Broken Silence

There was a short pause as she folded her hands in her lap. “No.”

Patrick lifted a brow. “No one?”

She shook her head again.

Patrick gestured toward her house. “Do you feel safe staying here alone?”

Amber cast him a cool look, her eyes glinting amid the dim glow of the car’s interior lights. “Why wouldn’t I feel safe? You said yourself the bomb was crudely made. The work of an amateur.”

“Amateur or not, someone planted it. In your car.”

“In an almost empty lot.” Her tone took on a bit of a defensive tenor. “I understand, Patrick, that it’s your job to consider every angle. But I can’t imagine anyone targeting me.”

He nodded, hoping she was right.

A moment passed between them. Amber fiddled with her bag, and he was close enough to feel her discomfort.

She’d had a rough day and probably enough questions. “I think you’ve answered everything for tonight. Let me get an umbrella and walk you to your door.” As Patrick reached into the backseat, his arm brushed hers. Something in the way she pulled away made a shiver run down his back.

“Thank you, Patrick. I really appreciate the ride, but I can see myself in.”

Before he could remind her of the pouring rain, she jumped out of the vehicle and scampered down the sidewalk, her jacket pulled over her head.

He stared after her, waiting until she disappeared inside the house, the front door closing behind her.

She was hiding something.

A couple of fragmented thoughts pushed through the fog in his head. None of which had anything to do with a car bomb.

He had to stop himself. If he gave in to the urge to march to her door and ask a few questions, he’d be treading on unprofessional territory.

Patrick took a deep, bracing breath and started the engine. Personal issues would have to wait.

* * *

Soaking wet, Amber slumped against the door, her ears still ringing from the explosion, her knees throbbing. Not the best start to her weekend.

Seeing Patrick again definitely didn’t help.

Taking a shaky breath, she turned around and engaged the dead bolt. She heard Patrick’s SUV start up. The loud engine noise melded with the steady downpour. She waited a moment more until only the remnants of the storm filled her ears. Patrick was gone.

The one man in the world she never wanted to see again. And here he was, the investigator for a crime that she, unfortunately, had gotten pulled into. Professionally polite, professionally impersonal, giving her no indication if he’d grown to forgive her or despise her for what she’d done.

Her mind wanted to go numb with the memories of the last time she’d seen him. The wounded look in his eyes when she’d told him she wasn’t ready to commit. She’d needed time. She’d needed space. He hadn’t responded well. Not that she’d expected him to.

That day she’d held him for the last time. Walked away. Grieved every step.

She’d made a sacrifice, penance for a mistake he couldn’t understand.

Painful memories stabbed her, sending an icy shiver up her spine. Skin pebbling, she squeezed her eyes shut to block them, but instead more memories flooded in, and with them came the grief.

Indescribable grief that clung to her spirit was as fresh now as the night an unknown assailant had brutally attacked, drugged and attempted to rape her.

Although another student’s intervention had halted her attacker’s plans, her honor and dignity would remain tarnished. Forever.

Amber expelled a sharp sigh.

She had no one to blame but herself.

Patrick had warned her about the campus parties. But with him attending college on the other side of the state, she’d assumed he was being protective. And as her freshman year had neared the end, curiosity and boredom had outweighed good sense and she’d accepted a roommate’s invitation to attend an end-of-the-year bash at a local fraternity.

The repercussions of that choice had changed the course of her dreams and sent her life spiraling into a sea of shame and regret.

No! Not tonight! Amber’s jaw tightened as she willed the memories to cease.

Just thinking about the past, about Patrick, made her crazy. Especially since the path she’d paved for herself could never be erased.

Amber blinked back tears. She wouldn’t cry. She refused to wallow in self-pity.

Lifting her chin, she hung her coat on a hook by the door and then trudged to the bedroom and dropped her bag on the floor. Her chest heaved with exhaustion. A shower might relax her and then maybe she could sleep. What she needed was a new day. Fresh thoughts.

Twenty minutes later, she crawled into bed, closed her eyes and tried to get comfortable while listening to the gentle howl of the wind and the last remnants of the rain patter on the window. Even as every fiber of her being cried for rest, insomnia settled in.

Time crawled, ticking unhurriedly in the darkness. The storm outside abated, leaving the shadows, the room, the air around her draped in a cold and eerie silence. Peace and quiet used to be a commodity she yearned for. But tonight it seemed more of a paradox than a possibility as thoughts of car bombs and explosions, of the upcoming charity fund-raiser and even Patrick Wiley wrestled in her mind.

Amber sat up, pumped her pillow, curled it into a ball and stuffed it back under her head. Okay, especially Patrick Wiley.

Emitting a groan, she wrenched up the blankets and pushed the disturbing thoughts aside, allowing pleasant ones to fill her mind.

Moments trickled by and finally her body and mind started to unwind. Her eyelids grew heavy and at last sleep pulled her in.

From the corner of her eye, she caught a movement. She jerked her head. Eyes flickered back at her from the shadows.

“Amber.” His voice was low, distorted.

Goose bumps pebbled her skin. “Who’s there?”

“The man of your dreams.” His low, chilling laughter echoed in the small space.

Dark. Claustrophobic. Panic stole her next breath. She needed to run. Needed to get out of there.

“Where’s Boy Wonder now?” The man gave another laugh, his booted footsteps moving closer. “Who’s going to save you now, Amber?”

Dread building, a scream rose in her throat. She tried to run, to get away...

Amber shot up with a gasp, her breathing short and rapid as her heart pounded like a sledgehammer in her chest.

Where am I?

Trembling, she sat there, chilled and clammy with sweat, her mind spinning. For long seconds she worked to steady her breathing, control the adrenaline pumping through her.

Her pulse slowed as reality trickled in.

It was just a dream. She sagged against the headboard and shakily daubed the moisture from her brow. Of course it was. Just a dream.

For over a year, she’d been free of the nightmares. The haunting dreams, reeling like slow-motion pictures in her head. Terrifying and so real—pulling her back into that small, dingy frat room.

She crunched her eyelids against the memories and yanked up the comforter to her chin. It was only a bad dream. No one can hurt me. I’m safe. Amber mentally chanted those thoughts over and over again.

A streak of lightning flashed outside the window, and distant thunder boomed, rattling the glass.

She sat straight up as all of her senses shot to full alert. She held her breath, listened. A creak. A pop. Another rattle.

What if she was wrong? What if she wasn’t safe?

Throwing back the bedspread and sheets, she clambered out of the bed and fumbled for the light switch on the wall. She flipped up the switch and the lamp flickered on, chasing away the darkness and sending twisting shadows dancing on the pale walls and textured ceiling.

Icy chills rippled across her skin. Her gaze darted frantically around the room. What if someone was trying to get in? Even as she reminded herself that every door and window was bolted shut, she had to check again. It was a ritual she remembered well. Her voice of reason was lost in the memories. She groped the flashlight from the nightstand, ignoring the sting of cuts on her palm, and passed quickly from one room to another turning on lights and making sure everything was locked tight.

After a thorough search, she breathed relief when nothing looked out of the ordinary. As she turned out the lights, her gaze snagged on the laundry room window. The old wooden frame hung askew. Night air eerily whistled through the small gap.

She took a step closer. One of the two latches on the window was unlocked.

Someone had tampered with that window. Heart galloping, Amber tugged on the wood frame and engaged the lock, then spun on her heel, her mind reeling, grappling for a plan. Instinct told her to call the police, but what if they took too long to arrive? Maybe call a neighbor first, seek refuge—

Amber came to a screeching halt as she suddenly remembered her handyman, Charlie, had been by and cleaned her windows. He mentioned there were a couple warped window casings. He must have forgotten to latch that one.

That had to be it. She took a deep breath, rubbing her hand against the tension in her neck and scolding herself for overreacting. She’d call Charlie next week and set up a time for him to replace them.

Stalking back into her bedroom, she collapsed in the overstuffed chair by the bed, willing away the irrational fear that ripped through her like barbed wire. It was pure insanity, she knew, to be so unnerved by a dream.

Still her heart pounded to a rib-cracking beat. Over the years, she had worked hard to push past the memories. She’d done well. The nightmares had faded.

Until tonight.

Lord, if You are still near, please help me.

Amber took a steadying breath. God could protect her, she reminded herself, but at the same time she struggled to believe. Blind faith didn’t seem possible anymore.

Hadn’t for eleven years.

The exhaustion she’d felt earlier was gone, replaced with a restless energy, fueled by unwanted images and thoughts bouncing around in her head. She tried to tamp them down, but they wouldn’t let go.

Great. Now she’d never get back to sleep. Scrubbing her hands through the thickness of her curls, she tugged her hair. She wanted to fault the chaos of the day for bringing back the nightmares and stirring the past to life, but the answer was far more complicated than that.

Patrick.

TWO

Early the next morning, Patrick arrived at his office at the police station. Plunking down in his desk chair, he slipped the elastic band from around an overstuffed file he’d picked up from the audio and video forensic unit on his way into work. With so few clues in the car-bombing case, he hoped something lurking in one of the photos might aid in his investigation.

He extracted a fistful of black-and-white crime prints. After separating them into sequence, he studied each one, starting with the blazing fire taken by first responders to the final shots of the vehicle’s gray smoldering frame.

Dread settled in his gut.

As awful as bearing witness to the destruction had been, seeing the explosion and charred debris captured on film chilled him to the bone. Amateur or not, this bomb had been meant to kill. Even if forensics ruled out a terrorist link, this perpetrator definitely wanted to make a statement.

Tossing the photos on the desk, Patrick sat back and rubbed his eyes.

What kind of trouble could Amber have gotten involved in that someone would be out to kill her?

“Good morning, Wiley.”

The booming voice of his supervisor ended his thoughts.

Patrick glanced up as his old friend, Department Captain Vance Peterson, walked into the room with his mouth half-full of a chicken biscuit. He was also holding a white Gus’s Diner bag in his hand. “Good morning.” Patrick rocked forward in his chair.

Swallowing, Vance tossed him the bag. “Here, I brought you some breakfast.”

“Thanks. My growling stomach appreciates it.” Patrick caught the bag, tore it open and grabbed a biscuit.

“I figured you’d be in early. I thought you might be hungry.”

“You figured right.” Patrick chomped right into it. All he’d consumed since he’d dropped off Amber last night was a cup of coffee, half of which was still on his desk, cold.

“So fill me in on this car-bombing case.” Vance wiped his hands on a napkin.

Patrick swallowed then shrugged. “I don’t have much at the moment.”

“Not much?” Vance crossed his arms, his dark brows pulling tight over his eyes. “What’d the bomb squad come up with?”

“Reports are preliminary, but it looks like a homemade pressure-cooker bomb, probably propped under the car’s fuel tank.”

Shaking his head, Vance gave a slow whistle. “Explosives, shrapnel and gasoline. Pretty lethal combo.”

Patrick jutted his chin toward the pile of photos on the desktop. “Take a look. It’s amazing someone didn’t get killed.” He took another bite of the biscuit.

Vance moved closer and picked up the stack. He nodded slowly as he examined them, a grimace etched on his suntanned face. “And you have no clues as to who might have done this?”

“Not yet.”

“What about the car owner? Or witnesses?”

Patrick finished chewing. “There was one eyewitness and he gave us a statement. He said he’d heard the blast, saw the explosion, but denies seeing anything suspicious. And interestedly enough, the owner of the vehicle was Amber Talbot. She walked away with a few bruises and lacerations but has no idea why someone would want to harm her, nor does she believe anyone was trying to.”

Vance stopped, looked at him and raised his eyebrows. “Not the Amber Talbot from high school? Your old flame?”

Patrick nodded, hardly believing it himself. “Yeah. Definitely a surprise.” Truth be told, he’d half expected to run in to her at some point now that he was back in town. However, not as part of a case he was investigating, especially one of this nature.

“I’m sure you were surprised.” Vance wagged his head. “What do you think? Was this bomb meant for Amber?” He shuffled through the pictures again, studying them closer. “Or do you think this is the work of some criminal prankster?”

The question pricked the hairs on the back of Patrick’s neck. He’d been up most of the night asking the same question. “I’d like to say it’s random. However, my gut doesn’t buy it.”

Vance’s eyes settled and met Patrick’s. “Then Amber mustn’t be fessing up to something.”

Patrick paused, wondering what—if anything—Amber would be hiding. She’d always been a by-the-book kind of girl, not one who got involved in things on the wrong side of the law. Then again...

His pitched the biscuit wrapper into the trash, aware that he really didn’t know Amber Talbot anymore. And he’d be foolish to believe otherwise. She’d surprised him once by walking out of his life. No telling what Amber was really like. He turned sharply in his chair and stood up. “I’ll dig around and see what I can come up with.”

Vance tossed the photos back on the desk. “If there’s dirt, Wiley, I’m confident you’ll find it.”

A shudder racked between Patrick’s shoulder blades. That was what he was afraid of.

* * *

Patrick gave a sharp triple knock on the crime-lab door. When a buzz sounded, he twisted the knob and let himself in. Liza Jenson, police criminologist, rose from her desk.

“Patrick Wiley.” She smiled, pushing a hand through her short blond bob. “I was beginning to give up on you. I can’t remember the last time you answered one of my texts with anything other than ‘Sorry, working late,’ or ‘Too busy.’”

That was because his “I’m not interested” statement seemed to go in one ear and out the other. Patrick let her comment ride. After a couple casual dates, Liza had started dropping hints about diamond rings and dream honeymoon destinations. He’d put the brakes on that budding relationship real fast. He’d determined a long time ago he wasn’t the marrying kind. Eleven years ago, to be exact. And he had a princess-cut solitaire sitting in a bank deposit box to remind him of that.

He was better off alone. And life was easier. More predictable.

“Sorry, Liza, this isn’t a social call. I heard you were on this weekend and I’d like to enlist your help on a case I’m working on.”

Sauntering across the tile floor, Liza worked her way toward him. “Let me guess, yesterday’s car bombing on River Street.”

Perceptive. He grinned. “That’s the one. See what you can find out about the car owner’s past. What she’s been up to the past few years. Friends, hobbies, enemies. I’ll do the same.”

Beaming a bright smile, Liza leaned a hip against the worktable and crossed her arms. “Amber Talbot. Twenty-nine. She graduated from Trinity University, majored in psychology. She earned a graduate degree in counseling from the same school. I don’t have her complete work history yet, but she recently opened Safe Harbor Counseling Center on River Street.”

Impressive. Although nothing Patrick didn’t already know, except for the part about Trinity University. So that was where she’d ended up after leaving College of Coastal Georgia in Brunswick. She’d traded a small state school for a private one. Patrick scratched the side of his jaw, mulling that over. “How about a husband or boyfriend, ex or otherwise?”

He held his breath, hoping his name wouldn’t pop up.

Liza shook her head. “I haven’t done all the checking yet, but from what I can see, she’s never been married. And, right now, I’ve got nothing on a boyfriend.”

Good. “Concentrate on the past few years and look into her financial information. Relationship issues. Consumer complaints. If something jumps out at you, let me know. I’ll dig in to college and before.”

“All right.” Liza ran a fingernail down his arm. “Maybe we can discuss my findings over coffee or dinner.”

Patrick pulled away and gave a cautious smile. “Sorry, I don’t have time. Why don’t you give me a call when you have something. And sooner is better.” He made his way out the door.

* * *

On Monday morning, the black SUV parked several spots down was the first thing Amber noticed when she stepped out of her rental car at work. It was a rather common vehicle. Plenty roamed the streets of Savannah, but instinct told her Patrick Wiley was in the vicinity.

Patrick. She took a deep breath, ignoring the chill seeping through her, and started down River Street toward the Safe Harbor Counseling Center. Could he possibly have more questions?

Before the thought fully penetrated, the answer came. Detectives always had questions. And that was what Patrick was—the detective on the case. Nothing more.

Buoyed by that thought, Amber shouldered her messenger bag and pushed through the narrow double doors of the center. The cozy ambience wrapped around her like a warm blanket. The place was small—only had a quaint waiting area and hallway that led to three offices. And the simple decor of overstuffed seating and antique tables, framed pictures of Savannah’s old harbor and a comfortable array of potted plants warmed her further.

Just being at the center made her feel better. After a long weekend of nursing her wounds and musing over Friday’s bombing and Patrick Wiley, her nerves were about shot. But common sense reminded her to stop being ridiculous. Even if Patrick did show up, she would be fine.

Shedding her jacket, Amber hung it on a hook on the wall. Then she picked up a bundle of mail from a wicker basket by the front door and headed to her office, determined to have a good day as she chastised herself for her paranoia.

Two steps from her office, Amber paused when a masculine and very familiar voice sounded from behind her colleague’s closed door. She bit back a gasp as her stomach did a crazy flip she couldn’t explain.

Patrick.

Wrong. She wasn’t fine.

The urge to put on a good face and properly welcome him to her center quickly abated, switching instead to a desire to turn around and make a run for it.

The door to her left opened. Too late.

Tony Hill, a fellow counselor, stood next to Patrick, shaking his hand. “I appreciate your persistence in getting to the bottom of this, Detective Wiley. We sure don’t need a lunatic running around blowing things up.”

“I agree.” Patrick turned and stepped into the hallway. “Amber.” His eyes narrowed and his mouth lifted in a lopsided grin, sending a little fluttery sensation through her midsection and making her wish he’d stick to the stoic cop face she’d seen the other night.

“Good morning.” She tried for a smile, too.

“How are you? How are your injur—”

“Healing.” She cut him off, holding up a bandage-free hand, aware that his gaze was washing over her.

“Glad to hear you’re doing better.” He smiled more broadly.

“Amber, I wasn’t sure you’d be coming in today,” Tony interjected, hovering in the archway. “You know Pam and I could hold down the center for a couple days.”

“Thanks, Tony. I appreciate the offer, but I’m fine. Really.” Amber couldn’t bear to be cooped up in her house for another couple of days.

“Okay.” Tony tugged on his sparse goatee. He eyed her a moment longer. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will.”

Tony shut his door and Patrick moved closer. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to an office door with her name engraved in bold lettering. “I have a few questions. Shall we talk in there?”

“No,” Amber answered, immediately regretting the way her tone sharpened. She quickly added, “The waiting room is more comfortable.” She started walking as fast as her high heels and sore knees would allow, not waiting for his reply. In the lobby, she motioned for Patrick to have a seat on the couch. Then she slipped into one of the upholstered chairs, folded her hands in her lap and tried to relax. “I’m not sure what kind of help I’ll be. I don’t know any more than I did on Friday.”

“Actually, I have a hunch about something.” Patrick ignored the sofa, pulled a chair from the wall and sat down, facing her. A little too close. She took a deep breath. “I came across something this weekend that I think may tie in to your case. And although Mr. Hill answered most of my questions, I’d like to run a couple scenarios by you.”

Her stomach dropped further, but she didn’t let it show on her face. Patrick was convinced the bomb was meant for her. Why wouldn’t he buy into the random-crime theory like everyone else she knew? There was nothing to suggest it was anything other than that.

Patrick flipped open the folder and started shifting through the contents. Crime scene photos, detailed crime reports and other paperwork involving her case.

Amber swallowed. Maybe this was more serious than she’d thought. No. She tamped down the thought, reserving any speculation until there was evidence to support it.

Finally Patrick pulled a single sheet from the stack and pointed to the title with a blunt finger. “I believe this is a brochure that your center put out.”

“Yes.” Amber glanced at the flyer that featured the charity fund-raising dinner her counseling center was hosting. “I sent those to local businesses in the area advertising the event and requesting support.” She met his gaze. “I don’t understand what this has to do with the car bombing.”

Patrick set the open folder on the coffee table. “Silence No More. That’s the name of your fund-raiser?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well,” Amber said with a shrug, “the fund-raiser is intended to raise money for the local women’s shelter as well as promote awareness for violent assaults against women. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but one in three women suffer from some sort of abuse during their lifetime. Many suffer in silence, feeling shame and guilt for something they weren’t responsible for. And the challenges they live with are innumerable, like low self-esteem, depression and trust issues.”