Page 25 of Deadly Storms (Sunrise Lake #3)

She’d asked the question of herself so many times, she didn’t even feel sorry for herself the way she had when she was a teenager.

Scorpion had reminded her a hundred times a day every torture, every death was on her head.

She didn’t understand why. When she asked, he beat her and told her she should know.

She should be able to figure it out if she had a brain.

She knew she was intelligent, but logically she couldn’t put it together.

Why his cabinet despised her. Why he did.

Why most of the mercenaries had. Now Bale and his friends.

“You have to know it isn’t you, Shabina,” Harlow said. “How could it be? There isn’t anything you do or say that could possibly make anyone dislike you. You’re friendly to everyone.”

That was the standard reaction. It didn’t explain anything. Her therapist had given her that same exact answer. Raine had given it to her. It was always the same, and yet, men seemed to be driven to commit heinous acts because of her. At least, they claimed it was because of her.

Her head began to feel as if it were being crushed in a vise. She had to stop thinking so much about Scorpion, or she would be too sick to drive home.

“Last night I had such fun with all of you, and I felt that I could get through the next few days, that maybe all of us together could figure out what was really happening. That we could make sense of it. But just a few hours in the company of Bale and the men from Paris and the one from Belgium, and I’m a mess all over again. I’m so paranoid I suspect everyone.”

Her dogs pressed close to her in an effort to comfort her.

Harlow touched her shoulder gently. “Honey, today would have been difficult for anyone. It was pure torture with Bale and his crew coming, and you handled it like a pro. On top of that with the murderer doing some sort of ritual sacrifice that involved items from the Middle East, naturally you would be upset. I’m upset and very leery.

I certainly don’t want you to come alone out in the forest the way you always do. ”

Shabina shook her head, which sent a piercing jab of pain straight through her temples.

“I think about all the times I sat in my café and visited with students and tourists from various countries, happy to see them. I was happy to be able to serve them food I knew brought a little bit of home to them. I loved to hear them talk about their homes and their families. Just the conversations would make me feel closer to Mama Ahmad. I’d be sitting there in the café, surrounded by the fresh-ground coffee and the cookies I’d make from her recipes, and it would make not only them happy but me too. ”

“That’s beautiful, Shabina.”

“But it isn’t that way now.” Her right hand crept up to circle two inches above her left wrist. Her thigh throbbed and burned. “Now just seeing those men, hearing their voices, I find myself terrified. I really am, Harlow.”

“Then I admire you all the more. You didn’t act it in the least. In fact, you were composed the entire tour.

Your voice was calm and controlled when you delivered the information on the various birds and their habits.

I know you, and I wouldn’t have guessed that you were triggered by the presence of the men at all. ”

Shabina despised the word triggered . Her therapist used it often when she referred to post-traumatic stress disorder. She was well aware she suffered from PTSD and that she was experiencing an ever-increasing episode, no matter how hard she tried to stop it.

She had the now-familiar physical symptoms: shaking, pain throughout her body, nausea, even sweating.

She couldn’t sleep, and when she did, she had vivid nightmares.

She had heightened sensitivity and awareness of her surroundings.

Paranoia. All were definite signs of PTSD.

She was having flashbacks, intense flashbacks, as if the trauma were happening to her right at that moment.

Those were brief, but so severe the experiences seemed real all over again.

She couldn’t eat anything. When she tried, it came right back up.

She’d been lucky that her friends hadn’t noticed that while she cooked for them, she hadn’t done more than push food around on her plate.

She had wanted to isolate herself but was grateful that her friends had sought her out, although she’d worried that she might have a nightmare and wake them.

Not that she screamed. She had learned not to give Scorpion and his men the satisfaction.

There were times she couldn’t stop tears, but most of the time they were silent.

The more she could do to defy Scorpion’s expectations, the stronger she felt.

Scorpion despised resistance. He didn’t want anyone standing up to him, especially a female. That meant he wanted to enjoy her suffering. If she didn’t scream and cry, how could he possibly get the satisfaction he needed?

“Harlow, I really think the FBI and Rafferty suspect I had something to do with the murder. I think they already had someone identify the flowers and feathers.”

Harlow didn’t just dismiss her concerns. “Raine is worried. If she’s worried, there’s good reason, although you have an airtight alibi. You couldn’t have committed the actual murder. You would have to have had an accomplice.”

“If Bale is the one behind this, one of the students from the university would provide the perfect fall guy, wouldn’t they?” Shabina speculated.

“Or Zahra.”

“She could prove she was at work. And everyone knows she doesn’t hike unless we drag her around with us,” Shabina protested. “If Bale is really orchestrating this, he wouldn’t consider implicating Zahra. It would never work. He’d think an outsider from another country would be perfect.”

Again, Harlow took her time thinking it over. “I would hate that Bale could be that sick, but I know it happens. Sometimes people are twisted, Shabina.”

She sounded as tired as Shabina felt. Worn out.

Shabina studied her features. Harlow was a beautiful woman.

She rarely dated. The friends she had were the same ones Shabina had.

Harlow stayed in that tight circle. She was always friendly.

Always gracious. She was an amazing photographer, and her name was growing in the art world.

Even the few pieces of pottery, which she didn’t care to show others, sold for a mint when she did allow a gallery to display them.

She was creative, yet she had a reputation for being one of the best surgical nurses on staff.

Her mother came twice a year to visit her.

She didn’t go home for holidays but spent them with the other women and Shabina.

Shabina didn’t go home for the holidays either.

Her mother didn’t ever celebrate them, so it was a good excuse to stay home and be with her friends.

It just seemed odd that Harlow never wanted to go home.

Her father was very active in politics, and yet she never went to see him.

If anything, she avoided all contact with him.

“If I get arrested, Harlow, you’ll have to make sure my father knows. He’ll come roaring to the rescue, as much as I’d hate that.”

“Raine isn’t going to allow that to happen,” Harlow assured. “She’s brilliant. Far more intelligent than anyone gives her credit for. She’s always three steps ahead of everyone else. If Bale, the FBI or Rafferty think they’re going to pin this on you, they’re in for a shock.”

Shabina rubbed at her thigh again. “One of the biggest problems I have right now isn’t Bale or the FBI.

It’s me. I’m really heading straight for a breakdown.

That would help Bale and the sheriff and his friends do whatever they wanted.

Pin the murder on the woman suffering flashbacks.

She doesn’t know reality from illusion.”

Harlow smiled at her. “You have friends, Shabina. We’ll keep you grounded.”

Shabina was just grateful that they would try. She didn’t know if it was possible. “I’d better start back to Knightly. I have to run the boys before we call it a night.”

Her vehicle was parked beside Harlow’s. She opened the back door and gave the signal for the dogs to load up. As she walked around the front of the car, she noticed a small package sitting on the hood.

A chill went down her spine and she looked around her carefully, searching the parking lot and then the surrounding brush.

Was someone watching her? All of a sudden it felt like it.

There was a tingling between her shoulder blades.

She froze and glanced over at Harlow, who had already slid behind the wheel of her car.

Harlow pushed open her door and immediately hurried over to her. “What is it?”

“On the hood.” Shabina didn’t know why she whispered it. There was no one else in the parking lot. They were the last two to leave. That didn’t mean they were really alone though. Scorpion could have his spies watching her. Or it could be the murderer. Maybe he was out there watching.

“Don’t touch it. Let me,” Harlow said. She strode right up to the hood, leaned over, and keeping her hands in her pockets, nudged the lid from the box with the edge of her jacket. The lid slid right off revealing several frayed twigs, each packed in a single bag of cellophane.

Harlow frowned. “Do you know what it is?”

Shabina nodded slowly. “Yes. Those are miswak sticks. They’re made from the Salvadora persica tree, or arak trees. They’re used several times a day on the teeth like a toothbrush and flosser before prayers. They have antibacterial properties.”

“I take it these are used in Saudi Arabia,” Harlow said.

“Yes.” Shabina was back to whispering. One hand went to her throat. Her heart was beating too fast. Her skin was clammy. She couldn’t quite catch her breath.