Kisscut by Karin Slaughter

with emotion.
    Hank looked away from her, waiting for her to get hold of herself. She knew that he could listen to a room full of strangers whine about wanting needles in their arms or double shots of whiskey, but could not handle Lena 's tears. Part of her also knew that he hated Lena for crying. Sibyl had been his baby, the one he had taken care of. Lena was the strong one who didn't need anybody. The role reversal had knocked him on his ass.
    "You gotta go to that therapist," Hank barked at her, still angry. "Your chief told you that. It's a requirement, and you're not doing it."
    She shook her head side to side in a violent arc, her hand still at her mouth.
    "You don't run anymore. You don't work out," he began, as if this was part of an indictment against her. "You go to bed at nine and don't get up until late as you can the next morning," he continued. "You don't take care of yourself anymore."
    "I take care of myself," she mumbled.
    "You go see a therapist or I'm leaving today, Lee." He put his hand over hers, forcing her to turn her head. "I am serious as a fucking heart attack, child."
    Suddenly, his expression changed, and the hard lines around his face softened. He pushed back her hair with his fingers, his touch light against her skin. Hank was trying to be paternal with her, but the soft way he touched her was a sickening reminder of the way he had touched her before. The tenderness had been the worst part: the soft strokes, the delicate way he used his tongue and fingers to soothe and stimulate her, the agonizingly slow way he had fucked her, as if he were making love to her instead of raping her.
    Lena started to shake. She could not stop herself. Hank moved his hand away quickly, as if he had just realized he was touching something dead. Lena jerked back, her head banging into the window.
    "Don't ever do that again," she warned, but there was only fear in her voice. "Don't touch me. Don't ever touch me like that. Do you hear me?" She panted, trying to swallow the bile that came up her throat.
    "I know," he said, holding his hand close to her back but not touching her. "I know that. I'm sorry."
    Lena grabbed for the door handle, missing it several times because her hands were shaking so hard. She stepped out of the car, taking gulps of air into her lungs. The heat enveloped her, and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to make the connection between the heat and her dreams of floating on the ocean.
    She heard a familiar friendly voice behind her. "Hey there, Hank," Dave Fine, the pastor of the church, said.
    "Good morning, sir," Hank returned, his voice kinder than it ever was when he spoke to Lena. She had heard Hank use that tone before, but only with Sibyl. For Lena, there had always been nothing but sharp words of criticism.
    Lena concentrated on getting her breathing back under control before she turned around. She could not smile, but she felt the corners of her mouth rise slightly in what must have seemed like a pained grimace to the pastor.
    "Good morning, detective," Dave Fine said, the preacher-compassion in his voice getting under her skin worse than anything Hank had said in the car. For the last four months, Hank had been pushing Dave Fine on Lena, trying to get her to talk to the preacher. Pastor Fine was also a psychologist, or so he said, and saw patients in the evenings. Lena did not want to talk to the man about the weather, let alone what had happened to her. It wasn't that Fine was the Antichrist, it was that of all the people Lena could possibly talk to, a preacher would be the last one she would pick. It was like Hank had forgotten exactly what had happened to her in that dark room.
    She gave him a curt "Pastor," walking past him, her purse tight to her chest like an old lady at a rummage sale.
    She could feel his eyes on her back, hear Hank make his apologies as she walked away from them. Lena felt a flush of shame for being rude to Fine. It wasn't his fault-he was a nice enough man-but