He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not

by LENA DIAZ,

  When anchorwoman Tiffany Adams stepped in front of the camera, Amanda knew this was something far more important than another fluff piece on the upcoming mayoral race. Adams rarely left the anchor desk to report in the field, probably because her heavy makeup and hairspray didn’t respond well to the Florida humidity.

  In a tone far too upbeat for what she was saying, she informed viewers that a jogger had discovered a woman’s body in the city’s main park early this morning, and that the mayor and police chief were about to give a news conference.

  Amanda’s stomach fluttered and she twisted the hem of her pink tank top between her fingers. Four solemn policemen filed up to stand shoulder to shoulder behind a podium at the top of the steps. She shook her head at the bitter irony. If she went to a store without a written shopping list, half the time she’d come home without the very items she most needed. And yet, even though she hadn’t spoken to those policemen in years, she could still remember their names. Some things she could never forget.

  Even though she wanted to.

  Mayor Edward Montgomery heaved his bulk up the steps and stood red-faced in front of the officers lined up behind the podium’s bank of microphones. His usual jovial personality and rotund appearance had given him the nickname of Santa. He wasn’t jovial today. After giving one of his briefest speeches since the start of election season, he introduced Police Chief Logan Richards and motioned toward someone off-camera.

  A man with short, dark hair strode into view and stood next to the mayor, towering over him. Impeccably dressed in a navy blue suit—in spite of the stifling heat—Richards radiated confidence and authority.

  The previous police chief had retired about six months ago and moved to California. Amanda knew Richards was his replacement and that he was from New York, but she hadn’t paid much attention to the news reports about him when he was hired. That part of her life was over and she wanted nothing to do with any more policemen.

  He looked younger than she’d expected—maybe mid-thirties—although the tiny shots of silver in his blue-black hair might mean he was older. His skin was smooth and tanned, with a slightly darker shadow along his jaw. He was probably one of those men who always looked like he needed to shave. She bet it drove him crazy; it contrasted starkly with the rest of his crisp, polished appearance.

  When he spoke, his rich, deep baritone cut across the chatter of the reporters and demanded everyone’s attention. His speech was short and concise, confirming what Tiffany Adams had reported earlier but adding little else.

  He nodded at a reporter from the Shadow Falls Journal, the same reporter who’d badgered Amanda with relentless, personal questions when she was released from the hospital four years ago. After suffering through his crass, intimate questions about her abduction, she’d never agreed to another interview—not with the press, anyway. The detectives had interviewed her so many times she’d sarcastically threatened to move into the police station to save them time.

  “Chief, can you confirm the body in the park is missing college student Carolyn O’Donnell?” the reporter asked.

  “Until the next of kin are notified, I can’t speak to the identity of the—”

  “Do you actually expect us to believe the dead woman isn’t O’Donnell?” the same reporter shouted.

  Richards pointed to another reporter, effectively dismissing the Journal reporter, leaving him red-faced and sputtering.

  Amanda couldn’t help but grin.

  “Yes, the body was discovered just off the main jogging trail in a remote section of the park,” Richards said in response to a question.

  “No, the jogger who found the victim isn’t a suspect in the slaying.”

  “I can’t confirm or deny sexual assault until the autopsy is completed.”

  “No, I can’t speak to the cause of death at this time.”

  For several minutes, the questions continued. When another reporter repeated the question about the victim’s identity, Chief Richards thanked everyone for their time and walked away, abruptly ending the press conference. Amanda smiled at his audacity.

  The angle of the camera shifted, focusing again on Tiffany Adams. Quoting unnamed sources, she callously confirmed that the nude body found in the park was the Florida State University sophomore who’d gone missing while home on summer break. She quoted an unnamed source and didn’t express a twinge of remorse that O’Donnell’s family might be watching the broadcast.

  The anchorwoman seemed to delight in going into more detail, telling the audience about the multiple stab wounds and speculating that the victim was strangled. Then she mentioned something Richards hadn’t: the victim was found clutching a long-stemmed, red rose.

  Amanda shivered and clasped her arms around her middle, barely feeling her fingernails biting into her skin through her thin, cotton tank.

  Was the stem smooth? Had the killer removed all of the thorns? All but one?

  The TV screen faded away and she was back in the cabin four years ago, lying on the hardwood floor in a puddle of her own blood, listening to the sound of Dana’s terrified sobs behind her.

  Amanda’s attacker straddled her stomach and held a red rose above her, its sweet perfume wafting down and mingling with the metallic scent of blood. He plucked one thorn from the stem. “He kills me.” He broke off another. “He kills me not.”

  His sickening version of the childhood chant continued as he snapped off each thorn to drop one by one onto her blood-smeared stomach. When only one thorn remained, his obsidian eyes shone through the holes of the hooded mask that covered his head and most of his face, but not the cruel slant of his lips as they curved up in a delighted smile.

  He leaned down, pressing his lips next to her ear, his hot breath washing over her bare skin. She shuddered in revulsion and his hand tightened in her hair, painfully twisting her head back. “He kills me,” he rasped.

  Dropping the rose, he reached behind his back and pulled out a long, jagged knife. Its wickedly sharp teeth winked in the dim light as he raised it above his head.

  With a muffled cry, Amanda tore herself away from the nightmare of her past, collapsing against the couch as she struggled to breathe and slow her racing heart. The TV gradually came back into focus. Channel Ten was still covering the gruesome discovery in the park. Adams speculated on a possible connection between this morning’s murder and Dana Branson’s murder years earlier. A picture of Dana at Florida State University filled the screen. Then the camera zoomed in on a closeup of her tombstone.

  When they showed a file photo of Amanda leaving the hospital, she flipped the TV off and dropped the remote to the floor. She reached up and ran a shaking finger down the rough edges of the long, puckered scar that zigzagged down the right side of her face, a scar that four painful surgeries had failed to completely erase, a scar that reminded her every day of the horrors she wanted so desperately to forget.

  But no matter how hard she tried, she could never forget the price of her cowardice: Dana’s life.

  Furiously wiping at the hot tears cascading down her cheeks, Amanda wondered who had really escaped all those years ago. Her? Or Dana?

  Logan thought he knew what hell was. He’d lived it for the past decade, trying to atone for a split-second decision that could never be undone.

  But that wasn’t hell.

  Not even close.

  Hell was telling the O’Donnells their daughter had been murdered. Hell was watching the light of hope die in their eyes, watching Carolyn’s mother crumple to the ground, her tear-streaked face ravaged with grief.

  If they’d been angry or had cursed at him for failing to save their daughter, it might have been easier. Instead, Mr. O’Donnell shook Logan’s hand, thanked him for trying, and patted him on the shoulder as if Logan was the one who needed to be comforted.

  This wasn’t the first time he’d told someone their loved one had been killed, but it never got any easier. Every time it was like a punch in his gut, reminding him of the tragic mistake he�
��d once made. Had the killer he’d let go hurt anyone else? How many lives had been lost, how many families destroyed because of his lapse in judgment all those years ago?

  He blew out a shaky breath and blinked his tired eyes, trying to focus on the computer screen in front of him. The most important thing right now was finding Amanda Stockton. The similarities between O’Donnell’s killing and what had happened to Amanda and her friend were too overwhelming not to have been committed by the same man. She was the only living witness to his crimes. If there was any chance the killer thought she might remember something that would help the police find him, she could be in terrible danger.

  None of the detectives understood Logan’s obsession with finding her, but none of them could know the kind of guilt that ate at him every day. God willing, they never would.

  He’d already browsed through dozens of law enforcement and government web sites searching for her, but he wasn’t giving up. No one was going home tonight until he was certain Amanda Stockton was safe.

  He glanced at his watch, cursing when he saw how many hours had passed since he’d begun his search. How could one woman be so hard to find? She wasn’t on the tax rolls of any municipality within five hundred miles of Shadow Falls. The local utility companies didn’t have her on their customer lists. Neither did the cable or satellite TV companies. If she’d gotten married or changed her name, she hadn’t done it in Walton County.

  Everything pointed to her not being a local anymore, which meant she wasn’t in immediate danger, at least for now. But without knowing why the killer had shown up again after four years, Logan couldn’t risk giving up on the search. Finding her, making sure she was safe, was his primary goal, but it wasn’t his only goal.

  He wanted to interview her about her abduction. Asking her to relive that horrific experience didn’t sit well with him, but finding the killer before he could kill again was more important than sparing anyone’s feelings. She’d been with her attacker for three days. Even though the killer had worn a disguise, Amanda had to have seen something that could help identify him. She could hold the key to the entire investigation without even realizing it.

  A knock sounded on Logan’s open office door, and one of the detectives helping him search for Amanda leaned in around the doorway, his eyes lit with excitement.

  “Chief, I found her.”

  Chapter Two

  Amanda woke up Monday morning to the sound of someone knocking on her front door. Blinking in confusion, she looked around to get her bearings. Fireplace, computer desk in the corner, traditional, sturdy coffee table with chunky, solid legs. She’d fallen asleep on her living room couch.

  She was amazed she’d slept at all after watching yesterday’s press conference, then speaking to the police when they’d called her late last night. They’d confirmed what she’d already suspected, that the man who’d attacked her was most likely back, here in Shadow Falls. They’d wanted to send a police car to her house to stand watch over her, but she’d adamantly refused. Her house was a fortress. She was safe here. But only if no one drew any attention to her. A police car out front would destroy the anonymity—and therefore safety—that she’d worked so hard to create.

  The knock sounded again, startling her. She jumped up and hurried down the hallway to her bedroom to grab her robe, figuring Mrs. Fogelman was probably back to hound her again about the upcoming neighborhood block party. Short of being rude, Amanda didn’t know how to convince the well-meaning woman to give up her personal crusade to get Amanda out of the house and involved in the neighborhood.

  Back in the foyer, she looked through the front door’s peephole and was dismayed to see two men in business suits standing on her porch. The one on the left held up a police badge. She couldn’t get a good look at the other man since he was too far to the right.

  Apparently the police weren’t willing to take “no” for an answer. She pulled some of her hip-length hair forward over her shoulder to help conceal her scar. Then she flipped the deadbolt and yanked the door open. “Yes?”

  The blonde man holding a badge flinched and his eyes widened. Amanda tried not to let it bother her, but no matter how many times people reacted to the sight of her scar, it still hurt. She forced herself to resist the impulse to pull more hair forward or duck her head.

  He lowered his badge and cleared his throat. “Good morning, ma’am. I’m Detective David Riley and this is Chief Logan Richards. Are you Amanda Stockton?”

  She looked over at Richards and a shock of awareness pulsed through her. Most women would think his tanned, chiseled features and broad shoulders were appealing, and she was no exception. But that wasn’t what caught her attention. Given his intimidating size and the piercing way he stared at her, she would have expected to feel uncomfortable, anxious. But she didn’t. There was something indefinable about him—a presence, an intensity—as if he were aware of everything around him, on guard against any threat. Instead of making her uneasy, he made her feel . . . protected. As if no one could hurt her as long as he was here.

  Confused by her reaction to him, she tore her gaze away and looked back at the other man who, although not unattractive, seemed bland compared to Richards.

  “Detective Riley, I’m sure you’ve seen my picture in your files. You know I’m Amanda Stockton, or at least, I was. I moved to Tennessee with my sister and changed my last name to Jones before I moved back to Shadow Falls two years ago. I explained all of that last night to the officer on the phone. I also told him I wasn’t interested in speaking to anyone about my case again. Unless you’re here to tell me you’ve caught the killer?”

  “Uh, no, ma’am. Not yet.”

  She stepped back and started to close the door.

  The police chief stepped forward and slapped his palm against the door, preventing her from closing it. He anchored his left shoe in the doorway. Amanda took perverse pleasure in squeezing the door against his foot before she was forced to open the door beneath his relentless pressure. He stopped short of forcing his way inside and stood in the doorway, patiently watching, waiting, as if a woman slamming a door on the chief of police’s foot was a normal occurrence. With this man, maybe it was.

  Her fingers curled around the edge of the door and she couldn’t help but notice she had to look up to meet his gaze, a rare experience for her, since she was six feet tall. His eyes were a rather remarkable shade of emerald green with little flecks of gold around the edges. And he smelled absolutely wonderful: a warm, clean, masculine scent that made her nostrils flare in appreciation.

  Heat flooded her cheeks as she realized she’d been staring at him for far too long. He’d flustered her and she hated that.

  “I know you don’t want to speak to us,” he said, his voice deep and rich. “But I believe you may be in danger. We won’t take much of your time.”

  His respectful tone and impassive expression helped soothe her embarrassment. If he’d raised a mocking brow or grinned, she wouldn’t have had the slightest twinge of remorse about kicking him off her property.

  She glanced behind him to the street, and was relieved to see he’d at least had the sense to come in an unmarked car. A shiny, new-looking, black Mustang with dark tinted windows sat at the curb. Realizing she was probably drawing attention right now with these two men standing on her porch, she reluctantly stepped back to let them inside.

  Hugging her robe tightly against her body, she was suddenly painfully aware of how thin the silky fabric was. “You can sit in the living room while I get dressed.”

  She motioned toward the end of the foyer and escaped to her left down the long hallway that led to the master bedroom of her fifties-style ranch house. She sat on the edge of the bed and hid her burning face in her hands. Had she really deliberately smashed the chief of police’s foot in the door? Could he arrest her for that? Then again, she hadn’t exactly invited him in, so it was his fault.

  He was pushy, literally. She couldn’t stand men like that, men who used their stre
ngth and size to intimidate women. So why had her mouth gone dry and her skin all tingly when she looked into his eyes?

  Before the attack she’d been attracted to tall men, mainly because they made her feel less self-conscious about her own height. But after the attack everything had changed. Big men now made her nervous, brought back feelings of helplessness she never wanted to experience again.

  Shaking her head at her confusing thoughts, she dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a blue button-up blouse, then crossed to her master bath and quickly took care of her needs.

  Eyeing herself in the mirror one last time, she grabbed a pale pink lipstick and added a quick touch of color. When she realized she was primping, she tossed the lipstick down in disgust and left the bathroom. Before she entered the living room, she pulled some of her hair forward over her right shoulder to cover her scar.

  Detective Riley rose from the couch when she walked into the room. He gave her an apologetic nod. She smiled reassuringly and motioned for him to sit back down. She didn’t know if he was silently apologizing for flinching or just for being here, but she decided to forgive him for both. He had a youthful, boyish look about him, and she doubted he meant any harm. Besides, his pushy boss had probably strong-armed him into coming here.

  The boss in question stood in front of the fireplace, staring at the landscape hanging above the mantle. His profile was turned toward her, and her stomach jumped at the look of pleasure on his face as he admired the painting. The smile softened the angles, made him seem less intense, more approachable.

  She must have made some kind of noise because suddenly he turned, his gaze locked on hers. She quickly moved away and sat next to Detective Riley, leaving the chief no choice but to sit in one of the two recliners that flanked the couch.

  He chose the one closest to her, folding his large frame into the chair. She felt a twinge of remorse over her childishness in making him sit there. He made the recliner look like dollhouse furniture with him squeezed uncomfortably between the cushioned arms. He’d unbuttoned his suit jacket and his light blue dress shirt hugged his flat abdomen.