by Cynthia Eden
Her hand slid against his. His fingers curled around hers and held. “I think we’ve already established that.” Why did her voice have to sound so husky? That wasn’t what she’d intended.
“You can trust me, Samantha. I hope you know that. I’ll watch your back. I’ll hold your secrets.”
A quiver slid through her. “What makes you think I have secrets?”
His hand slowly slid away from hers. “Because I can see them in your eyes. Sometimes, you lower your guard, and I get a glimpse of the pain there.”
She’d have to be far more careful. Samantha turned from him and walked toward the door. She fumbled with the lock and glanced back at him. “Good night, Blake. Thanks for checking on me.”
He nodded. “Thanks for saving my ass.” He gave her a little salute as he passed by her.
And Samantha found that she was smiling as she shut the door. It was strange. She wasn’t sure if she had been happy in the last few months, maybe not even in the last year. Her job had consumed her too much. But she had the oddest suspicion...
Blake could make me happy.
Ridiculous, of course. Other people didn’t have that power. If she wanted to be happy, that was her choice. She needed to stop letting the past eat her alive. She needed to stop seeing death and destruction everywhere.
She had to stop seeing monsters.
CHAPTER THREE
BLAKE HEADED OUT of Samantha’s building, his steps quick, and his gaze darting around the dark street. An old habit, always checking the scene for threats. Some things that a soldier learned, well, he had a real hard time shutting off.
So maybe that was why he immediately spotted the too-thick shadow near the side of the building. His body tensed and his hand went toward his holster—
“Easy.” Cameron Latham, Dr. Cameron Latham, stepped from the darkness. He had his hands up as he moved closer to the streetlamp. “I’m not one of your bad guys. I was just lingering because I wanted to talk to you.”
He was still tempted to reach for his gun. Something about the guy rubbed him the wrong way.
“I care about Samantha,” Cameron said, his voice low but carrying easily. “Like you, I just wanted to make sure she was all right. Taking a life wouldn’t be easy for her, not with her past.”
Her past. So the guy knew the secrets that Samantha carried. Another point that pissed off Blake. One day, she’ll tell me.
Cameron stopped when he was about a foot away from Blake. “When you have a past like hers, I guess you do one of two things... You either let the violence enfold you...you let it lead you. Or you find a way to fight it.”
Blake stared at him. “I don’t think Samantha would want us talking about her past, not while we’re just standing out here on the street.”
Cameron’s lips parted. He gave a quick little gasp of surprise. “True blue,” he murmured. “What a noble thing to say...don’t gossip in the streets. It isn’t right.”
Blake’s jaw locked. This guy knew jackshit about him.
“Or maybe...maybe you just have no clue what I’m talking about.” His head tilted as he seemed to assess Blake. “Don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll tell you,” Cameron said, giving a little nod. “In time. Once she knows you better. My mistake. I thought the two of you were closer. It would have explained a few things to me.”
Explained things? Blake raked his gaze over the guy. Cameron was close to his height, and he wasn’t exactly the stuffy professor sort. The doctor looked as if he worked out, and he was dressed casually, in jeans and a black pullover sweater.
“Samantha is a special woman,” Cameron added. “I like knowing that she’s safe. Tell me, will you keep her safe, Agent Gamble?”
“Samantha does a good job of keeping herself safe.”
Cameron looked back at Samantha’s building. Blake followed his stare. Her apartment was on the top floor, the corner unit. As Blake watched, the lights in her home went dark.
“She used to hate the night,” Cameron murmured. “But I guess that’s something that has changed, too. Everything is changing now.”
“You know...” Blake drawled, a hint of Texas twang coming out of his voice, “I can’t quite decide what you’re trying to tell me tonight. So how about we cut through the games and bullshit—bullshit really isn’t my thing—and you just spit out whatever it is that you want to say to me?”
Cameron smiled. “Straight shooter, huh? I bet Samantha respects that about you.”
Blake took a step forward.
Cameron laughed and held up his hands again. “Easy, Agent Gamble. All I wanted to say... Samantha is one of the few people I call a friend in this world. It’s important to me that she stays safe. I tried to talk her out of joining the FBI, but she wouldn’t listen. That’s Samantha...she always does just whatever the hell she wants.” But he sounded admiring. “I don’t like to think of her on the streets alone. I understand the type of criminals she’s hunting. They don’t play by the rules. They aren’t...straight shooters.”
“I think you’re underestimating me,” Blake stated flatly. This guy had no clue who he really was.
“I like that Samantha isn’t alone out there. I like that she may have someone she can trust. For her, trust is everything.”
She doesn’t trust me. Not yet. But I’m working on it.
“Good night, Agent Gamble. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
And it was just weird meeting you.
Cameron turned away and began strolling down the sidewalk. He’d just slipped away from the lamppost, gliding back into the dark, when he paused. His head turned as he looked back at Blake. “I certainly hope... I hope there aren’t any repercussions from tonight.”
“Repercussions?” Blake repeated, voice careful.
“Um...yes, when you take a life, there’s a domino effect. What will it do to the killer...to Samantha...? What will it do to the way she reacts to the world around her?”
“She’s not exactly a damn killer.”
“She’s the one who pulled the trigger.”
That didn’t make her a killer. She was an FBI agent, and she’d just been doing her job.
Cameron gave a sad shake of his head. “What does the act do to the deceased and his loved ones?”
He had an answer for that one. “In this case, nothing. George Farris had no immediate family. His parents were both deceased. The guy started withdrawing from his friends months ago. He barely spoke to anyone at his job, so he sure didn’t have any colleagues who were tight with him at the software company. Most people described him as quiet, intense. Not the affable sort. Farris isn’t exactly going to have a packed funeral.” There weren’t a whole lot of folks grieving for the guy. It was hard to grieve for a sick, sadistic killer.
“Well, then I guess there isn’t anything to worry about. One less monster on the street, and everyone can sleep better tonight.” Cameron gave a little wave. “See you around, agent.”
Unfortunately, he would.
Blake spared one last look toward Samantha’s dark apartment, then he turned, hunching his shoulders, and he headed into the night.
* * *
SHE SAW HIS body on the news. Or rather, she saw the bag that held his body. A black body bag, zipped up, filmed and shown on TV by some unfeeling reporter. She’d recorded the footage when it first aired, just hitting the button on her remote because she was sure there was a mistake.
George wasn’t dead.
But...
The chirpy reporter repeated the story for her, over and over, as she clicked the remote and replayed the scene. George’s little house on that quiet cul-de-sac. And he was a suspected serial killer. A victim had been found—bound and gagged—in his house.
And George had been shot by an unidentified FBI agent.
Shot.
&nbs
p; Killed.
She replayed the video once more, then hit the pause button. The image froze on her TV. Her eyes narrowed. Behind the body bag, she saw an ambulance. A woman was in the back of the ambulance, getting her arm tended to by an EMT. The woman wore black pants. A white button-down blouse. There’s blood on that blouse.
Who was that woman?
Who in the hell was she?
If you’re the one who took George, you’re going to pay.
She’d make sure of that.
CHAPTER FOUR
SAMANTHA FLASHED HER ID at the guard who’d been stationed at Missy Johnson’s hospital door. He gave a quick nod and Samantha straightened her shoulders. She’d woken up at 5:00 a.m., the image of Missy’s bloody body in her mind, and she hadn’t been able to go back to sleep.
Nightmares sucked. Especially when the nightmare that kept replaying in her head was the moment of the shooting. Bam. Bam. The shots fired from her gun and the life left George Farris’s gaze again and again.
Clearing her throat, she stepped inside the hospital room. She immediately heard the beeps and buzzes from the machines near the bed. Samantha pushed the curtain aside and pasted a smile on her face. “Missy, I’m—”
A man stood there, tall, with graying hair and deep lines on his face. “My girl ain’t seeing anyone right now! That damn guard was supposed to keep the reporters out and—”
“Dad...” A soft voice, coming from the bed behind him. “I don’t... I don’t think she’s a reporter.”
His blue eyes narrowed on Samantha.
She lifted her badge.
“She’s the one who saved me,” Missy said, her voice still soft, weak.
The man’s expression immediately changed. In an instant, he went from being fierce and angry to wild with relief. He grabbed Samantha’s hand, pumping it. “Agent Dark?”
She nodded.
He yanked Samantha forward and hugged her, hard enough to squeeze the breath from her. “You saved my little girl,” he whispered. “Thank you.”
He was too tall for her to see over his shoulder. He was big and burly, kind of like a grizzly bear, and when he finally let her ease back so that she could suck in a deep breath, she saw the tattoos that covered his arms.
“My little girl means the world to me,” he added. “I owe you.”
“No, sir, you—”
“You ever need anything, you call me.” He yanked out his wallet and shoved a crisp, white business card into her hand. “My name’s Robbie Johnson, and you can believe I’ll pay my debt to you.” His hard gaze told her he was serious.
She smiled at him and put the card into her pocket. “I appreciate that, Mr. Johnson, but I was just doing my job. As far as I’m concerned, Missy is the real hero. She survived that hell. She’s a fighter.”
His chest puffed up. “She gets that from me.”
Samantha slipped around him. Bandages covered Missy’s arms, and she could see the bulk of other bandages poking up beneath her hospital gown. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”
Missy lifted the hand that wasn’t hooked to an IV. “All stitched up.” Dark shadows lined her eyes. “He’s...he’s really dead, right? I...I didn’t dream that? Y-you shot him and—”
“He’s dead,” Samantha assured her. “He won’t hurt you or anyone else ever again.”
Missy’s breath blew out on a rough exhale. The machines beeped faster. “I was just... I was running, doing my morning jog in the park. He was waiting in the lot, said he had a flat and asked if he could use my phone.” Her eyes squeezed closed. “I didn’t want to be rude. Rude. That’s what I was worried about...being rude.” Pain and shame flashed on her face. “I gave him my phone and h-he grabbed me.” A broken laugh escaped her. “What in the hell was I thinking?”
Her father stiffened. “Missy...”
“I should have just gotten in my car, walked away. Why did I care about being rude to some stranger? What—”
Samantha stepped closer to the bed. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” She’d seen this before—victims blaming themselves. “He was a predator, Missy. You weren’t the first woman that he took.”
“Just the only one to survive,” her father said darkly.
Cold words, but, yes, he was right.
Samantha hesitated as she stared at Missy. She shouldn’t be there. Official questioning would come later, but...
I just needed to see her once more. To make sure that she really was okay. “Get some rest,” Samantha told her. “You need to focus on healing.” She turned for the door.
“Tell me...about them.”
Her shoulders stiffened at that soft request.
“The other victims...” Missy murmured. “How did he pick them? Why? Why did he pick me?”
Samantha glanced over her shoulder. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said again, her voice calm but strong. “You have to understand that. You didn’t cause the attack. You didn’t draw his attention. George Farris was the one with the issues. You just—”
“I had the bad luck to get in his path?” Missy licked her lips. “I saw...on the news...” She pointed to the TV that was attached to the right wall of the room. “A guy on the news was saying that serial killers like Farris had...had victim types. Was I...his type?”
Samantha kept her expression blank. “He preferred young blonde women with delicate builds. Probably because he, himself, wasn’t an overly big man. Women of that type—he found them easier to control.”
Missy’s father swore.
“I need to leave,” Samantha said. “You don’t need to hear this now. You have time, Missy. Time for all the bad details later. You survived. You got away—you have time for everything.”
“He thought I was weak.” Missy’s hand fisted over her covers. “That’s why he took me.”
“No, he thought you were perfect.”
Missy’s head jerked up.
“He thought you were the perfect woman, Missy.” There were things she wouldn’t say right then, about the way that Farris had arranged the bodies of his victims, how he’d styled their hair. How he’d taken their pictures with such care after he’d mutilated them. “Men like him...they fixate on their ideals of perfection. Blonde, young, delicate like a ballerina—to him, that was perfection.”
A tear leaked down Missy’s cheek as she stared at the bandages on her arms. “I’m hardly perfect now.”
Farris had liked to destroy the perfect beauty of his victims. As if he were punishing them.
When she’d created the profile for Farris, an unknown perp at the time, she’d theorized that he chose his victims for two main reasons.
One...their delicate builds made them easier to overpower. That was one of the reasons she’d known that she was looking for a killer with a slight build himself.
Two...he was striking out at someone in particular. Someone who had been personally involved in his life—someone who had been blonde and beautiful and who he had wanted to slice apart.
Samantha found herself heading back to the bed. She waited until Missy’s gaze rose to meet hers, and then she said, “You survived a serial killer’s attack. You were with him for over twenty-four hours. You have lived through a hell that few people can understand. Will you have some scars? Yes...but scars fade. The fact that you are a survivor will never change. Your spirit doesn’t change. You are perfect. And soon enough, you’ll see that for yourself.”
Missy’s trembling lips lifted into a smile. “You almost make me believe it.”
“We all have scars, Missy.” Samantha certainly carried plenty of her own. “They don’t matter.” She nodded to Missy—and to Missy’s father—then Samantha headed for the door. She skimmed past the curtain, curled her fingers around the door handle and pulled it open.
The guard was still outside.
But he wasn’t alone.
Blake was there, his brows raised, and his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.
Samantha stilled. “Eavesdropping, Agent Gamble?”
“Maybe. A bit.”
Shaking her head, she marched past him. Her gaze was on the bank of elevators.
“Does Bass know you’re here?” Blake asked her.
She jabbed the button for the elevator. “I was just checking on her. Nothing official about my visit.”
“Hmm.”
Samantha crossed her arms over her chest as she waited for the elevator to arrive. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I don’t think you’re very good at staying away from a case, Bass’s orders or not.”
Fine. So she was a little guilty. “I want to find his trigger.”
The elevator dinged.
“What?” Blake asked.
Samantha stepped into the elevator. “The woman who started it all. The woman who stirred all that hate inside of George Farris. The mystery blonde.”
Blake didn’t follow her. “Samantha...”
“I’m sure there’s a clue to her identity in Farris’s house. Sooner or later, I’ll be cleared on this shooting.” She threw up her hand, stopping the elevator doors before they could close. “And then I’m going to find her.”
He stepped closer. “How do you know Farris hasn’t already killed her? Maybe she was his first victim. Hell, when we start digging in that house, we might very well find her—buried in the basement or in the backyard or—”
“We could,” Samantha agreed, cutting through his words. “And then I’ll know who she is.”
His head cocked as he studied her. “Knowing is important?”
“Knowing gives me his motivation. It helps me to understand him. He didn’t have to be a killer. Something changed him.” I think it was the blonde. Samantha let her hand drop. “Better move back, Agent Gamble. You don’t want to get hurt.”
“Trust me, I don’t exactly ‘hurt’ easily.” One dark brow shot up. “Why am I suddenly ‘Agent Gamble’ to you?”
