Читать книгу After The Dark - Cynthia Eden - Страница 10

CHAPTER ONE

THE SCENE WAS all wrong.

The killer—the balding man in his late thirties—the man who stood there with sweat dripping down his face, a gun held in his trembling hand and a dead girl at his feet...he was wrong.

FBI Special Agent Samantha Dark raised her weapon even as she shook her head. She’d profiled this killer, studied every detail of his crime spree. And...

This is wrong.

“Drop the gun!” That bellow came from her partner, Blake Gamble. He was at her side, his weapon drawn, too, and she knew all of his focus was locked on the killer.

They’d come to this house just to ask Allan March some follow-up questions. He’d been one of the custodians at Georgetown University, a university that had recently become the hunting grounds for a killer.

At Blake’s shout, Allan jerked. And when he jerked, his finger squeezed the trigger of the gun he held. The shot went wide, missing both Samantha and Blake. She didn’t return fire. Allan doesn’t fit the profile. This is all wrong—

Blake returned fire. The bullet slammed into Allan’s right shoulder. Not a killing wound, not even close. Blood bloomed from the spot, soaking the stark white shirt that Allan wore. Allan should have dropped his gun in response to that hit, but he didn’t. He screamed. Tears trickled down his cheeks, and he aimed that gun—

Not at Blake, but at me.

“Has to be you...” Allan whispered. “Said...has to be you...”

She didn’t let any fear show, even as the emotion nearly suffocated her. “Allan, put down the gun.” Blake’s order had been bellowed, but hers was given softly. Almost sadly. Put the gun down, Allan. I don’t want to shoot you. This isn’t the way I want things to end.

The FBI had been searching for the Georgetown University killer for months. Following the trail left by the bastard—a trail of blood and bodies. But the trail shouldn’t have led here.

Allan March was a widower. His wife had passed away two years ago, slowly dying of cancer. He’d been at her bedside every single moment. All of the data that the FBI had collected on Allan indicated that he was a dedicated family man, a caregiver. Not—

A serial killer.

“I’m sorry,” Allan whispered.

And Samantha knew what he was going to do. Even as those tears poured down his cheeks, she knew.

“No!” Samantha screamed.

But it was too late. Allan pointed the gun right at his own face and pulled the trigger. The thunder of the gunfire echoed around them, and, a moment later, Allan’s body hit the floor, falling to land right next to the dead body of Amber Lyle, the twenty-two-year-old college student who’d been missing for three days.

“Fucking hell,” Blake muttered.

This is wrong.

Samantha rushed toward the downed man. Her weapon was still in her hand. Her eyes were on Allan. On what was left of his face. Dear God.

* * *

“THE PRESS IS ripping us apart, Samantha! Ripping us apart!” Her boss glared at her as they stood inside the small FBI office. “You were supposed to be the freaking superstar—a profiler who could do no wrong. But your profile was shit. You had us looking for a man who didn’t exist. Three women died while we were looking for the killer you said was out there!”

Samantha stood, her shoulders back and her spine straight, as Justin Bass berated her. Spittle was flying from her boss’s mouth. His blue gaze blazed with rage.

The executive assistant director was far more pissed than she’d ever seen him before. The guy had a temper, everyone knew that truth, but this time... There’s no going back.

Justin didn’t like to look bad. He liked to be the agent in charge, the man with the answers. The suit who handled the press and gloried in the attention he got when his team brought down the bad guy.

“Damn it, Samantha!” Justin snarled, a muscle twitching in his rounded jaw. “Do you have anything to say?”

Did she? Samantha swallowed. Did she dare tell him what she thought? When every single piece of evidence said just how wrong she’d been?

“Take it easy, Bass.” Blake spoke on her behalf. He was at her side, sending her a sympathetic glance. “What matters is that the Sorority Slasher has been stopped.”

The Sorority Slasher. Samantha hated that name. It sounded like something from a really bad horror flick. Leave it to the tabloids to glam up a grisly killer.

“We’re the fucking FBI,” Justin said, stopping to slap his hands down on his desk. “We can’t afford to make mistakes.”

Her temples were throbbing. She knew exactly who they were.

“Someone has to take the fall for this one. Three women died because you were wrong. You were wrong, Samantha. The superstar from Princeton. The woman who was supposed to change the face of profiling. FBI brass shoved you down my throat, and you were wrong.”

She made her jaw unclench.

“You’re taking the fall for this one.” Justin nodded curtly toward her. “Consider yourself on suspension.”

Samantha almost took a step back. Her lips parted—

Don’t take the job from me.

“What?” Blake was the one who’d given that shocked cry. It was Blake who sounded furious as he snapped, “You can’t do that! Samantha is the best—”

“Yeah, right, you think I don’t know about the hard-on you have for her, Agent Gamble?” Justin fired right back. “You two never should have been partners. So take some advice, buddy. Save your own ass. She’s a sinking ship, and you don’t want to go down with her.”

Her boss was a bastard. Lots of men she’d met in the FBI were arrogant assholes. Blake? No, he was a good guy, and that was why she respected him so much.

“Leave your weapon here,” Justin ordered her. “And your badge.”

She unsnapped her holster, walked slowly toward his desk.

My profile was right. I know it was.

She put her gun on his desk, but when she reached for her FBI badge and ID, Samantha hesitated.

“You know we found pictures of all the victims at his place.” Justin’s voice was flat. “Souvenirs that he kept.”

“Trophies.” It was the first thing she’d said since coming into his office. “Not souvenirs, they’re trophies.” Serial killers often kept them so that they could relive their crimes.

“Shoved in the back of his closet, under the guy’s winter boots.” Justin shook his head. “Dropped like they didn’t matter, and you spent all that time telling us we were looking for a cold, methodical killer. One who wanted to push boundaries and study the pain of his victims. One who wanted to see just how well matched he’d be with authorities. A smart killer, a damn genius. Fuck me, Samantha, Allan March barely graduated high school!”

And that was just one of the many reasons why he was wrong.

Her fingers had clenched around her ID. “Did you ever think...” Her voice was too soft, but it was either speak softly or scream. “Did you consider that maybe Allan had been set up?”

Justin’s hands flew up into the air in a gesture of obvious frustration. “He shot himself! Killed his damn fool self when he blew off half his head! If that doesn’t say guilty, then what the hell does?”

Her drumming heartbeat was too loud. “He could have killed himself for a number of reasons.” Reasons that were nagging at her. He’d lost his life savings battling his wife’s cancer. Extreme financial hardship? Hell, yes, that could lead people to suicide. It could—

Justin yanked the ID from her hand. “Get the hell out, Samantha. You are done. I won’t have you talking this shit in my office—and you sure as hell better not plan on stopping to talk to the reporters outside.”

“Director Bass—” Blake began angrily.

“Don’t!” Justin threw right back at him. “Not another word, unless you want to be giving up your badge, too.”

No, Blake wouldn’t do that. The FBI was his life.

She kept her spine ramrod straight as she walked out of the office. When she reached the bull pen, she heard the whispers—from the other FBI agents there, from the cops who’d come to team up with them. Everyone was staring at her with confusion in their eyes.

She was wrong. She screwed up. She let those women die.

This was all going to be on her. Samantha clenched her hands into fists.

She made it to the elevator. One step at a time. Her spine was starting to hurt.

She slipped into the elevator. Pushed the button to go down to the parking garage. The doors were starting to close—

“Samantha.” Blake was there. Shoving his hand through the gap between the doors, trying to get to her.

She shook her head. “No.” Because she couldn’t deal with him right then. He pulled at her emotions, and she already felt too raw.

Blake. Handsome, strong Blake. Blake with his rugged good looks, his jet-black hair, his bright green eyes and that golden skin... Sexy Blake.

Fierce Blake.

Off-limits Blake.

Because her bastard of a boss had been right about one thing. Blake did have a hard-on for her. She’d noticed his attraction. It would have been impossible to miss. An attraction that she more than felt, too. But he was her partner. You didn’t screw around with your partner. That was against the rules.

She’d always played by the rules.

And she’d still gotten screwed.

“This isn’t on you,” Blake gritted out.

Actually, it was. The dead man’s blood was still on her clothes because she’d run to him after he’d blown off half his face. His blood was on her—and the deaths of those three women? She knew her boss was going to push those her way, too. Before he was done, she’d be some rogue FBI agent who’d gone off the playbook—and he’d be the shining superstar who’d somehow managed to stop the Sorority Slasher.

Blake stepped into the elevator. Ignoring her request. The doors closed behind him, and his hands curled around her shoulders. “The profile was off. You’re not God. You can’t predict everything.”

“I don’t want you touching me.” Her words came out stark and hard. Not at all the way she normally spoke to Blake.

He blinked, and, for an instant, she could have sworn that he looked hurt.

“Let me go.” She didn’t have time to choose her words carefully. She was about to break apart, and his touch was sending her closer and closer to the edge.

His hands fell away from her. He stepped back.

“I’m not dragging you down with me.” She licked her lips. “You still have a chance here. You just had the bad luck to get teamed up with me.”

“I don’t think it’s bad.”

“Trust me, it is.” Her heart was racing far too fast in her chest. “Just walk away.” What had Bass called her? A sinking ship?

The elevator dinged. Finally, she was at the parking garage. Maybe she’d be able to get out of there without the reporters catching her. She stepped toward the elevator’s now open doors, but Blake moved into her path.

Her head tipped back as she stared up at him.

“I want to help,” Blake said.

There he went being the good guy. “Then let me go.”

“Sam...”

“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” She wouldn’t, but, right then, she would have said anything to get away from him. Blake pushed her buttons. She’d always suspected he would have made for an amazing lover—and with her control being as shaky as it was at that particular moment, Samantha was afraid she would cross a line with him if she didn’t get out of there.

Once you cross some lines, there is no going back...

A muscle flexed in Blake’s square jaw, his green eyes gleamed, but he got out of her way.

She rushed past him. Nearly ran—and she didn’t stop, not until she reached her car.

* * *

WHEN IT CAME to drinking, Samantha had always had an extremely high tolerance for alcohol. That had come, she suspected, courtesy of her dad. A tough ex-cop, he’d been able to drink anyone under the table.

So she sat in that low-end bar, on the wrong side of DC, and she studied the row of shot glasses in front of her.

“I knew I’d find you here. You always come to this place when you want to vanish.”

She looked up at that deep, rumbling voice. A voice she knew—intimately, unfortunately. Another line that I crossed a long time ago. And her gaze met the dark stare of Cameron Latham. Dr. Cameron Latham. They’d known each other since their first year at university. Been friends, competitors. They’d gone all through college and graduate school together, earning their PhDs in psychology.

But after graduation, she’d joined the FBI. Samantha had wanted to use her talents to bring down criminals. And Cameron—he’d been bound for the Ivy League and a cushy college teaching job.

And for the college girls whom she knew he seduced. The guy had model good looks, so the women had always flocked to him. Now he had money and power to go with those looks. He’d finally gotten everything he wanted.

He has what he wants, and I just lost what I valued most. Talk about a totally shitty night.

“Guessing the story made the news?” Samantha muttered. This wasn’t the kind of bar that had TVs. This was a dark hole made for drinking.

And vanishing.

“It made the news.” He pulled out a chair, flipped it around and straddled the seat. “You made the news.” He whistled. “That asshole of a boss really threw you under the bus.”

She lifted another shot glass and drained it in a gulp.

“Drinking yourself into oblivion isn’t going to make the situation better...” Cameron cocked his head and studied her.

Her brows shot up at that. “Cam, I’m not even close to oblivion.”

He should know better.

“The case is wrong.” She slammed down the glass. “Allan March is wrong. I don’t buy it. The scene was too pat. He was too desperate. That guy isn’t the one I was after.”

Cameron blinked. “The reporter said plenty of evidence was on hand—”

“Like people don’t get framed?” She laughed, and the sound was bitter. “I know all about that. My dad lost his badge because he got pulled into that BS about setting up drug dealers on his beat.” Though her dad had always sworn he hadn’t been involved in the frame-ups, his protests did little good for his reputation. “People get framed. It’s a sad fact of the world.” She pushed a glass toward Cameron.

He didn’t take it. He never drank much, and when he did drink, it was only the best. Expensive wines and champagnes. Jeez, the guy loved his champagne. When they’d gotten their master’s degrees, she remembered the way he’d gone out and bought that fancy bottle of—

“Why would someone want to frame that guy?” His quiet question jerked her from the memory of their past.

She rolled her shoulders. “Because Allan was convenient.” Duh. Wait, duh? Maybe she did need to slow down on the drinks. “An easy target. The custodian who kept to himself. The widower with no close friends. Maybe the perp I’m after wanted the attention off his back, so he tossed Allan into the mix.”

Cameron frowned. “Allan...he killed himself.”

“That’s the part I haven’t worked out yet.” But she would. “I don’t understand that bit. I swear, I actually thought the guy was going to shoot me, but then he turned the gun on himself. Weird as hell.” She reached for another shot glass. The bartender had done such a lovely job of lining them up for her. “Maybe he had a deal with the killer. I mean, Allan had a daughter, after all. One that needs money for college, money for life. And Allan didn’t have any money. He barely had anything at all. Maybe the killer offered Allan money to take the fall. Maybe he was supposed to go out in a blaze of glory.” Her eyes narrowed as she considered this new angle. If Allan had gotten a payoff, then perhaps she could find the paper trail. Follow the money. “But...Allan was a caretaker.” Her voice dropped as Allan’s profile spun in her head. “His nature was protective, so in the end, he couldn’t shoot me. Couldn’t shoot at Blake. That wasn’t who he was.” Her lashes lifted as realization hit her. “He couldn’t attack us because Allan March wasn’t a killer. Instead of shooting us, he turned the gun on himself. The only person he hurt was himself.” Excitement had her heart racing.

But Cameron just shook his head. His hair—blond and perfectly styled, as always—gleamed for a moment when he leaned forward beneath the faint light over her table. “Normally, you know I love it when you bounce your ideas off me...”

Her temples were throbbing.

“But the man had a dead woman at his feet. That part made the news, too.”

“And no blood on him,” she mumbled. Because that had been bothering her. That was why the scene had been wrong. When they’d first arrived, Allan had been sweating in his white shirt—and there had been no blood on the shirt. Not until Blake shot him. “The vic’s throat was slit—ear to ear—and Allan didn’t have a drop of blood on him. He should’ve had her blood on him.” She pushed to her feet. “I have to make Justin listen to me. I’m not wrong. Allan was just a fall guy. The real killer—”

Cameron surged to his feet. His hand wrapped around her arm. “You can’t go to your FBI boss with alcohol on your breath and a wild theory spilling from your lips.” His voice was grim. “You want more than a suspension? You want to lose the job forever?”

“I want to stop the killer!” Okay, maybe her voice was too loud. Good thing the bar was deserted.

“How many shots did you take?”

She tried to pull away from him.

“No, damn it, let me help you.” And then they were walking to the door—together. His car was at the curb. That fancy Benz. He had such a plush job. Good for him... He’d gone to Princeton on a scholarship, same as her. Two kids with brains who’d fought their way to the top of the class rank. “I’ll take you home. You sleep this off, and tomorrow, tomorrow, I will hear your theory, okay? Tomorrow, I will help you.”

Nausea rolled in her belly. She didn’t think she’d eaten that day, and she really didn’t want to vomit all over his plush leather interior. So Samantha sank back into the seat and closed her eyes. She didn’t speak while he drove, but all too soon, Cameron was stopping the vehicle. Her eyes cracked open as she peered through the window. “This isn’t my house.”

“No...because while you were sleeping—”

She hadn’t been, had she?

“I drove by your place. Reporters were camped out on your doorstep. So I brought you here.”

Her hand lifted and slid over his cheek. She smiled at him. “See, when you want to be, you can be nice.”

He laughed, the sound almost harsh. “I know you go for the good-guy type, but that isn’t me.” He jumped out of the car. Cameron hurried to her side, but she’d already let herself out, thank you very much. A light dusting of snow fell onto her as she stood on the sidewalk. Winters in DC. So very different from her time growing up in the Deep South.

“You can stay in the guest room,” Cameron said as they walked toward his front door. He unlocked it and ushered her into the warmth of his house. “Unless, of course...”

She stopped and glanced up at him.

“Unless you want to sleep with me.”

Samantha blinked at those words. She hadn’t been with Cameron—not intimately—in over a year. Not since I met Blake. She and Cameron were safely in the friend zone. A zone she intended to keep occupying. They’d always been better friends than lovers. “I’ll take that guest room.”

His jaw tightened. He pointed down the hallway. “You know where it is.”

Right. Because she knew his place, inside and out, just as he knew hers. “Thanks for being a friend, Cam. I don’t have many of those left.” She turned from him and began to shuffle her way down the hall.

“Blake Gamble is your friend.”

His words stopped her. “I don’t know what Blake is,” she said honestly. “He was my partner—”

“Come on, Sam. He’s just your type. The good kind.”

She looked over her shoulder. Was that an annoyed tone in his voice? Odd, Cameron never sounded angry. Not with her.

“Maybe you don’t really want someone good, though,” he continued, voice nearly growling. “Did you ever think that? You spend so much time profiling others...you should take a long, hard look at yourself. Why do you think you belong with a true-blue sort?”

I know why... “Good night, Cameron.”

“We both know you like the dark. Nothing wrong with that. After all...” His lips curved in a mocking smile. “Isn’t that your name?”

She hurried down the hallway. Shut the guest room door. And—

The bed was already made, the covers pulled back, and a glass of water even sat on the bedside, as if Cameron had known she’d be there that night.

But he said he only brought me here because reporters were at my house.

Samantha hesitated.

Or maybe...maybe Cameron—in his ever-so-controlling way—had always intended for her to stay at his place after he’d learned about the bloody details of her day. She knew his protective instincts had a tendency to kick into overdrive where she was concerned.

She yanked open the door. Cameron was across the hall—about to enter his bedroom. “You know I hate being manipulated.” Her hands were on her hips. Her eyes narrowed on him.

“I do.” He nodded. “And I hate for my only friend to suffer alone.”

“I’m not your only friend.” Cameron had a freaking entourage of women following him around. “Tomorrow, I am so going to kick your ass.”

His lips hitched into a half smile. “No, you aren’t. But thanks for the warning.”

She stepped back and slammed the door shut. Samantha toed off her shoes, ditched her pants, drained that glass of water and fell asleep—wearing just her shirt, her bra and her panties.

* * *

IT WAS THE thirst that woke her later. Always a side effect of whiskey shots. Samantha’s eyes cracked open, and she climbed out of bed, her throat absolutely parched. The empty glass sat by the side of the bed, seeming to mock her. She stumbled to the door, then made her way—as quietly as possible—down the hallway and into the kitchen. After guzzling two glasses of water, she propped back against the counter.

The clock on the microwave told her it was nearing 4:00 a.m. Far too early. Or late, depending on how you wanted to look at it. Unfortunately, now that she was awake, her mind was already spinning, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to shut down again and go back to bed.

No blood on Allan. That was why the scene was so wrong. He had a dead woman at his feet, blood splatter all around her, but no blood was on him.

Not until he’d been shot by Blake. And then—once the guy had killed himself, Allan’s blood had been everywhere. So by the time all of the other agents had swarmed to the scene, the place had looked like a bloodbath.

She put her empty glass in the dishwasher and padded into Cameron’s office. She sat down in his leather chair, and it squeaked softly beneath her weight. She didn’t bother with a light but just moved his mouse so that his computer would wake up. Illumination immediately flooded out from his screen. His two screens. What an ego.

A faint smile curved her lips as she typed in the password for his system. Cameron was such a Greek mythology junkie. She knew that Hades was his password of choice—for pretty much everything.

The password got her access, but before she could click the internet icon...

Another file opened on his desk. A file that must have still been in use when Cameron last operated the computer. And that file...

It’s the dead girl. A close-up shot of Amber Lyle, the girl who’d been sprawled at Allan’s feet. Her eyes were closed, the wound at her neck gaping, and the blood...

Samantha leaned closer to the screen even as every muscle in her body clenched. Cameron shouldn’t have that picture. It looked like a crime scene photo. It should be classified. It shouldn’t be—

A trophy.

“Samantha?” Cameron’s raspy voice came from the doorway. “You okay?”

Her head snapped up. She was behind the computer screens—his desk faced the door. So he couldn’t see what she was looking at on the monitors.

But he could see her face. Right there, in the glow of the light, and whatever he saw on her face must have given her away because Cameron sighed. “Found out, did you?”

Her profile for the Sorority Slasher ran through her mind.

Highly intelligent... Cameron was a freaking genius, and he had the paperwork to prove it.

Strong. Fit. Cameron worked out every single day. Not just some light gym work. He was into martial arts, boxing. Hell, he’d even taken up Krav Maga in the last year.

Attractive. His features were absolutely perfect. Sharp cheekbones, deep, dark eyes, sensual lips.

In his late twenties or early thirties... Cameron was twenty-eight.

“I left in a rush before,” Cameron mused. “I shut down the computer, but I didn’t stop to think that you’d possibly get up in the middle of the damn night and come snooping on me.” He gave a low hum. “Figured out my password, did you?”

Her lips felt numb as she said, “I’ve always known your password.”

“The Lord of the Underworld.”

Her hands inched toward his desk drawer. It was open, just an inch, and she’d caught the gleam of a letter opener in there.

“How will this end, Sam?” Cameron asked her. “Am I really supposed to kill you now?”

It’s him. It’s him. It’s him. Inside, she was screaming.

Cameron took a step toward her. “What do you see on the screen?” Now he sounded curious, not angry. “Is it her? The last one? And she was going to be my last one, by the way. My experiment was over.”

“Experiment?” Her left hand had slid into the drawer and curled around the letter opener.

“Um. Yes.” He took another step toward her. He hadn’t turned on the lights in the room, so he was just a big, dark shadow. “I wanted to see if I could do it, you see. If I could kill. If I could get away with the crimes. And I wanted to see...what are people like...in that last terrible moment? What is it like when they know that hope is gone and they’re dying?”

Nausea rolled in her stomach. “Cameron?” She said his name as if he were a stranger, and right then, he was. Not the man she knew. Not her ex-lover. Not her friend. Cameron was a respected professional. He was on the fast track to become the head of his department at Georgetown—after only two years there. He charmed his way past everyone’s guard.

He was...a killer.

He took yet another step toward her. She couldn’t see his hands. She wished that she could just see his hands.

“There were some surprising results. Would you like to hear them?”

Cameron always enjoyed bouncing ideas off her.

“I felt alive when I killed those women. Interesting, don’t you think? That death finally made me feel alive? Until that point, I’d only felt that way, well...when I was fucking you. But that ended when you met Blake Gamble.”

She flinched. “Blake and I are just...partners. Nothing more. We haven’t been together.”

His smile was cold. “Not yet. But I know you, Sam. I know what you want.”

This couldn’t be happening.

“It was easy to kill.” Now his voice was almost musing. “I never hesitated. I mean, I always suspected I was a bit of a psychopath, but as we all know...psychopaths aren’t necessarily monsters. They’re just...unemotional. Detached. Able to become such great surgeons, CEOs, lawyers...even profilers for the FBI...”

Her phone was in the guest bedroom, and Cameron didn’t have a landline. She needed to call Blake. Call Bass. Call the cops.

“Covering up the crimes—well, that was easy, too. All so easy. The hardest part? That was staying two steps ahead of you. Because that profile you made up? The one that your boss called shit?” He was in front of the desk now. “It was dead-on.”

She could hear the frantic drumbeat of her heart. Every. Single. Beat. “Show me your hands.”

He laughed. “You think I’ll hurt you?”

“Show me your hands.”

“You were right about Allan.” He watched her with a predatory stare. “Allan did need the money and...the guy was sick, too. Dying. I was really just speeding up the process for him. It was all going to work so perfectly.” For a moment, he almost sounded sad. Almost. “But even when you were drunk...you were figuring shit out.”

“I wasn’t drunk.”

“Yeah, you were.” Another sigh. “I think you might have been better at profiling than you realized. But then, I always said you had that killer instinct.”

“Show me your hands.” It sounded as if she were begging, and Samantha hated that. “Cameron...”

His left hand came up—

And she surged to her feet because she knew he was going to kill her. She swung out with her letter opener, and it caught his hand, sending a wet spray of blood flying.

Cameron bellowed, and then he launched across the desk, coming right at her. They fell back together, slamming into the floor, and that impact was hard enough to knock the breath from her. But she didn’t let go of the letter opener. She kept it locked tight with her fingers, and Samantha shoved it right against his throat.

* * *

“DROP THE WEAPON! Drop the fucking weapon and put your hands up!”

Samantha blinked at that shout, and she realized that she was still holding the letter opener in her left hand. She opened her hand and let it fall—the blood-soaked letter opener fell from her bloodstained fingers.

Blood. Blood everywhere. On the floor. On the desk. On me.

“Samantha?”

That wasn’t the voice of an angry cop. That was a voice she knew. She squinted, and she saw Blake pushing his way past the first responders as he hurried to her. Her body started to shake.

His gaze raked over her, taking in her bare legs, her shirt—the blood.

“Samantha? What happened?”

Slowly, she shook her head. She hurt. Because a lot of that blood...it was hers.

“Samantha!” Blake’s hand closed over her shoulder. “What in the hell happened here?”

She licked her lips. “He...he got away...”