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“I did,” she contradicted, “I tried to kill myself.”
“Because you were a little girl who was sexually abused for two years by someone who should have taken care of her. You didn't know how to process what had happened, and you didn't have anyone you could tell. You didn't do anything wrong, Samara. Reacting to trauma is not a crime, you did what you did, no judgment from me, you don’t have to try to be perfect with me. When we’re together you can drop the perfectionist thing and just be you. You can cry if you need to cry, you can get angry if you need to get angry, you can laugh if you want to laugh, you’re safe with me, safe to just be you.”
His words brought tears to her eyes, and it wasn't long before they were tumbling down her cheeks. She’d never cried like thisin front of anyone before. Tears flooded freely down her face, and deep, chest heaving sobs wracked through her. Michael held her, stroking her hair and murmuring to her in a soothing voice until her tears were spent.
In a way, she was glad that he knew. If they were going to be a couple, then it would be nice not to keep this secret from him. Other than the therapist who had treated her in the psychiatric hospital after her suicide attempt, no one other than her and her grandfather knew what he had done to her. Holding onto that secret for so many years had been a heavy burden to carry, and knowing that Michael knew and didn't see her any differently was more of a relief than she could ever express.
Michael wiped away the last of her tears with his knuckles then pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Want to have some dinner now?”
She shook her head. She was tired, that kind of bone-deep weariness that took hold of your entire body and wouldn’t let go. She didn't want to eat, she didn't want to talk, she didn't want to feel, she didn't want to think.
“Hold me,” she said, snuggling closer.
Michael did. He wrapped his arms around her and shuffled them both down the bed so they were lying on their sides facing each other.
“Sleep now, sweetheart, I got you.”
This was what she wanted.
This was what she needed.
Content, Samara closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
DECEMBER 23rd
6:38 A.M.
Why wasn't it working?
Dante stomped around the cabin screaming at the top of his lungs.
This was all wrong.
All wrong.
He’d killed three people. They knew what he was capable of so why were they still keeping Samara from him?
He knew that they had found the bodies—for a fact. He’d only just killed the woman in the SUV and climbed into his own car further down the block when he’d seen those FBI agents show up. He had sat for a moment watching them open the car, find the body, see all the blood, knowing that they were responsible for that woman’s death, before driving off and coming back here.
And he knew that they knew who had killed them. He had left a message in the blood of the old couple at the parking garage, and since he didn't know Samara’s phone number—they kept making her change it—he had sent a photo of his next intended victim to the man charged with being Samara’s bodyguard. The FBI Agents had been quick tracking him down. They had obviously managed to find the café and the woman’s identity if they had known what her car looked like. They had very nearly caught him, but he didn't care, it was worth the risk.Samarawas worth the risk.
So why wasn't it enough?
Why were they disobeying him?
Why were they willing to put the whole neighborhood at risk?
He stopped stomping around and dropped down onto the couch in front of the fireplace.
Dante had expected her to be here by now.
Everything was ready for her, everything was perfect. All that was missing was Samara.
He didn't know what he was going to do if this didn't work.
Obviously, picking random people off the street wasn't the answer. The people watching Samara, keeping her from coming to him, didn't seem to care about those he had already killed and those he would.
So maybe he had to change track.
