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Cutler elbows his deputy, and Daniels immediately pulls out a notebook and starts jotting notes.
“He was here, inside, waiting for me. He grabbed me by the hair, hit me, then threw me down the hallway. I ran into the room and locked the door, but he shot the lock and kicked it open. He grabbed me by the throat, and he was squeezing…” I shiver, my teeth chattering. Closing my eyes, I fight back the wall of panic threatening to drown me.
It’s over. I’m safe.
Matheson takes my hand and gives me an encouraging squeeze, but I don’t want comfort from her. I want Charlie.
“I couldn’t breathe,” I whisper, crying softly. “He was choking me. So I stabbed him.”
“You stabbed him?” Matheson repeats. “With what?”
I open my eyes and look around on the floor. “A small knife. I found a box of them in the closet. I carried one in my pocket.”
“Okay.” She gives a quick glance at the deputy. “Make a note that the knife might still be in the body.” She turns her attention to me. “What else?”
“He didn’t let go of me, so I stabbed him again. We fell and struggled. The rest is a blur. He was on me. He lifted the gun like he was going to shoot me, and then he slumped and went still.”
“Did he say anything to you? Did he say why he did this?”
“He said Charlie led him straight to me. That he was going to make me his last kill and dump it all on Charlie. He screwed up by putting the bite on me. His signature. Charlie was dirty and everyone would believe it.”
Matheson tightens her grip on my hand. “Was Charlie here, Ranay?”
I don’t want to lie to her. She helped me a lot. I like her.
My eyes flutter and I let myself sag, sliding deliberately to the floor.
“Ranay? Is the ambulance here yet?”
Her voice is thin and distant. Someone lifts me. I’m moving, gliding along the floor. They pause and Sheba’s soft muzzle brushes my arm. They load me with a jolt into the ambulance and she jumps up with me. People talk over me and I don’t care, because the one person I want the most is gone.
Charlie.
Tears slip down my face but I don’t make a sound.
37
Propped up in a hospital bed, I can’t help but smile when Special Agent Matheson taps on the door. Another interview—aka interrogation—is inevitable. At least with the FBI involved, I haven’t had to deal with the sheriff again.
She has a piece of tape over her nose, her lip is cut and the entire left side of her face is bruised. “Can we come in?”
“Sure.”
She steps inside with an older man dressed in a blue suit. “This is Assistant Special Agent in Charge Tim Wilkins from our Kansas City office.”
He steps closer and offers his hand. Not to me, but Sheba. I have a feeling Matheson pulled a lot of strings, as well as waving my service animal papers around, but the hospital finally agreed to let her stay. She never left my bedside.
Sheba rises enough to sniff his hand and then lays down beside me.
“Nice to meet you, sir.”
“The pleasure’s mine, Miss Killian.” He has a nice voice, even and deep without being arrogant, and his eyes crinkle when he smiles. “It’s not every day we get to thank someone for helping out the FBI.”
“Me? Hardly.”
“You helped us stop a very prolific serial killer.” Matheson reaches down to stroke Sheba. “Since Rusk was inside the FBI, catching him was next to impossible.”
The sudden sinking pit in my stomach tells me there’s more to this story than I will ever hear. “So you had suspicions all along.”
