Page 40 of The Deadly Shallows

Noah breathed a sigh of relief. The physical and emotional wounds she was bearing were bad enough, but he thanked God the trauma of rape wasn’t added to the list. “Thanks,” he said. “Keep me posted.”

“Will do.” Finn headed down the corridor.

After shooting quick texts to Caleb and Logan, he knocked on Brooke’s door. Caleb was on his way, Logan—in the midst of attempting to track down the van used—would be by for case board and do the sketches with Brooke after.

“Come in,” she answered, her voice shaky.

“Hi.” His throat constricted at her black eye. Rage reared its head again, burning through his veins. He pumped his fingers in and out of a fist, trying to head off the surge of adrenaline. Brooke didn’t need him amped up.

“Hi,” she said, smoothing back her hair.

“Okay if I stay?” he asked, wanting to make sure she didn’t need some time alone.

“Of course. I want you here.” She tilted her head in the direction of the recliner positioned beside her bed.

He stepped around her bed, but before sitting, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’m so sorry,” he said, clasping her hand. “I should have protected you better. Walked you to your car.”

“This wasn’t your fault, Noah. The men who took me are at fault—fully at fault. And . . .” She took a long inhale and blew it out slowly before continuing. “It’s my fault for not being strong enough.”

He frowned. “What could possibly be your fault? You are amazingly strong to survive something so horrific, not to mention escape.”

“Connor Andrews whispered something to me as we were entering the hospital. I didn’t think it meant anything so didn’t even think of telling anyone, especially with all the chaos going on. But somehow they knew about it, and I couldn’t keep holding out.” A red flush blanketed her cheeks, and she looked down, fiddling with the edge of her blanket. “I told them he said something that sounded like gator. It seemed so important to them. I should have been stronger, held out longer.”

He gently tipped her chin up, their gazes holding. “You have been through hell, and you feel you should have done more?” He shook his head. “You are tough. Extremely tough.”

She shrugged off the compliment. “I knew they’d kill me as soon as I told them. But I just couldn’t hold out anymore.”

He leaned in closer. “Sweetheart, you held out far longer”—based on the wounds she carried—“than ninety-nine percent of people would. And there is no way you could have known a random word Connor Andrews whispered to you might mean so much to them.”

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes.

“And you fought for your freedom. You got away.” He moved his hand from her chin, wanting to cup her face, but he worried the pressure might hurt her bruises, so he rested it over their joined hands. “I want you to listen to me. To really hear and believe this. You are the strongest woman I know. Don’t ever doubt that.”

Her gaze darted down.

He dipped his head, once again drawing her to look at him. When she did, he spoke words he prayed soaked into her soul. “You are a fighter. A warrior. Promise me you’ll take me at my word.”

She exhaled.

“Promise?”

A soft smile crept on her lips. “I promise.”

“Good.” He straightened the pillow behind her. “Now you need some rest.”

“But you have to question me.”

She was exhausted. He could read it in her glazed-over eyes. “It can wait until morning.”

“No.” She shook her head. “As soon as possible after the crime is the most vital time to question. You taught me that.”

“You’re right, but . . .”

“No buts.” She shifted to sit higher up and winced as she pressed up on her arms.

“Hang on,” he said. He grabbed the bed remote and raised it up. “Better?”

“Better.” She sighed.