Silent Watch

Anger continued to swirl inside her, but it was surprisingly welcome. For the first time in months she was experiencing something that wasn’t fear or pain or self-pity. She wondered if it might have helped to be angry all those months ago, if maybe letting out her fury over what happened to her could’ve helped her heal faster.

As it was now, she didn’t feel healed or cured or even convinced in the slightest that she could ever get over this.

But the anger helped. Just a little.

“That’s why we came to see you.”

Blake’s voice remained steady, entirely unaffected by her incensed words. She turned around slowly and let their gazes connect again. Searched his magnetic eyes and found nothing more than that cool, calm and collected glint.

Never breaking eye contact, he clasped his hands on his lap and added, “We want you to see Elaine Woodman. We want you to break her silence.”

Chapter 2

The guard she’d briefly let down snapped back up. With methodical steps, Sam walked back to the armchair and sank into it. “You want me to see her?” The words squeaked out slowly, laced with disbelief rushing through her veins.

Blake simply nodded.

“Why?” was all she asked.

“Because you know better than anyone what Elaine is going through,” Blake said matter-of-factly. He leaned forward, causing the material of his jacket to stretch over his broad shoulders.

This time she couldn’t deny the spark of attraction she felt at the sight of his powerful muscles constricting against his shirt. He was a sexy man. A very sexy man. Yet even admitting the obvious seemed inappropriate under these circumstances, after the bomb he’d just dropped in her lap.

She forced her gaze away from his chest, set her jaw and waited for him to continue.

“Elaine needs to feel safe when she finally decides to talk about her experience.”

A low, bitter laugh slipped out before she could stop it. “Safe? You think she’ll ever really feel safe?”

For the first time since he’d shown up at her door, Blake’s features softened. The sympathy in his gaze reached out and touched her like the caress of a warm hand on her cheek. Ordinarily, she would have grown defensive, sickened by the sympathy, the pity. But strangely enough, the soft understanding in his dark eyes only eased her nerves.

“No,” he said quietly. “I don’t think she’ll ever feel safe, not for a long time at least. But while this guy is still out on the streets, none of the women in Chicago will be safe, either.”

“Why are you so sure Elaine Woodman can give you some information you don’t already have?” She didn’t mean to pose a challenge, yet somehow it came out that way.

“Because she’s different,” Blake replied without hesitation. “He took her in broad daylight and dumped her on the other side of the city, which means he had to have means of transporting her there. He didn’t do that with any of the other victims.”

“Elaine can provide us with details that might help us stop him once and for all,” Rick added. “The kind of car he drives, any places he might have stopped at before dumping her.”

“But she won’t talk,” Sam said grimly.

“Not to us.” Blake paused, watching her. “But she might talk to you.”

She took a breath, suddenly feeling torn. If this were just about her, about her own pain and suffering, she might’ve been able to say no, tell them to leave her alone and to hell with their investigation. But it wasn’t just about her. There was another woman involved. Another survivor.

Her mind flashed back to the first day after the attack. She’d been lying in that hospital bed, staring at the dull white walls, unwilling to let anyone catch a glimpse of what she’d gone through. Even her brother, Beau, her only living relative, hadn’t been able to penetrate the iron shield she’d erected around herself.

For days she’d lain motionless in bed, trying to forget, trying to trick herself into believing that such an unthinkably heinous act hadn’t happened to her, not to her. And if it weren’t for a kindhearted cop named Annette Hanson, she might have drowned in her own pain. Annette had helped her, drawn her out of the shell of self-preservation she’d hidden within, and though it was months before she’d been ready to live her life again, she knew she’d never be able to repay Annette for what she’d done.

Could she really let another woman drown the way she almost had?

Helping Elaine Woodman would no doubt bring back a rush of terrifying memories that Sam desperately wanted to forget, but would it be worth it, knowing she’d contributed to Elaine’s healing process?

Drawing in a long breath, she eyed the men in front of her. “I…I’m going to need some time to think about it.”

“There isn’t any time.” Blake knew his voice sounded harsh, but it needed to be said. The longer Elaine Woodman kept quiet, the greater the danger and the longer this killer had to find himself another victim.

He didn’t blame Samantha for being uncertain. Hell, he’d read her file, seen photos of what that bastard had done to her. The woman had been hovering between life and death before the paramedics had shown up. How she’d managed to call the police, especially in her condition, still amazed him. All he knew was that Samantha Dawson possessed a strength that most people only wished they had.

His heart squeezed as he remembered another woman who’d exuded that same strength. Kate Manning, the woman whose death had caused him to dive headfirst into this case and push himself to the point of exhaustion simply to keep the memories at bay.

Not that it was helping. The memories continued to assault his mind anyway. It seemed as if everything and everyone reminded him of Kate, and, not for the first time, he wondered if maybe the Bureau shrink was right. Maybe there was no distraction great enough to make him forget.

He clenched his fists at the ominous notion. Lord, he couldn’t do this now, couldn’t think of Kate or that damn shrink. Not now. So he forcibly shoved the unwelcome thoughts from his head and tried to focus on the woman in front of him.

She seemed so cool, so controlled. He saw it in the way she sat, with her hands loosely draped over her lap. The way she spoke in that calm, even voice. The way she looked at him with those unwavering gray eyes. It seriously impressed him, but it didn’t totally convince him, either. The little ragged breaths and the way her shoulders trembled almost imperceptibly at every sound told him that she was still terrified.

“If you’re worried about your own safety,” Rick said, “I can assure you we’ll take every precaution to keep you protected.”

With a chuckle, she muttered, “Right, because I’m supposed to be dead. Wonder how I overlooked that little tidbit?” She focused those haunting eyes on Blake. “How do you plan on taking me into the city without being recognized?”

If Rick was insulted by her intense focus on his partner, he didn’t show it. Instead, he leaned back and let Blake field that question.

“We’ll do whatever it takes,” he said roughly, inwardly wondering why her impenetrable gaze made his palms grow damp. “We’ll get you a disguise, bring you into the hospital after visiting hours, anything to protect your identity.”

“My face will still be familiar—to most men, at least.”

Her tone was dry, almost comical, and Blake fought the tiny grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Your face is probably not as recognizable as you think.”

The comment, with its slightly lewd undertones, did not seem to faze her. Instead, she just nodded. “Quite true, Agent Corwin. But I’m not sure I’m willing to take that chance.”

They’d reached an impasse. Blake knew that pushing her any further would only make her less likely to cooperate. Helping them had to be her choice. The ball was in her court now.

Blake exchanged a glance with Rick before rising from the sofa. “All right, we’ll give you some time to think about this then,” he said. “But don’t take too long.”

She offered an odd little smile. “Time is of the essence, right?”

“I’m afraid so.”

He reached into his pocket and removed his card and a pen. He scribbled down both his and Rick’s cell numbers, then handed it to her. She seemed to make an effort not to let their fingers brush as she accepted the card, and, for some reason, that bothered him a little.

“Just give us a call when you’ve made up your mind. But if we haven’t heard from you by tomorrow afternoon, we’ll need to get back to Chicago and explore other avenues.”

The two men said their goodbyes and headed for the door. Samantha followed them, shotgun again in hand. After they’d stepped onto the porch, Blake heard all the various locks and safety mechanisms being clicked back into place.

As they descended the steps, Rick shot him a questioning look. “You think she’ll help us?”

The snow crunching under his boots, Blake simply nodded. “Yes, I think she will.”

“You really don’t need to worry,” Sam told her brother over the phone an hour after Blake and Rick had left the farmhouse.

She settled onto the couch and tucked her knees under her, then reached to flick on the lamp sitting on the end table. The late-afternoon sun was beginning to set and the absence of light streaming in from the windows made her muscles tense. Soon the sun would disappear altogether, leaving nothing but an inky black sky and menacing shadows.

She’d already turned on the main light. It bathed the room in a pale-yellow glow, but she didn’t feel at ease unless every light in the house was on, too.

The darkness still bothered her, ever since that warm May night when she’d walked into her bedroom and seen the dark figure looming in the shadows. She slept with the light on now. Scratch that—she lay in bed with the light on. She didn’t sleep. If she was lucky, she got five hours of rest a night, spread out in twenty-minute intervals because every time the REM cycle kicked in, she’d jerk herself awake. The nights were the hardest, always bringing with them a threat that she couldn’t ignore.

“What do you mean, I don’t have to worry?” Beau replied. “At the moment, that’s exactly what I should be doing.”

She smiled to herself, knowing without having to see him that there was a telltale crease in his forehead. Most times Beau’s face was unreadable. Dark, stoic eyes, firm set of the mouth. But that little crease always gave him away. She’d seen it enough times growing up, and right now she heard it in his voice.

“Everything’s fine,” she assured him. “They were FBI agents, no danger to me.”

“I disagree. The very fact that they want you to go into the city is dangerous.”

“They said they’d protect me.”

“Do you believe them?”

Sam remembered Blake Corwin’s determined brown eyes. “Yes. I think they’ll do everything in their power to keep me safe.”

“And what if everything in their power isn’t good enough?” Beau countered, his concern palpable over the airwaves. “What if someone recognizes you and calls the press? If this guy finds out that you didn’t die that night…” He let his voice trail off ominously.

For the thousandth time in six months, Sam wished she’d never chosen such a high-profile career. Why hadn’t she gone into accounting? Why on earth had she decided to model swimsuits of all things? She’d always done well in school, her grades good enough to get her into any college, but it had been the excitement of stardom that appealed to her the most. It helped that she had a body that was, as her friends always told her, designed to make men drool. She’d never minded flaunting it, strutting in front of a camera and making herself a public figure.

But she regretted it now. Although the police had assured her that it was unlikely the guy picked her just because of her celebrity status, she still got the feeling that she might have gone unnoticed, flitted under the bastard’s radar, if she’d just chosen another field.

“It’s a risk, I know.” Her voice softened. “But I keep thinking about that woman, Beau.”

Compassion filled his voice. “I know you want to help her, but at what cost, Sammy? Goddamn it, I can’t let myself even think about losing you. I almost did once—I’d rather not go through that again.”

She understood her brother’s concerns, and knew where they came from. Even before their parents died in a car accident nearly a decade ago, Sam and Beau had only relied on each other. Growing up with workaholic parents who couldn’t concern themselves with their children, she and her brother had formed a strong bond. As kids they’d banded together against their strict nanny, as teenagers they’d rebelled when their parents tried to force law school down their throats, and as adults they’d only grown closer. Beau was her constant pillar of support and the only person in her life who offered the unconditional love her mother and father hadn’t been capable of.

The first couple of months after the attack had been tough for him. For her, too. The Bureau had encouraged her to cut off contact with Beau, worried that the man who’d tried to kill her might be watching her brother. They’d kept surveillance on Beau for as long as they could justify the cost, but after months without any sign of the Rose Killer, they’d finally called off the guards. It was still too dangerous for Beau to drive up to see her, but they were allowed to speak on the phone now. And each time they hung up, he always made sure to tell her he loved her, as if he were afraid that if he didn’t he’d never get the chance again.

She knew he was scared for her, worried, uneasy about this situation. Hell, so was she. But Beau would never understand what Elaine Woodman was feeling at the moment.

Only she understood.

“I want to help her,” she finally said, balancing the cordless on her shoulder so she could wrap her arms tightly around her knees. “I want to help catch this guy.”

“Revenge, justice—is that it?”

“No, not entirely. I’m just…sick of living in fear.” She exhaled shakily. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live in this isolated old house, miles away from civilization. I can’t keep jumping at every noise and shadow. I can’t put my life on hold anymore.”

Beau made a frustrated sound. “Don’t tell me you want to start modeling again.”

Even if I did, I can’t.

The silent reminder only made her eyes sting. No, she wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t give that bastard the satisfaction of crying one more tear. What he’d done to her had ensured that she’d never be able to model again, though only the hospital staff was aware of that. The nurses had seen the scar; of course, they’d been polite enough not to comment. But every time she stepped out of the shower she was reminded that her career was over.

Right now, however, that didn’t matter.

“I’ll never model again. But that doesn’t mean I can’t do something else. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about writing a novel.” She laughed humorlessly. “I’m supposed to be a writer now—might as well live the lie.”

“Then write a book. You don’t need to go back to Chicago to do it. Just lie low until this psychopath is caught.”

“But what if I can help catch him?”

Beau grew silent. She could picture the crease in his forehead growing deeper, more defined. “You’ve already made up your mind, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess I have.”

The pressure in Blake’s temples eased the second he hung up the phone. A grim smile crossed his mouth as his partner’s words echoed in his head. She says she’ll do it.

He’d known she would, had sensed that Samantha Dawson wasn’t the type to sit idly by and twiddle her thumbs while the maniac who’d nearly killed her roamed the streets. He hadn’t, however, expected her to make up her mind so soon.

Hadn’t expected her to call Rick, either.

Shrugging out of his shirt, he headed for the motel’s tiny bathroom, which was no bigger than a closet and made him feel slightly claustrophobic. As he tugged at the zipper of his pants, he couldn’t help but frown. It shouldn’t bother him that Samantha had called to tell Rick what she’d decided to do, and not him. Both his and Rick’s numbers had been printed on that business card—so what if she hadn’t dialed his?

Still frowning, he stepped into the minuscule shower and turned on the faucet. He wondered, as the warm water splashed down his body, if it was inappropriate to be turned on by the woman.

Probably.

No, absolutely.

She was a victim, after all. Not to mention a witness in his case, which made his desire for her not only inappropriate but unethical.

You’ve been celibate for too long.

Blake reached for the small complimentary shampoo bottle, squeezed a glob into his hands, then lathered his hair. Celibacy. It wasn’t a state he liked, but since this damn case began sex was the last thing on his mind.

He’d learned the hard way what happened when he indulged in sex and relationships during a case. When he’d first joined the Bureau it had been easy separating his job from his personal life; back then his cases had hardly been life-threatening.

But when he’d transferred to the “Serial Squad,” as Rick jokingly referred to their unit, Blake’s ability to compartmentalize had been blown to bits. Bigger cases meant higher stakes. Higher stakes meant no distractions. And he quickly learned that his personal life was a distraction he couldn’t afford.

If she were alive, Kate Manning could probably vouch for that.

Hard as he tried to stop it, the thought of Kate slid into his head, making him sag against the tiled wall. He’d been thinking about her a lot lately. Too much. Probably because this case reminded him of the case he’d been working when Katie died. The Rose Killer was as sadistic as the man Blake had killed two years ago, the man Kate had been profiling for him.

He dunked his head under the stream of hot water and tried to clear his mind of the serious redhead who’d gotten under his skin and grabbed hold of his heart. The serious redhead who was dead because of him.

This time he paid attention to the authoritative voice in his head. Yes, he had to focus. He had a case to solve. A witness to protect.

And feeling any sort of attraction to that witness was out of the question.

“God help me,” he muttered, his voice sounding oddly muted in the enclosed space.

Shutting off the water, he stepped out of the stall and wrapped a towel around his waist. Then he wiped away the steam on the mirror and examined his foggy reflection, wondering if he appeared as tired to others as he did to himself. Because, hell, he was tired. Tired and bone-weary and so close to the breaking point he could practically feel the ground under him beginning to give in. If they didn’t get a lead in this case—and soon—he knew he’d burn out. He just hoped he could hold on a little while longer.

“Whoa! Keep that towel on, pal,” Rick cried as Blake walked out of the bathroom.

Quickly tightening the terry cloth over his lower body, Blake stared at the blond man sitting on his bed as if he owned it. “How the hell did you get in here?” he demanded.

Rick shrugged. “You left the door unlocked.”

“And the concept of privacy never entered your tiny pea of a brain before you waltzed in here?”

“Nope.” Rick grinned. “My pea brain and I wanted to talk to you about Samantha Dawson.”

Blake sighed. “Let me put on some clothes first.”

After he’d changed into a pair of gray sweatpants and a faded black T-shirt, he stepped back into the small room.

Rick was still lounging on the bed, so Blake headed for the stained table in the corner and sat in one of the plastic chairs. The room was far too cramped for his liking, but what else could he expect from the only motel in Wellstock?

“So I figured we’d pass her off as Elaine Woodman’s sister,” Rick started, getting right to the point. He crossed one leg over the other, looking as uncomfortable on the hard mattress as Blake knew he’d feel sleeping on it. “As much as I like the doctor treating Elaine, I don’t want him knowing who Samantha is.”

“He’s been really good about keeping Elaine’s presence a secret,” Blake said, then paused. “Mel’s still posing as a nurse there, right?”

“Knight plans to keep her there until Elaine is ready to be discharged. From what Mel says, Elaine is safe.”

He didn’t miss the way Rick briefly averted his eyes at the mention of Melanie Barnes. A subtle hint, but it wasn’t the first time Blake suspected that Rick and their fellow agent might be romantically involved. He just hoped his partner knew what he was doing. Rick’s divorce wasn’t even final yet, and from what Blake knew about Patty Scott, he had a feeling the woman wouldn’t hesitate to squeeze more cash out of her ex if she knew he was seeing another woman.

“Well, at least the media camped outside have no idea Elaine is alive.”

“Then why don’t they get the hell out of there?” Rick grumbled.

“We both know why. They’re hoping to find someone in the hospital willing to give them details. Maybe even autopsy photos.”

Rick shook his head in disgust. “That’s sick, man.”

“Don’t tell me.” Blake rubbed his eyes. “If even one picture of Samantha is taken, however unintentionally…All we need is one nosy reporter taking a good look and thinking, ‘Hey, she looks familiar.’”

“I know.” Rick’s expression grew serious. “We’ll have to take her in from the back, maybe through a service elevator. Give her some dark glasses, a wig, alter her appearance with makeup.” He shrugged. “Elaine’s doctor won’t object to sneaking her in. We’ll also try to bring her after visiting hours, when fewer reporters will be around, and we’ll make sure Mel is on duty, just in case.”

Blake’s headache reappeared as swiftly as it had disappeared. Temples pounding like a tribal drum, he went over the plan in his head. Chances were, nobody in the hospital would even be aware of Samantha’s presence, and if they were, her cover as the sister of a patient wouldn’t raise any suspicions. Yet it still worried him, plucking Samantha from her safe, isolated farmhouse and shoving her right back into the path of a killer.

“She’ll be okay.” As usual, Rick seemed to read his mind.

“One visit,” Blake muttered. “That’s all we can allow. One visit to try to get Elaine to open up. After that, Samantha returns to this invisible town and goes back to being Lori Kendall until this guy is caught.”

Rick nodded in agreement. “That’s the plan.”

They both grew quiet, somber, and Blake used the silence to go over all the possible risks they might face in bringing Samantha into Chicago. He figured his partner was doing the same, so he was surprised when Rick, in a low voice, uttered, “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?”

Well, at least he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

“Yeah.” His voice came out rough.

“I subscribed to Sports Illustrated just to see her spreads in the swimsuit edition,” Rick admitted, looking sheepish. “That is, until Patty canceled my subscription. But those photos…man. Always classy, sensual as hell, but classy.”

It struck Blake as odd, even wrong, that they were discussing her in this way. She may have been a sexy model in her past life, but in this life she was a victim and a witness. Hardly deserving of their scrutiny, even if it was appreciative.

“You think she’ll go back to modeling when this is all over?” Rick asked.

The question brought a cheerless smile to his lips. “I doubt it.”

“Because of the scars? There are surgeries available these days that can remove them.”

“After what that bastard did to her, I don’t think she’ll ever want to put herself on display again.”

A lump of sadness lodged in the back of his throat, not so much for Samantha Dawson as for all the other victims. The Rose Killer didn’t try to hide his handiwork—hell, he seemed damn proud of what he did. When Blake saw the first victim’s body, he’d been sickeningly amazed by the sheer intricacy of the carvings. Though they were still unsure of what it all meant, for some inexplicable reason, the bastard had a fascination with roses.