Part 20 (1/2)

”While you were in Colorado,” he reminded her. ”Denver.”

She was confused, still stumbling backward, her skin crawling as she felt him getting closer. ”I'm . . . I'm from Louisiana,” she said, then realized her mistake. ”I mean Nebraska!” Oh, G.o.d, was that right? She couldn't remember.

”Anne-Marie is from New Orleans.” His voice was cold. Empty. And he was getting closer. Squinting, she tried to see him, even just a glimmer of his shadow, or the glow of his eyes, or anything, but she saw nothing but blackness.

”I'm Jessica. Jessica Williams. I live in Montana. Yes. That's right. I'm Jessica and I live in Montana-”

”Not for long.”

Oh, G.o.d, he was going to kill her!

The bullet into her gut wasn't enough. And then she saw it. Rising silver in a slow arc, a knife with a glinting blade.

”No!”

Recoiling, she stumbled and fell backward, tumbling and flailing. Trying to get her grip, she descended into the darkness. Downward, farther and farther until she splashed into the water, piercing the surface of a slow moving river. The water covered her and she began kicking, trying to swim to the surface, but the harder she struggled, the farther down she slid, the water sucking her into a slow-turning but deadly whirlpool. Downward she spun, trying to scream, to breathe, as the vicious eddy funneled far from the surface. In the darkness, she spied a plume, blood red and swirling around her, enveloping. Thras.h.i.+ng, she tried to breathe, couldn't suck in any air, gasped wildly. Desperately she fought.

Bang!

She shot upward, throwing off her pillow and sitting straight up in bed. Her tiny pistol tumbled to the floor and landed with a sharp thud. For a second, she didn't know where she was, couldn't find her bearings. Her heart was drumming and she was breathing hard from the feeling of suffocation, her own d.a.m.n pillow having covered her face.

Oh, Lord. She dropped her face into her hands and tried to cast off the dream, the fear, the feeling of desperation.

It had been so real. No, so surreal, but she was still cold, the flesh on her arms rising in tiny goose pimples despite her sweats.h.i.+rt. She pulled the sleeping bag over her shoulders for warmth.

Bang!

She nearly shrieked, scrambled on the floor for her gun, then realized the noise was the wind buffeting the cabin, its gusts causing something, probably a tree limb, to pound against the roof. In her dream, the rush of the wind whistling down the chimney had been the sound of the river and the thud of that branch had become the report of a gun, nothing more.

She let out her breath slowly, then threw off the covers and walked to the window where she peered outside to the darkness beyond.

Is this how you want to live the rest of your life?

Alone?

Isolated ?

In fear?

Always looking over your shoulder?

Forever thinking you're being chased?

Almost believing that others are harmed because of your d.a.m.n sins?

”No,” she said aloud, squinting through the dirty gla.s.s. Outside, the snow-laden branches were moving with the stiff breeze, the whiteness of the ground in stark contrast to the black, unforgiving sky.

It had to end.

She could no longer live in fear.

With a s.h.i.+ver, she remembered the fights, the shattered dishes, the balled fists, the pain she'd endured far too long. Trusting that he would be able to control his temper, that he loved her, that he truly was sorry after each of their fights, she'd stayed with him, never reporting what had happened. Because of the shame. Because she'd stupidly believed that no one would believe her. Who would take her word-a spoiled woman who had her own emotional issues-against a man well regarded in the community, a smooth talker and outwardly, a do-gooder whose rage few had witnessed? Outwardly cool and in control, his demeanor had changed behind closed doors, just little things at first and then . . . oh, G.o.d, and then . . .

If I could only go home, she thought for the millionth time.

But she'd burned those bridges long ago. For all intents and purposes, she was dead to Talbert and Jeanette Favier, all because of him.

Well, not entirely, her wayward mind reminded her. You carry your own burden here. You are far from blameless. Cade Grayson is proof enough of that. And he's not the only one. Some of your heartache and your fear can be placed on your own d.a.m.n shoulders.

With no one to turn to and no one to trust, she'd run.

Away from her home. Away from wealth. Away from privilege.

Her family didn't believe her then; they wouldn't now.

She was painfully aware of that horrid little fact.

Nonetheless, the running, which had seemed her only option a few months back, had to stop.

”Tomorrow,” she whispered. After her morning s.h.i.+ft. Then she realized that it would be Friday come morning and she'd be working most of the day. No, she needed a clear head to come clean with the police.

Sat.u.r.day was the funeral for Dan Grayson.

Sunday was another full day at work and she didn't want to try and track down the sheriff or the appropriate detective over the weekend.

Excuses, excuses, her mind chided and she wondered if she'd chicken out altogether. Cade's a.s.sessment of her hadn't been that far off. But he was right. If innocent women were dying because of her, then she had to go to the police.

If not, she still needed help in straightening out the whole mess. Just because the cops in New Orleans were dirty didn't mean the same held true in this little town. Most officers of the law were heroes and worked for the common good: To protect and serve. Just because Dan Grayson was no longer the sheriff didn't mean that the man who'd taken his place wouldn't be just as good, nor that he wouldn't uphold the law.

And therein lies the problem, yes? Because you are guilty, aren't you? It's not as if you're pure as the driven snow.

She felt that same sense of doom nip at her heels again, the one that had been chasing her since leaving Louisiana. G.o.d, she'd made a mess of things.

No matter what the consequences, she would try to face the music and right her wrongs, if possible.

On Monday.

Come h.e.l.l or high water, she'd march into the Pinewood Sheriff's Department and tell her story.

If she didn't turn tail and run again. Crossing her fingers, she told herself she needed to do it. Before anyone else ended up dead.

Chapter 18.

Alvarez stood and stretched, using her desk chair for support. She hadn't been to the gym for the better part of a week, nor had she had time for her usual daily run. That would have to change as all of her muscles were tight and her brain was clogged with dozens of questions about the murdered women. Fortunately, the other active cases had been closed.

Ralph Haskins had taken his life. He'd left a good-bye note blaming his mother for his depression and his wife for their bankruptcy. The position of his Magnum as it had fallen from his hand as he'd collapsed after putting a bullet in his brain, and the fact that gunshot residue was all over his hands, had made the case pretty cut and dried. End of story.