Page 29 of The Survivor (Silhoutte Romantic Suspense)

“D oes he make you happy?”

The voice pulled Sam from her dreamless sleep. A quiet voice, but to her throbbing temples it sounded like a foghorn. As a searing pain sliced through her head, she whimpered and tried to lift one hand so she could rub away the ache. Her hands wouldn’t move.

“Does he make you happy?”

Fighting back another sharp pain, Sam managed to crack open one eye. She blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. Hoped she was just imagining all this, that her mind had conjured it up for some sick reason or another.

No such luck.

As her vision focused and her head cleared, she knew she wasn’t imagining a thing. She was lying on a small cot, her hands and feet were bound and the silhouette of a man loomed over her. Wherever she was, it was dark. Dark and cold, and it smelled like flowers.

Oh, God.

“Stop playing games, Anne, and answer the question,” the voice said softly.

Sam tested the ropes binding her hands together. She tugged and twisted, but the knots stayed in place. She heard footsteps, and the silhouette moved closer, causing her pulse to quicken. No. No . Not again. This wouldn’t happen to her again. She wouldn’t let it.

As she lay on the cot fighting with the rope, the footsteps stopped and suddenly a humorless laugh filled the damp air. “It’s no use. You’re not going anywhere.” Benson sounded annoyed. No, she had to remind herself. Not Benson.

By no means had she given up, but Sam knew there was no point struggling with the knots. She’d need to figure out another means of escape.

Blinking again, she turned her head and stared at the Rose Killer.

A tiny window somewhere above her brought a gust of icy November wind into the room, along with a thin shaft of light that, as if on command, illuminated his face.

He didn’t look pleasant anymore, as he had in the car.

Now his face was hard, his nondescript features twisted in anger.

The friendly “cop” from the car was gone. He’d become the monster from her nightmares. Flashing red eyes. That repulsive smirk she’d always imagined.

She stared at his face, wondering how this plain-looking man had become a crazed killer. Then she turned away, unable to look into those eyes a second longer.

“Don’t turn away from me,” he snapped. “And answer the damn question. Does he make you happy?”

“Does who make me happy?” she said hoarsely.

He sat on the edge of the cot. She tried not to cower. “Ted. Does he make you happy, Anne?”

God, who the hell was Anne?

Sam had read enough thrillers to know that stalling a killer usually worked about as well as dry glue, but she gave it a shot anyway.

“Anne isn’t here,” she choked out. “But if she were, I’m sure she’d tell you that Ted didn’t make her half as happy as you did.

” There. That sounded reasonable. Maybe he’d be placated by the words and let her go.

Fat chance.

His eyes darkened as he absently ran his fingers over shoulder. She shuddered.

“Then why did you slice your wrists?” he challenged, his white teeth gleaming in the darkness as he grinned at her.

It was obvious that he was disturbed, delusional, and Sam had no idea how to talk to him when he kept referring to her as another woman. When he looked at her with those tortured eyes and saw someone else.

But she had to try. The longer she kept him talking, the more time Blake would have to find her. And Blake would find her. She was absolutely sure of that.

Sam cleared her throat. “I don’t know why she killed herself.”

He slid his hand from her shoulder to her neck, and for one terrifying second she thought he would strangle her. He didn’t, just touched her cheek so gently she almost threw up, and held her chin in place so that she couldn’t look away.

“Twenty years, Anne. I gave you twenty years of love and marriage and friendship and companionship. And then you went out and screwed a man who didn’t even care about you.” His fingers tightened over her jaw. “I’ll bet you feel foolish now, don’t you, sweetheart? I’ll bet you want my forgiveness.”

Her throat was so tight she couldn’t get any words out. Not that it mattered. This monster had obviously stopped listening to reason a long time ago.

“Well, it’s too late. I won’t forgive you, but I will—” he lifted his thin lips in a smile “—punish you.”

Blake, where are you?

Fear paralyzed every muscle in her body, that strong front she’d tried holding on to slipping away as each agonizing second ticked by.

She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want to talk to this insane killer whose empty eyes scared her and tugged at her sympathy at the same time.

She didn’t want to go through this again. She didn’t want any of this.

“I probably would never have found out about Ted, you know,” he said pensively. “If the idiot hadn’t decided to send you flowers from my shop, I would have never known what you were up to, Anne.”

He rose, his too-big shirt rustling. She understood now why the uniform didn’t fit him. It wasn’t his.

Tears welled up in her eyes as she wondered if he’d killed a cop to get that uniform.

She watched as he headed for the door, praying that he was leaving. Maybe this was all he’d wanted, to talk to his dead wife for a bit, and now he was gallivanting off to do something else, like go bowling, or ice skating.

Right.

A strangled laugh tore out of her throat as she lay there, inhaling the scent of roses and staring at the doorway. She’d almost convinced herself that he’d left when he reappeared. He held a knife in his hands.

No. No, no, no! Her heart pounded violently against her rib cage. She flailed on the cot, blindly grabbing at the ropes on her hands while hot tears stung her eyes. She couldn’t go through this again. She couldn’t have this happen to her again.

She couldn’t.

* * *

In the large conference room, Blake turned to Hodges and snapped, “Have you managed to track down the address of that greenhouse yet?”

“No, but Samson is on it as we speak. I’ll go see if she’s made any headway.”

Hodges left the room with hurried strides. When he returned a few minutes later, with Detective Carol Samson by his side, he wore a victorious expression. “We’ve got it,” he announced.

Running her hand through her curly hair, Samson spoke. “The greenhouse was purchased under Grant’s mother’s name.”

She recited the address and before she could get another word in, Blake took off.

“Blake, wait,” Rick called after him. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing? I’m going after her.”

As he slid out the door, his partner scrambled to keep up with him. “You can’t just charge in there.”

“Like hell I can’t.”

Looking as if he wanted to shoot something—namely his partner—Rick grabbed his arm. “For God’s sake, just wait a second. Let me talk to Fantana and then I’ll go with you.”

“I’ll be in the car.”

In the driver’s seat of the SUV, he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as adrenaline continued to pour through him in bucket loads.

He didn’t want to wait for Rick, didn’t want to wait one more second when he knew Sam might not have that much time.

But going in alone would be reckless, irresponsible.

He couldn’t risk making a mistake, because one wrong step could be the difference between Sam living and Sam dying.

“Fantana’s team will follow us in an unmarked car,” Rick said as he slid into the passenger seat. He held a sheet of paper in his hand. “Samson printed out a map for us. We won’t be able to approach the greenhouse from the road. The area’s too open. If he’s near a window he’ll spot us coming.”

Blake pointed to another section on the map. “We can come in from the woods over here.”

“The detectives will park down the road and we can radio for backup if we need it. Fantana’s also arranging for the paramedics to be nearby, in case…” Rick never finished his sentence.

Blake’s lips tightened. No, there would not be “in case.” Sam was not going to be hurt.

He was about to say that when Rick’s cell rang. Blake watched as his partner listened, then hung up.

“That was Fantana. They tracked down Paul Benson, the officer Grant was impersonating.”

“And?”

Rick shook his head unhappily. “Dead in an alley off the Loop. Wearing nothing but his underwear. Fantana’s put an ABP out on Benson’s missing cruiser.”

Rather than respond, Blake clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw ached from the pressure. Swallowing back his rage, he put the car into gear and sped away from the station. With the sirens on, he figured they could make the forty-five-minute drive in half the time.

“You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you?”

Rick’s voice was quiet, but his words were so startling Blake’s foot jerked on the gas pedal, pushing it down harder and causing the car to shoot forward.

“That isn’t any of your business,” he ground out, steadying the car’s speed.

“It is if you plan on going all Rambo to save the swimsuit model in your bed.” Rick released a heavy breath. “Jesus, Blake. What were you thinking? You know better than to get involved with a witness. No, a victim .”

His eyes flashed. “She’s not a victim. She’s a woman . And she’s stronger than the both of us, you son of a bitch, so talk about her with respect.”

Rick blanched. “Hey, hold up, man. I have nothing but the utmost respect for Samantha Dawson. Don’t go twisting my words around.”

He changed lanes without signaling, whizzing onto the highway ramp while avoiding his partner’s shocked—and hurt— gaze. He didn’t give a damn if Rick’s feelings were hurt. Sam was the one hurting at the moment.

“I’m sorry,” Rick finally burst out. “I’m sorry it sounded like I was lecturing or reprimanding you. I just want to make sure we’re on the same page so we can rescue Samantha without any screwups, okay?”

Blake drew in a calming breath. Difficult, seeing as he was feeling anything but calm. Frantic, was more like it. And scared. So goddamn scared he couldn’t even focus on the road in front of him.