by LENA DIAZ,
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.”
About the Author
LENA DIAZ grew up a Navy Brat. But while two of her three siblings followed her father’s footsteps and joined the Navy, Lena loosely followed her musically talented mother’s footsteps by choosing a more creative path, writing. Her first novel-length manuscripts were paranormals, ranging from contemporary vampire stories to medieval druid tales. Since dead bodies kept creeping into everything she wrote, she eventually turned to romantic suspense. Today, Lena can be found in North Florida with her husband of twenty-plus years, her belly-dancing daughter, her mud-bogging son, a tri-colored Sheltie named Sparky, and a pair of Betta fish named Rocky Bal-Betta and Mr. T.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not copyright © 2011 by Lena Diaz.
SIMON SAYS DIE. Copyright © 2012 by Lena Diaz. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition APRIL 2012 ISBN: 9780062136329
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062136367
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