SEPTEMBER 29, LOCAL POLICE OFFICER SEAN O’MALLEY WAS DRIVING ON THE BACKSTREETS OF A NEIGHBORHOOD APPROXIMATELY SEVEN MILES FROM THE LOCKWOOD ESTATE WHEN A SMALL BOY STUMBLED OUT OF THE WOODS AND INTO THE PATH OF HIS VEHICLE. —New York Times, September 30, 1990 What happened?” Emery was still stroking Sophie. Each touch made her less ashamed of the scars and more aware of his body and his hands on her, and the way he made her feel beautiful, desirable. His fingers traced the knotted flesh and she reached up to cover his hand with hers. He turned his palm away from her chest to catch her hand, linking their fingers. He squeezed gently, a tender reassurance from compassion rather than pity. It made her eyes burn and she blinked back tears. “I got him back for the scars with three shots to the chest from my .22.”For the first time since earlier that day, Emery laughed.“There’s my girl.” He cupped her chin with one palm, his gaze stealing hers.She was startled at the warmth, rather than heat there.
