He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not Page 6

  He reached out his hand toward her but dropped it when she jerked backwards. She awkwardly folded her arms over her chest, her automatic reaction reminding her she was right. She couldn’t handle a relationship, no matter how tempting.

  His eyes were sad as he looked at her. “Don’t apologize. My actions were inappropriate. I don’t know what got into me.” His eyes took on the far-away look he had earlier when he talked about his loved ones in New York. “I really don’t.”

  He shrugged into his jacket, then pulled a small white card from his pocket and laid it on the kitchen table. “My business card. If you change your mind about speaking to the FBI, call me.” His gaze captured hers. “Even if you don’t change your mind, if you need someone to talk to, about anything, call me. No strings.”

  He crossed to the side door, gave her another one of those heart-achingly sad smiles, then stepped out onto the carport.

  By the time the taillights on Logan’s car faded in the distance, Amanda was shaking so hard she had to sit down at the table. For a few minutes tonight, Chief Richards—Logan—had made her feel attractive again. She’d forgotten how good it felt to have a man look at her with hunger in his eyes.

  Not that it mattered. She couldn’t encourage any kind of relationship between them. Her own seesawing emotions were too much to deal with.

  Let alone his.

  At times tonight, he’d looked like he was scared to death of her.

  Logan shook his head in disgust, tilted his beer, and took a long, deep drink. He slammed the empty bottle down on the top rail of his back deck, mildly surprised the glass didn’t shatter. The gold label sparkled up at him in the porch light, mocking him, reminding him Amanda drank the same brand of beer.

  They both had the same brand of TV, the same kind of computer. About half of the DVDs in the rack beside her TV were the same movies he had next to his—action movies, not chick flicks.

  He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and looked down at the picture frame he held in his left hand. Victoria’s soft brown eyes stared up at him with that adoring look she’d once reserved only for him. God, how he’d loved her. He still couldn’t believe she was no longer his. They’d been happy together, or so he’d thought, until she asked for a divorce so she could marry someone else.

  In the year since the divorce he’d been convinced he could never love another woman like that. He’d never meet someone and again feel that hot rush of attraction, that sense of connection when he looked in her eyes, as if he’d known her forever. He never thought another woman could make him burn for her, yearn for her, the way he’d once burned for Victoria.

  Until he met Amanda.

  The moment he’d looked into those haunted blue eyes he was lost. He’d wanted to pull her into his arms, protect her, ease the hurt that caused the shadows in her eyes. Even now he wanted nothing more than to rush back to her house and make sure she was safe, even though his men were outside watching over her.

  He cursed and crossed the deck to the set of French doors and went inside. He set the alarm, discarded his beer bottle in the kitchen, then glanced at his watch. He should have been in bed long before now, but he was too keyed up to sleep. He needed something to take his mind off Amanda, because no matter how much he might want her, he couldn’t have her. Might as well do what he did most nights when he couldn’t sleep, which was often. He headed toward the front of the house to his study.

  The top of his desk was covered with stacks of files. Aside from the cold cases his former team in New York occasionally sent to get his advice, he now had files from both the O’Donnell case and the Branson/Stockton case piled across his desk. He grabbed the nearest folder and flipped to the first page, but the words swam in front of him, making no sense. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t concentrate, not with thoughts of Amanda still swirling through his mind.

  She was a witness in a murder investigation. Logan knew he had no business even thinking about getting personally involved with her. If he couldn’t concentrate now, it would only get worse if he allowed this insane attraction to go any further. What if he missed something important and another woman died? At least with his rookie mistake, he could tell himself maybe the killer hadn’t killed again. Maybe the killer knew his victim and it was a crime of passion, a one-time thing.

  Carolyn O’Donnell’s killer was different. He’d killed before and he would kill again. He was probably already stalking his next victim. Logan had to do everything he could to stop the killer, or the next woman’s death would be on him. There wasn’t any room in his life for a relationship right now, especially with Amanda.

  Even if he didn’t have the case to worry about, Amanda had been horribly brutalized, both physically and emotionally. She wasn’t ready for a relationship either, as evidenced from their discussion earlier tonight. The best thing for her right now was for him to respect her wishes, treat her professionally, and find the killer who’d nearly destroyed her four years ago.

  He shuffled through the pages in the current file, pages he’d already read dozens of times today without seeing anything new. What he’d really like to have is the Anna Northwood file to look through. Looking through the case he’d screwed up ten years ago would give his mind a break, free his subconscious to work on the details of Amanda’s case to look for a pattern.

  Unfortunately, his search for the file earlier today in the department’s online database had yielded only one line that read “archived to off-site storage.” The file was too old, had never been keyed into the online system. He’d have to pay a visit to the storage warehouse sometime soon and find that file, but for tonight, he’d just have to review the Branson case again.

  He sighed and flipped another page.

  Kate was back.

  He could barely believe it, even though he knew it was true.

  She’d never come back that soon before. Damn it. Why wouldn’t she leave him alone? He’d found peace, blessed peace, and he’d hoped it would last this time.

  She’d called herself Carolyn earlier, and she’d been so perfect, so sweet, that he’d believed maybe, just maybe, she’d finally go away for good this time like she’d promised. He’d foolishly hoped she might finally let him live his life without fear, without worrying she’d find him again.

  He should have known he couldn’t trust her. Kate always lied.

  And this time, like once before, she called herself Amanda.

  Chapter Five

  Guilt was a powerful motivator. Amanda fought its relentless pull for two days, but it was a losing battle. Wednesday afternoon she sat in her car, parked outside the building shared by city hall and the police department, trying to work up the courage to open the door and go inside.

  She didn’t want to dredge up her past and endure another round of police interviews. The ugliness of what had happened to her stared back at her every day when she looked in the mirror. The killer had left his mark on her in so many ways, ensuring she could never forget, never truly escape. And she’d already told the police everything—or, at least, everything relevant to their investigation.

  But what if Logan Richards was right and she knew something she didn’t even realize she knew, something that would help them stop the killer before he hurt anyone else? Dana had died because of Amanda’s cowardice. Could she really live with another person’s death on her conscience?

  She already knew that answer. Since Logan’s visit, the nightmares had returned: vivid images of the inside of the cabin, the wink of light against the killer’s jagged blade, Dana’s cries of terror when Amanda ran from the cabin, leaving her behind.

  Amanda shivered and rubbed her arms, her chill having nothing to do with the cool air blasting from the car’s air-conditioner. She fervently hoped if she answered Logan’s questions, the nightmares would go away again. She could return to her sanctuary, live her quiet life, and go back to trying to pretend the past had never happened.

  She grabbed her purse, got out of her car, and hurried up
the steps into the building before she could change her mind. The crush of people in the first floor lobby had her pulling her hair forward to hide her scar. She kept her eyes downcast, hoping no one would try to talk to her, and pressed the button for the elevator.

  A few moments later a low beep signaled the elevator’s arrival. She rushed inside, relieved when no one joined her. As the doors closed, she punched the button for the second floor.

  Nausea churned in her stomach as she stepped out into the elevator lobby, a small alcove set back from the squad room. She wiped her palms on her long, denim skirt and stared out at the hauntingly familiar scene. The walls were still a depressing battleship gray. Row upon row of paper-strewn desks still filled the cavernous space. The combination of phones ringing, the clicking of computer keyboards, and people talking still produced the same low hum she sometimes heard in her dreams.

  Some of the faces had changed, but most were familiar, as if the last four years had never happened. But time had passed. In spite of the crying jags she’d gone on the past few days, she wasn’t the broken woman she was back then. She refused to cower now.

  She straightened her shoulders and looked down at the threshold that separated the elevator lobby from the squad room. That thin black grout line looked so small, so insignificant, but she knew once she crossed it there was no going back.

  She took a deep breath and crossed the line.

  “Miss, can I help you?”

  Amanda finger-combed her hair over her scar and turned toward the freckle-faced police officer who’d approached her. Her heart squeezed in her chest at the youthful innocence on his face. He looked like he should be renting a tux for his senior prom instead of wearing a gun and a badge. How many crime scenes would it take before that innocence was shattered and gone forever?

  For her it had only taken one.

  She smiled, keeping her face partially averted so he wouldn’t see her scar. “I’m Amanda Stockton. I’m here to see Chief Richards, if he’s available?”

  “Sure, follow me. He’s in the main conference room.” Before she could stop him, he charged off through the maze of desks toward the right side of the room, his eagerness to please showing in every bouncing step he took.

  She caught up with him at the door. “Please, wait. He’s not expecting me. I don’t have an appointment. Does he have an assistant who could see whether he has an opening, or—”

  “Mabel’s off today. I’m sure it’s not a problem. I’ll let him know you’re here.” He tapped on the door, then pushed it open and stepped inside to speak to someone she couldn’t see.

  As the door swung further into the room, a wall of horrific photographs swam into view, including one of her, covered in blood, squeezed into the impossibly narrow, rotten tree trunk she remembered so vividly.

  She could almost smell the damp, rotting wood, feel the insects crawling over her skin, in her hair, biting and stinging, the paralyzing fear as a twig snapped nearby, fear that the killer had found her.

  Blackness swirled at the edges of her vision. Her breath came out in sharp, choppy pants. Her pulse pounded in her ears, drowning out the sounds around her. Panic flooded through her. What had made her think she could relive that nightmare again? She wasn’t ready. She had to get out of here.

  Whirling around, she rushed through the squad room, no longer caring that anyone could see her scar as her hair flew out behind her. She skidded to a stop in front of the elevators and punched the “down” button.

  Too slow, too slow. Can’t breathe.

  She punched the button again and frantically looked around. A door to her left had a red sign marked “stairs.” She lunged toward the door, her high heels slipping on the polished terrazzo floor.

  “Amanda, wait.” Strong hands grasped her shoulders, pulling her back.

  “No, leave me alone.” She kicked back with her heel, striking her attacker’s shin. A pained grunt sounded behind her. A powerful arm circled her waist and pulled her back against a solid chest.

  “Amanda, it’s Logan,” a deep voice whispered next to her ear. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

  Logan. It was Logan. Her panic drained and she collapsed against him, inhaling his comforting, familiar scent as her labored lungs struggled for air.

  He turned her in his arms and gently pressed her head against his chest while he whispered soothing words to her. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and clung to him, reveling in the feel of his strong arms around her. She was safe. With Logan she was safe. The dark shadows began to recede. The dull roar in her ears faded. Sounds returned. Phones ringing. Papers shuffling.

  “Back to your desks, everybody,” Detective Riley’s voice called out. “There’s nothing to see.”

  Amanda’s eyes shot open. She gasped and shrank back from the crowd of detectives and uniformed policemen watching her from a few feet away. Logan’s arms tightened around her.

  The young policeman who’d led her to the conference room stared at her, his eyes wide, his freckles standing out in sharp contrast against his pale face. Riley shoved him to get him moving and ushered the other men back into the squad room.

  Amanda squeezed her eyes shut again, her face flushing with heat. “Can you get me out of here, please?” she whispered miserably.

  “Do you want me to carry you?”

  Carry her? He sounded serious, as if he was about to lift her up in his arms in front of the entire police department. Her face flushed even more as she shoved out of his arms and took a step back. “Don’t you dare. I’m embarrassed enough already.”

  He tilted her chin up and leaned down, his brows drawn together in a hard line. “You’ve been through hell and back, endured more than most people could ever imagine. You don’t owe anyone any explanations and you sure as hell shouldn’t feel embarrassed.”

  His declaration of support had her throat closing up. It had been so long since anyone had shown any concern about her. She offered him a wobbly smile. Her smile faded as she noticed a man in a dark suit standing a few feet away, studying both of them. She instinctively tucked herself closer to Logan.

  Logan squeezed her shoulders. “This is Special Agent Pierce Buchanan,” he said. “He’s the FBI agent I told you about.”

  Pierce, who looked strikingly similar to Logan, held out his hand and offered her a reassuring smile.

  “Amanda Stockton,” she said, as she reluctantly shook his hand. The feel of his strong fingers clasping hers sent a tremor of dread through her. She snatched her hand away, then flushed with embarrassment and leaned back against Logan. Both of these men towered over her. Both of them were powerfully built. But for some reason she couldn’t explain, she felt completely safe with Logan. His size didn’t make her uncomfortable like the FBI agent’s did.

  “It’s good to meet you, Ms. Stockton,” Pierce said, glancing from her to Logan, obviously wondering if there was something going on between them. “I apologize that you saw those photographs,” he continued. “They were never intended to be seen by civilians.”

  At the mention of the pictures, she swallowed against the bile rising in her throat.

  Logan’s deep voice sounded next to her ear as he leaned down behind her. “I’ll take you home.”

  Her heart clutched in her chest at the way he kept his arm around her, unfazed by what the agent might think of him. Even though she hadn’t told Logan that she was here to let him interview her, he must have figured it out. And yet, he was willing to give up his chance to ask her questions. He was more concerned with making sure she was okay.

  The temptation to take the comfort he offered and ignore her responsibilities was nearly overwhelming. But the reprieve would only be temporary. The guilt that had haunted her since Monday morning when he’d first asked her to come to the station would dig its tentacles into her again, forcing her to come back. And since she had no intention of ever coming back after today, she needed to face her fears and get this ordeal over with.

  “No, I’m okay.”
Her voice sounded shaky and weak. She cleared her throat and tried again. “I’m fine,” she said, her voice clear and strong this time. She stepped away from Logan again and faced him. “I came here to speak to you.” She looked over at Pierce. “And you too. I’m here because Chief Richards said he wanted to ask me some questions. He thought I might know something that can help with your investigation.”

  “Let’s go into another conference room,” Pierce suggested, his voice eager.

  Logan frowned at him. “Are you sure, Amanda?”

  She nodded and pasted what she hoped was a serene smile on her lips.

  He hesitated, giving her a doubtful look.

  “I’m really okay,” she assured him, hoping he couldn’t tell how much she was shaking inside.

  He still didn’t look like he believed her, but he gave her a tight nod and led her through the squad room, turning left this time instead of right. Flanked by the two large men, she was shielded from any curious stares.

  Pierce stopped in front of a frosted glass door and held it open while she and Logan stepped inside. Since there was a table and chairs in the room, it could technically be called a conference room, but it was so small a closet was a more apt description. With Logan and Pierce inside, it was filled to capacity.

  “Do you want something to drink?” Logan asked.

  “No, thank you. Let’s just get this over with.”

  He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “If we ask any questions that make you too uncomfortable, let us know.”

  She nodded and tried to relax back against the chair. She tugged her hand away from his, not because it bothered her, but because she couldn’t think with him touching her. Instead, she clasped her hands in her lap beneath the table.

  “Let’s start with the week before the abduction,” Logan said. “We need to know exactly where you went, who you saw. We need to know why he chose you and Dana.”

  “Okay.” The week before the abduction was safe territory. She could handle that.

  A hundred questions later, she wasn’t so sure. She felt like a tennis ball tossed back and forth across the net, never knowing where the next swing would come from or where she might land. She answered most of their questions, but every time one of them veered toward the details of the attack itself, she steered them away to safer territory. She could tell they were both frustrated, but she couldn’t bring herself to discuss those intimate details again. Her throat closed up every time she tried.