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“Without a doubt, but, hey, I’m not giving the killer a defense. I’m just saying he’s not what most of us would call normal.”
Blackwater nodded. “Rings with fingers. A weird fetish.”
“Name a fetish that isn’t abnormal,” she suggested and realized that for the first time since Blackwater had taken over they seemed to be on the same page.
His phone rang and he ended the meeting abruptly with, “Okay. Just wanted your thoughts. Keep me posted.”
“Will do.” She rose, then couldn’t help herself from asking, “So, what’s with the push-ups?”
“Keeps the blood flowing. Any kind of exercise. I do something every two hours, makes my brain clearer.”
“Oh.”
“You should try it.”
“I should,” she said equably.
He actually smiled, seeing through her. “And Pescoli?”
“Hmmm?”
“Just for the record, I know what happened. Out in the woods that day when you’d chased down Grayson’s killer.”
“Oh, yeah?” Where is this going?
“I’m glad your son saved your life and shot the son of a bitch who was trying to kill you.” His hand was poised over the phone which was on its third ring, but his gaze was locked with hers.
Surprised, she said, “Umm. Me, too.”
“You’re lucky.” Then he added, “Jeremy’s a good kid.” Blackwater actually flashed a quick smile, straight white teeth against bronzed skin. “And fortunately a damn good shot.”
“Thanks,” she said, then started down the hall to her office. She still wasn’t fond of the man, but it seemed like he was at least trying harder. Unless he was just blowing hot air up her skirt because he sensed she neither trusted nor liked him. He was smart enough to pull that off, she knew.
As she reached the door to her office, she heard him answer, “Sheriff Blackwater,” and the muscles in the back of her neck clenched. She had to remind herself to get over it. The office was his. Whether she trusted him or not, he was her boss. Until someone else was elected, or she quit, she’d just have to deal with him.
End of story.
Her hand searched frantically beneath the pillow, but her damn gun was missing!
Terrified, Anne-Marie sat bolt upright, her eyes narrowing, her mind racing. It was a dream. That was it. A very real nightmare.
“I’ve got it.” His voice was a raspy whisper over the wind screaming outside.
She blinked. Knew it was no dream. It was happening. He’d found her. Somehow. Someway. Her heart pounded, her courage flagged, and she wanted to melt into the couch.
You’re still alive. He’s got the gun, but you’re still alive. Maybe he doesn’t want to kill you . . .
And then she knew. Not kill. Torture. Maim.
Fight, damn it. Don’t give up.
How had he found her? How had he broken in and she not heard? How the hell had he plucked the gun from under her head without her waking? She licked suddenly dry lips and remembered her dreams, the hot breath against her neck, the waking and thinking someone was inside, then convincing herself otherwise. Had he been right beside her? Wit
hin touching distance? If so, why hadn’t he just killed her then, if that was his intent?
Her insides curdled at the thought of him watching her sleep while she lay unaware. While her heart was hammering wildly, she tried to think, to plot out her escape. But there was nowhere to run in the storm. If she tried to leave, he’d catch her fast. Still, her gaze slid to the window, so near the door where he stood, blocking any chance of escape. If she flung herself over the back of the couch and tried to make it across the room and through the kitchen to the back door, no doubt he would be on her in less than a second.
No no no! Even if she was able to run outside, how far would she get barefoot in the snow, in the raging wind and driving storm?
