by Cynthia Eden
Right in front of the computer monitor.
“Keep searching the house,” Blake ordered sharply. “Look in every closet and under every bed. Check the attic, check every single inch of this place.”
Tucker and Alex moved to obey.
But Blake stayed there. He forced himself to stare at the dead man. The poor bastard. He cut off your eyelids for a reason. Blake wasn’t good at psychological crap like Samantha, but this one was obvious...
He wants me to see...
Blake looked at the computer. The dead man had been positioned right in front of it. But the screen was black because the system must have gone to sleep. Blake used the back of his hand to lightly brush against the mouse, waking up the system, but trying not to contaminate any evidence and—
Samantha was on the screen. An image of her. Lying in a bed, naked.
And she wasn’t alone.
Cameron Latham was with her. Cameron Latham was fucking her in that image on her computer. An image that Cameron had wanted Blake to see. That he’d wanted the world to see.
Blake’s head snapped up. He looked at the bulletin board Samantha had put on her wall, and he realized...
Pictures were on that board. Pictures that hadn’t been there before. Every city that Samantha had visited...each city now was marked by a small picture of her. Chicago...she was at a bar, leaning forward intently. New York...she was drinking coffee as she crossed the street. San Diego...she was stepping off a streetcar.
Cameron had been watching her all along.
Blake moved closer to the board. Because there was a picture positioned right over Fairhope, Alabama, too. A picture of Samantha jogging along the pier—the pier that Blake had met her on the very first day he’d come to town.
Words had been written along the bottom of that picture, in thick, black marker.
She was mine first.
He flipped the picture over.
And she will be again.
* * *
WHEN SHE SAW Blake stalk out of her house, Samantha’s breath left in a low rush. She’d been staring at her home, her body taut, fear thick in her blood, from the moment he vanished. She shoved open the car door and jumped out.
The officer tried to push her back inside. She knocked his hands away. “He’s back! It’s safe, so just—”
“Three bodies inside,” Blake’s voice boomed out. “Get crime scene techs in there now. Preserve the scene. Get the ME to take care of the dead.” His gaze burned as it met Samantha’s. “And you come with me.” He grabbed her hand before she had a chance to speak, and then he was hauling her toward the SUV that Tucker and Alex had rode up in.
He opened the passenger door and tried to push her inside—but she was done with being pushed. “Stop!”
He blinked. She’d...never seen his face quite like that. So tight. His cheeks were hollowed out. His jaw clenched. His eyes too bright with fury.
Samantha licked her lips. “Three men...are dead?”
He nodded curtly. “The two missing cops...and Janice’s cameraman. You know, the poor dumbass we were hoping to find because we thought he might be able to ID Latham and tell us about the guy’s new appearance.” He caged her between the SUV and his body. “Turns out Latham tortured him, for a good long while, judging from the look of things. Oh, and for extra fun, your boyfriend cut off the guy’s eyelids.”
Her hand slammed into his chest. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“No?” He gave a rough laugh. “Guess he doesn’t get that clue.”
She was missing something. Samantha glanced at her house. “Take me inside.”
“No, no, where I’m taking you, it’s as far away from here as I can get you. Because he’s made a threat against you. He is coming for you. Hell, the guy has apparently been stalking you for months. You thought you were hunting him? No, no, he’s been after you, baby. He’s coming for you.” His hands curled around her shoulders. “I’m not going to walk in some house and find your body. I’m not doing that. I won’t walk in and find you with slices all over your body because you thought you could handle that sick freak.”
Her heartbeat was a slow thud in her chest. “Take me inside the house.” Because she needed to see the scene.
A muscle flexed along his clenched jaw.
Fine. She would take herself in there. She shoved him back and started marching toward her home. Blake was on the edge of his control. At any moment, she was afraid that control would shatter. Cameron wanted to destroy Blake, she knew it—and she couldn’t let it happen.
Blake caught her wrist again and pulled her toward him. His grip was so tight.
She stared into his eyes and knew exactly how to reach him. “Blake, you’re hurting me.”
Horror came. His gaze flared, and he immediately dropped her wrist, as if she’d burned him. He stepped back.
Samantha didn’t move. “Look at me.”
Because he was staring at the ground. His face had gone chalk white. He was—
“Did you see that freakin’ picture?” a cop muttered as he came out. “On the computer, I swear it was—”
Blake lunged for the guy. He grabbed for the cop’s uniform and brought his fist swinging toward the young cop’s face.
“Stop!” Samantha yelled.
What in the hell?
Blake froze.
“This isn’t you,” Samantha said, her voice soft.
His fist dropped.
She looked at the house. Her home. Her sanctuary. And she walked toward it.
“Search the surrounding area,” Blake’s voice was low, more controlled. About damn time.
She kept walking toward the house. She was almost at her front door when he reached out to touch her. This time, his touch was so careful.
“Don’t worry,” Samantha told him without glancing back. “I won’t be contaminating the crime scene. I just need to see what he left behind.” She needed to see the damage he’d done to his victims. She had to see just how far Cameron had fallen.
One cop rushed by her and vomited outside. Right on her flower bed.
She drew in a bracing breath; unfortunately, that breath just brought her the taste of blood and death. “How did it get like this?”
They walked inside together. He was at her side. She saw the first body, the man’s slit throat. She noted the ashen color of the skin. “Rigor mortis has set in.” He’d been dead for a while, just lying on her floor.
“Killed from behind.” All of the emotion was gone from Blake’s voice. Only ice remained—the same ice that had numbed her heart. “The guy probably was lured inside, and Latham was waiting to attack.”
“It was a fast kill.” At least the cop hadn’t suffered. “His...gun is missing.” His holster was empty.
“Yeah, I know where it is.” They went into her den.
And she saw the second cop. Dead, near her sofa.
“I’m guessing Latham used the gun he took from the other cop to kill this man.”
The scent of blood filled her nose. “Another fast kill.” Latham had been into torture before, into seeing just how much pain he could inflict on his victims. “His MO is different now.” Because he’d killed Janice quickly, too. Quick and brutal kills.
“Don’t be too sure of that.” Again, his voice was like ice. As if he were locking down the dangerous emotions burning through him. But you could only hold emotions inside for so long before they exploded. “He took his time with the last guy.”
And Blake led Samantha into her bedroom. She didn’t breathe when she first stepped inside, but the room looked normal.
“Your study.” If possible, his voice was even colder.
The door to her study was open, and when she went inside, she found Tucker standing near her bulletin board. He was sta
ring at it, as if the board held the secrets to the world. She slipped closer and saw...photos.
Of me.
“He knew you were there, every time.” Blake was right behind her. “He was hunting you.”
“I...I don’t think hunting is the right word.” The pictures had been put into place with her pushpins. Her hand hovered over the map. She saw an indention for another pushpin. Right over Mobile Bay. Fairhope. But there was no picture.
“It’s been bagged and tagged,” Tucker said quietly. He lifted up his hand, and she saw the evidence bag.
Behind her, Blake gave a low growl.
She was mine first.
She felt her face heat, then go ice-cold.
Tucker turned the bag over so that she could see the back of the picture.
And she will be again.
She took a step back, and her elbow rammed into Blake. His hands came down on her shoulders, steadying her. She looked up at him, knowing there was more. His emotions were too volatile for there not to be more.
“The computer,” he said flatly.
Afraid of what she’d see, she turned for the computer, but then her gaze got caught on the dead man. “J-Janice’s cameraman.” Her stutter slipped out, a sign of weakness because she just hadn’t expected...this.
Bile rose in her throat, and she thought of the cop who’d rushed outside. She wanted to vomit, right then and there. She wanted all of this to be a terrible nightmare that just stopped.
She realized her hands were shaking so she balled them into fists, and then Samantha looked over at the computer.
Blake stepped in her path. “No, you’ve seen enough. This was a bad fucking idea. There is no reason for you to see more.”
What?
“You’re done.” Once more, he reached for her. Only this time, he tried to push her toward the door.
She wasn’t in the mood to be pushed. In the mood to vomit? Hell, yes. In the mood to shatter into a million pieces? Probably so. But not pushed away. Not closed out of this case. “If I’m going to profile him, I have to see everything.”
“You don’t need to see this.”
What was it? She tried to peer around him, but—
Gently, Blake curled his fingers under her chin and tipped her head back. She could still see the rage burning in his bright gaze, but he was infinitely tender as he touched her. “I can see your pain, Samantha.” His voice was low, just for her. “I don’t want it to get worse.”
How could it get worse? She was in a room with a dead body—a man who Cameron had tortured. If she’d just killed him months ago, this wouldn’t have happened. And that guilt was eating her alive.
I tried to bring him in. That was my mistake. I should have—
She slammed the door on that thought. “I need to make a new profile on him so that we can...we can catch him.” She’d almost said kill him, and that wasn’t right. She wasn’t a murderer. She wasn’t Cameron. “I have to see everything.”
“Tucker can do the profile. He’s been training more in that area since you left the Bureau.”
“Man, I am out of my league with him,” Tucker said quickly. “She’s the one who knows Latham. She’s already in his head. Let Samantha do her job.”
But Blake was still blocking her path. Still softly stroking her cheek. “You’ve come so far,” he said. Pain roughened his voice. “I saw how much you hurt in DC. I don’t want you hurting again.”
“Step aside, Blake.” Her voice was flat. She wasn’t going to be denied. Wasn’t going to be coddled or protected. She was as strong as any man there.
His face tightened, but...he stepped aside.
She had to carefully move around the body—God, that poor man—but then she was at the screen. She realized the cameraman had been positioned right in front of her computer, his eyelids removed—please, please, let that have been done postmortem—and arranged as if he’d been forced to watch what was on the screen.
Then she saw the image there. For a moment, she thought she’d faint.
Her. Cameron. Naked. Fucking.
There shouldn’t have been an image of them. She’d never known about any pics, certainly never agreed to any videos or cameras being used while they were having sex. And...it had been so long ago since she was with Cameron that way.
The dead man had been positioned to look at that image. And suddenly, the guilt was too much.
Oh, God. I slept with the killer who cut off that man’s eyelids. I let him touch me. I trusted him completely. Her legs were shaking, so she locked her knees. The bile was back in her throat, so she swallowed—once, twice, three times. Tears stung her eyes, so she blinked them away. A scream was rising in her soul, but she clamped her lips together.
She wasn’t going to show her weakness. Not to Tucker, not to Blake, and most definitely not to Cameron. “He’s trying to break me.” That was what he was doing. “He’s angry at me. Cameron wants me to be weak. He wants to have all the power.” She turned from the screen and stared straight into Blake’s eyes. “And he’s trying to break you. He wants you to see me for exactly what I am.”
Blake took her arm. He pulled her from the room. From the room that smelled of death and pain. From the home that had once been her sanctuary. He took her outside, and the sun was too bright. It was too hot. There were too many people.
She wanted to run and hide.
But...she stood still on the bluff. As still as a statue. The waves roared down below. The boats bobbed. And she blinked away the tears that stung her eyes once again.
“What are you?” Blake asked her, his voice seeming to sink into her very skin.
“He thinks...” Her words came out too hoarse, so she tried again, swallowing, making sure there was no emotion seeping out when she said, “He wants you to see that I’m like him. That was what he meant when he said I was his before...that we’re alike, deep inside. That I’m as twisted up as he is. That only he can understand me.”
“He’s fucking delusional.”
“No,” she said, quite serious. “He never suffered from delusions. He’s a narcissistic psychopath, but he’s not delusional. He’s got a genius-level IQ, and he plans his every movement in advance.” Steps ahead, leaps ahead. “He knows you and I are f—that we’re intimate.” He’d discovered that truth—probably from Janice because the reporter had caught her and Blake as they came out of that very house together. “And he’s trying to drive us apart.”
“He thinks I’m going to leave you?” Blake gave a bitter laugh. “Hell, no. I’m sticking to you like glue. I won’t let him hurt you, Samantha.”
“He has no intention of hurting me.” Blake needed to see that. She glanced at him. “I’m...not afraid of him.”
Blake stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. She hadn’t. She wasn’t delusional, either. “I’m not his target.” Couldn’t he see that? “You are, Blake. You’re the one he’s coming after next. You’re the one he wants.” And she couldn’t let that happen. “He’s not trying to get you to leave me. He left those pictures because he wanted to set you off. He wanted to enrage you.”
“Trust me, I’m fucking enraged.”
“Enraged, but still controlled.” And that was the difference. Even furious, Blake was trying to protect her. “He miscalculated where you’re concerned. He can’t predict your behavior.” And that just might be their saving grace.
“I’m not following you.”
She caught his hands and stepped close to him. So close that she saw the gold flecks around the pupils of his eyes. “He thought you’d explode. That you’d turn on me.” A jealous lover, burning with rage. “He wanted you to see us like that because he wanted you to see me as a wh—”
“Don’t ever say it.” He cut her off. “Don’t even think it.”
Her breath whi
spered out.
“You trusted the wrong person. It’s not your fault he’s a ‘narcissistic psychopath.’” Blake gave a grim shake of his head. “You’re seriously saying that asshole thought I’d flip out on you? That I’d turn on you?” His laugh was bitter. “He has no clue. I’m not some dumbass following the craving of my dick where you’re concerned.”
“Blake—”
His shoulders thrust back. “He’s not winning.”
It wasn’t a game to her.
“He’s not going to break you,” Blake continued fiercely. “He’s not going to break me. He’s not going to break us.”
She looked into his eyes, and she believed him.
“I won’t let him,” Blake swore.
And neither will I.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE SHOWER WATER poured down on her, too hot, pricking her skin, but Samantha didn’t care. She’d stayed at the crime scene for hours, until the bodies were moved, until the ME’s van had pulled away. Until bag after bag of evidence had been collected.
A crime scene. That was exactly what it had been. Not her home, not anymore. Cameron had taken that away from her.
She didn’t want the bastard to take anything else.
Steam rose around her. She put her hand on the shower door. They were in a safe house. At least, it was supposed to be safe. A place the FBI had picked out for her, not in Fairhope, but down the road, nestled out of the city. Nestled out of sight.
The safe house was locked behind a private gate. A security guard was at that gate. Video cameras watched every angle of the house. Not really a house, more of a mini-mansion. There were actually lots of rental houses like that in the area. Sometimes, the rich and powerful liked to play near the bay.
When they played, they wanted protection.
The FBI was utilizing that need for safety.
The shower door opened. Her hand fell to her side.
“How long are you going to stay in there?” Blake asked her, his voice chiding.
Until I wash away the scent of death. No, until she washed the memories out of her head. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t vanish easily.