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Yet she ached to turn the car around and seek solace in his arms.
Blinking to clear the tears and regain control, she forced herself to concentrate on the beauty surrounding her. In the fall, when the apple trees were heavily laden, their fruits spilling to the ground, she gathered the Granny Smith apples and baked dozens of pies. Last year, she’d canned and frozen at least a bushel, had made homemade applesauce, apple butter and jelly. She’d savored the tart tastes, the miracles of nature.
How could that nature include humans so depraved that they fed on the weaker at heart?
Humans like William. And now this latest sick man.
How did Brad Booker continue to do his job without the atrocities of it eating at his soul?
She was still shaking when she sped up the driveway to her cabin, the serenity she normally experienced at the sight of her log home lost in the emotions warring within her.
Brad had suffered the atrocities—she’d seen it in his eyes. Heard it in his voice.
And there were the recriminations.
He was blaming himself now for this woman’s disappearance. As she’d once suspected he might have blamed himself for her abduction.
But it hadn’t been his fault. Just as it wasn’t this time.
Brad was the good guy.
William had been psychotic. And she had been a fool for not believing Brad the first time he’d hinted that her old boyfriend was trouble.
Her emotions in a tailspin, she glanced down the valley at the cabin where the stranger had just moved in. He’d been lurking outside her place this morning. Who was he really? What did she know about him?
Panicking, she threw open the car door and bolted up the graveled drive toward the house. Warm sunshine splintered through the dark clouds, the afternoon heat engulfing her as she opened the door and slipped inside. She slammed the door and locked it, then leaned against the wooden frame, trembling. She was safe. No one had followed her. She could hide out here forever.
The quiet seemed eerie around her.
Then the truth assaulted her. She’d chosen this cabin because it was at the top of the hill, away from strangers, from the town, so no one would bother her. Yet the location had isolated her from others to the point of preventing her from making friends.
Because she had wanted it that way.
The kitchen cupboard in the corner, filled with dozens of jars of apple butter and jelly she’d canned, mocked her. Dozens of jars—but she lived alone. All alone.
She had no one to share them with. Wouldn’t allow anyone close enough to even consider offering a dinner invitation.
She dropped onto the sofa and heaved for air, the realization that she’d locked herself away in a self-imposed prison filtering through the haze. William had taken everything from her the day he’d kidnapped her. Had stolen her innocence. Her trust in men. Her dreams of the future.
She glanced around at the bookcase, the sofa table. Empty. Only a few pictures of family. No boyfriend. No hopes of ever having one.
Only a framed photograph of her mother, and a picture of her father, sat on the table, one she’d clipped from the newspaper. He looked austere. Imposing. But he’d actually smiled, obviously primed because the article declared him a brilliant surgeon.
He never smiled at her now. Since the trial, she was no longer daddy’s little girl. Although they occasionally spoke on the phone, conversations remained brief to prevent any tracing so she could remain hidden. Of course, they had argued long before William had entered her life. Her father’s goals for her had been different from her own. He wanted her to be a social star, she wanted none of the limelight.
And she’d hated it even more when all the publicity about the trial had focused on her.
Sure, she’d told herself she was healing.
But this morning’s headlines, seeing Brad Booker again, knowing another woman was suffering as she had—the fear, the paranoia, the anger all came crashing back.
How could she say that she was happy here when she refused to open the door to a neighbor? When the least little shadow or sound sent her skittering into near cardiac arrest?
When she would choose to run and hide rather than help another woman escape the horrors she had experienced? What kind of coward was she?
And how much more was she going to allow William to take from her?
BRAD KILLED THE ENGINE. Although he needed to work the case, he wasn’t quite ready to head back to Atlanta. He phoned Ethan for an update, but they were still chasing leads. They desperately needed to find out where the killer had taken Mindy.
Had Lisa remembered something that might help?
How do you know this guy is using the same place to hide his victims? He could be anywhere.
His stomach growled, adding to his irritation. He might as well grab something to eat before he faced the two-hour drive. The waitress glared at him as he entered the cafе, as if she’d seen Lisa running out, and wondered what he’d done to her. Great. Now everyone in Ellijay would probably think he was a bad guy.
Hell, who was he kidding? They’d be right. He’d just thrown Lisa back into her nightmarish past.
Besides, he couldn’t show the locals his credentials without revealing Lisa’s identity, something he’d sworn not to do.
The diner was rustic, with knotty pine walls and plank flooring. Photographs of antique cars and local scenery hung along one wall, and a collection of antique farming tools filled a case in the corner. Checkered tablecloths and fresh daisies on each table gave the restaurant a homey feel, the smells of homemade vegetable soup and pies wafting through the air.
He ordered a bowl of Brunswick stew and a glass of sweet iced tea, his gaze automatically scrutinizing each patron. Mostly old-timers. Three women wearing outdated Sunday dresses gathered at a round table eating coconut cream pie and sipping coffee. Two farmers conversed over the blue plate lunch special—meat loaf, green beans and mashed potatoes with gravy. A handful of teenagers stuffed into a booth laughed over their milkshakes and burgers. A real southern small town.
Everyone appeared friendly, seemed to know one another. A safe place to raise a family. Nothing like the city, where psychos could hide among the masses.
Yet was Lisa really safe here?
Not if there had been an accomplice, or if this latest killer came looking for her.
Brad finished the stew, paid the bill and headed back to his car, knowing the clock was ticking. He was just about to leave when his cell phone rang. He winced, then checked the display, bracing himself for bad news from his partner.
A private number showed up, instead. “Brad Booker.”
“It’s Lisa.”
He closed his eyes, his gut knotting at the sound of her strained voice. “Are you all right?”
A long sigh escaped her, heartfelt and labored but resigned. “Yes. Where are you?”
One hand tightened around the steering wheel. “Getting ready to leave town.”
“To go back to Atlanta?”
“Yes.”
A breathy quiver followed his reply, then she whispered, “I…I’m sorry, Brad.”
He scraped a hand through his hair, the sweat-coated strands sticking to his fingers. God, why was she apologizing? She had every right to hate him. “Don’t, Lisa, it’s all right. I shouldn’t have come—”
“No,” she said, her voice stronger, “you obviously care about this woman, she’s missing… I…I’ll help you if I can.”
He heard her insinuations. She thought he and Mindy were involved. He should correct her. But why bother? He did care about saving Mindy. And he couldn’t get involved with Lisa.
“Do you want me to come by?” he asked quietly. “We can talk.”
A heartbeat passed, pulsing into a tension-filled minute.
“No.”
He chewed the inside of his cheek and fiddled with the radio. “All right. Call me if you need anything.”
“Wait.” She hesitated again, then said, “I mean yes. Come over….”
He scrubbed a hand over his face at the sound of the waver in her voice. She’d been crying. “Are you at the cabin?”
“Yes.”
He cranked the engine and shifted into gear. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
He disconnected the phone and sped away from town, battling his own emotions. The reason he’d almost screwed up so badly before. He couldn’t repeat that mistake a second time. Mindy’s life was at stake.
But Lisa’s soft anguished voice taunted him as he climbed the mountain.
SHE WAS IN THE BOX AGAIN. She couldn’t breathe. The darkness was closing around her, choking her….
Lisa caught her head between her hands, rocking herself back and forth, tears falling as the trembling continued.
The wooden edges brushed her sides. Held her captive.
It was dark. Hot. So hot the air felt like a furnace. And she was suffocating, her throat muscles clawing at the air for a breath.
Then she was cold. Chilled and aching. Shaking uncontrollably.
He had left her there all day. Hidden away as if she didn’t exist. Her cries had done nothing but elicit rage that he unleashed on her.
Her battered body was too numb to move now. Or maybe it was the cramped position in the box. She’d long ago lost track of the time. Had she been here hours? Days?
The panic that streaked through her wouldn’t dissipate. It ate at her, chewed at her nerve endings relentlessly. The air felt stifling. How much more of it was there?
She closed her eyes, willed herself to drift away. To another place. To another time when life existed. When sounds meant something other than his sinister laugh or her own terrified cries.
The front door creaked open. The floor squeaked like cheap linoleum. A muttered curse reverberated through the room, and she knew he’d entered. Could smell the sweat and stench of his body. His boots scraped against the side of the bed as he sat down and kicked them off.
She froze, praying he would have mercy and release her. Or at least end the torture and kill her tonight.
The box springs protested as he stretched out on top of the bed. The mattress sagged, pressing into the box with his weight. Then he began to move. Slowly at first. The screech, screech of the bed was redundant, grew faster, the mattress sagged deeper and harder against her box. His breathing became erratic.
A sob caught in her throat as she realized what he was doing.
The mattress dipped and squeaked again, the noise intensifying, the movements more rapid as his breathing grew more and more excited. Finally a bellow. Pain? Pleasure? Rage?
Then he jumped off the bed, cursing loudly. She felt the box moving, being jerked, dragged from beneath the bed.
But instead of opening it, he was hammering it shut, tighter…pounding, pounding, pounding….
“LISA!”
It took her several seconds to realize that she had lapsed back into her nightmares. Even when she was awake they haunted her.
It took her another minute to realize the pounding was real. Someone was knocking at the door.
She hugged her arms around herself, panicking. Had the killer found her?
“Lisa! It’s Brad. Let me in, or I’m going to bust down this door.”
Jerking back to reality, she fidgeted with her hands, then finally willed her legs to be strong enough to stand. Brad’s voice broke through the haze again, and she rushed to the door, nearly stumbling over the braided rug on the floor and knocking a magazine off the end table in her haste. She’d phoned him only a few minutes ago, told him to come over. But then she’d sat down, started remembering….
“Lisa!”
“Just a minute.” She fumbled with the door lock, her hands shaking. Finally, she unfastened the lock and chain, then opened the door.
He stalked in, his dark eyes stormy. “For God’s sake, are you all right? You scared the hell out of me when you didn’t answer!”
Then his gaze met hers, and he must have read the truth in her eyes, because he reached out for her. She fell into his arms, clutched at his shirt and let him hold her.
TIME PASSED IN A BLUR of nonreality. He had lost time before. Had awakened with only a hazy memory of where he’d been or what he’d done. And it was happening again….
It had to be the medication.
He opened his eyes, his stomach convulsing as pain rifled through his temple. The dull throb became more incessant as it filtered through the rest of his body. He felt so damn weak. Just like before. But he’d been given a second chance at life.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way, though. Dark. Painful. Dreary.
He was supposed to be happy. Full of life. A strong, virile man. Able to do things he hadn’t done in a long time.
Fading sunlight fluttered through the blinds, slicing diagonal rays across the room. He rolled to his side to block it out, then stared in shock at his hands.
They were bruised. Dirty. Covered in blood.
Dried blood. Dark. Crimson. Crusty.
Blood also stained his shirt and pants. Red clay caked his fingernails and his boots. Scratches marred his hands and arms, as if he’d been pawed by an animal. His shirt was torn, the rip revealing more deep gashes on his chest. And he was sweating profusely.
What the hell was happening to him?
His head reeling, he turned sideways, swung his legs over the side of the bed and swayed, dizzy. Grabbing the edge of the mattress to keep from falling, he held himself steady while the room settled. More sweat coated his body and ran down his neck and back. The stench of some foul odor assaulted him. Swamp water. A sewer maybe.
He scanned the room, questions ticking in his head as he read the hands of the clock: 6:00 p.m.
