by Cynthia Eden
Her fist drove into the wood again and a long crack appeared in the door. She hit it even harder. Again. Again.
And—
Asher’s hand curled over hers. “Ana.” Concern thickened his voice. He turned her toward him.
She fell into her brother’s arms. Her safe place, her anchor. He’d always been there for her, always would be.
“Ana, it’s okay,” Asher murmured as he stroked her hair. “You’re safe.”
It wasn’t okay. She wasn’t safe. She’d never been closer to breaking. Not since—
I woke up in the hospital. That smiling nurse told me that I was lucky, even though I looked like Frankenstein’s monster.
A sob broke from her. Asher held her tighter. “He’s a bastard, Ana. Forget him. Forget him. You don’t—”
“I thought he was different. That I could trust him.” But he’d been holding back the biggest secret of all. “I thought that maybe . . . maybe he could be the right one for me.” Her eyes squeezed closed as she buried her face against his chest. “I thought he could look past my scars and see me.” It hurt so much. And all the pain? It seemed to be coming straight from her heart.
The heart that was breaking.
You’re perfect, Ana.
His voice was in her head. Ana, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Your scars don’t matter to me. I want to kiss you, stroke every inch of you. I want you to see yourself the way I see you.
The way he saw her? Just what way was that? As his brother’s victim?
She wasn’t just a victim, dammit. She wasn’t. She was a survivor. She was a fighter. She was a hunter. She was—
I’m Ana Young. And I’ll get through this. Just as I’ve gotten through everything else.
She let her brother hold her for another moment, then she drew in a deep breath. She didn’t have the luxury of a breakdown. No the hell no. She didn’t want that luxury. “I have to get my bag.” The back of her hand flew over her cheeks, swiping away the tears. Her head began to throb. Crying always gave her headaches. Just another reason she hated crying. “Then we’re getting the hell out of here.” Screw being a material witness. She was getting away from Cash.
She needed some time. She needed some serious space.
And she needed her heart to stop hurting.
Chapter Eleven
Her world was falling apart. Dr. Ellen Summers stared around her office, her onetime office, feeling utterly confused. Hopeless. Beaten.
She’d lost her job. The FBI thought she might be behind the killing of one of her patients. The press had already been making calls to her, and they’d been hanging out just beyond the walls of her hospital. They were predators, sharks coming in because they smelled fresh blood.
And that blood is mine.
“Hurry up, Dr. Summers,” one of the guards called. “Time for you to leave.”
Because she was being escorted out. Like a criminal.
She put her photos in the box. Grabbed her diplomas off the wall. Then her hands curled around the box. She took a few steps toward the guard and—
An FBI agent appeared. One of the agents working with Cash Knox. It was a woman, with dark coffee skin. Her black hair was pulled back, and her no-nonsense stare swept over Ellen. “You don’t get to take anything from the facility.”
“These are my personal items. My diplomas, photographs—”
The woman—earlier, she’d identified herself as Agent Faye Comwell—shook her head. “Evidence. Until I’m told otherwise, everything here is evidence. It’s staying.”
Ellen’s mouth opened, closed. Opened. She didn’t know what to say. She—
“Take the box,” the agent directed the guard.
Without a word, he took the box and put it back on her desk.
I was giving him orders less than twenty-four hours ago. He’d jump to do whatever I said.
“Now escort the doctor out,” the agent said. “Make sure she doesn’t get the urge to take anything else with her.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He reached for Ellen’s arm.
She jerked away. “I know my own way out! I know every inch of this facility! I know—”
“Since you knew every inch, it sure would’ve been easy for you to get Forrest Hutchins down below and lock him in the room,” Agent Comwell mused. “Very easy.”
Dammit. “You don’t need to look at me for this terrible crime.” Ellen pulled herself up to her full height, just a sliver under six feet. “I tried to help the people here, never hurt them. I will be vindicated.” She believed that. After all, she was innocent.
With her spine straight and her head held high, she left her office. The guard followed her, dogging her steps, and the agent even trailed after them. Ellen’s cheeks burned. I’m not taking anything. Damn them!
Soon she was leaving the hospital. The reporters were outside, waiting just beyond the perimeter. When they saw her, they immediately started shouting questions.
She ignored them. Tried to ignore them, anyway. They closed in on her, and she once again thought of sharks—in a feeding frenzy. They pushed at her. They shoved cameras toward her face.
She didn’t speak. She fought through the crowd. She got her door open. She jumped inside. And then she got the hell out of there.
As fast as she could, Ellen left. Her heart was racing. The dull thudding filled her ears. She’d stayed late—mostly because the FBI kept asking questions and they’d held her there. She’d been grilled, again and again. Her lawyer had been there, and he’d made sure she didn’t talk too much.
But I didn’t do anything wrong. I should have been able to say plenty.
Her lawyer had left just thirty minutes ago. Donovan Langley, IV. He’d been so careful when he talked to the authorities—and to her. He’d kept telling her to toe the fine line between cooperation . . .
And incrimination.
I have done nothing wrong! I always tried to help my patients! Every single one of them. This whole thing was ridiculous. Everything she’d worked so hard to build was about to go up in smoke. She’d lose her hospital, her license. Her freedom?
Her foot pressed down harder on the gas pedal. Can’t lose my freedom. I didn’t kill Forrest Hutchins. But she knew his family would close in for the attack. They’d try to rip her apart. Everyone always looked for someone to blame.
The road was so damn long. Stretching. Empty. Normally, she didn’t mind the isolation. She would listen to a book on tape or she’d mentally review her case files as she drove home, but tonight . . . tonight the situation was different. Tonight, she just wanted to get home and escape this chaos.
Tomorrow would be better. It had to be. She’d have another sit-down with the FBI—they’d ordered her in for more questioning. Jesus. She knew that was a big deal. But at least they hadn’t forced her into custody.
Because they don’t have enough evidence to do that.
Not yet, anyway.
She kept a too-tight grip on her steering wheel until she was off that long, lonely road. There was a very small town nearby, Langmire, and when she saw the sign for that little city, some of the tension finally eased from her shoulders. Her car drove beneath the street lights on the town’s little strip, and, a few moments later, she turned onto her drive. Her house—a farmhouse that she was renovating—waited for her. Her sanctuary.
She braked and hurried out of her car. Her keys were gripped tightly in her hand. She’d get inside—
“Dr. Summers!”
She stiffened. Someone followed me. “I don’t have any comments for reporters.” She risked a glance over her shoulder but then she realized . . .
I didn’t see a car. I didn’t hear a car. He didn’t follow me.
He’d been there, waiting for her.
“I’m not a reporter.” He stepped away from the old fence. Tall, with broad shoulders. He moved with a slow, steady stride. “I need to talk to you.”
Fear had dried her mouth. “Who are you?” Because something abo
ut him seemed familiar to her. Something that was nagging at the back of her mind.
“I know you didn’t kill Forrest Hutchins.”
At his words, some of the tension left her shoulders. She still kept her keys gripped tightly in her hand. “Of course, I didn’t. My job is to help people, it’s—”
“You don’t always help.” She couldn’t see his face. He had a ball cap pulled low over his brow and it was too dark outside for her to make out more than just a general impression of him. “You didn’t help Chassity Pope.”
“I—I was trying to help her.”
“She got hurt on your watch.”
She backed toward her house.
“And she wasn’t the first,” he said, sounding sad. “You’re supposed to help people. But you don’t always care the way you should, do you? Why do you think that is?”
“I—I—” She’d reached her porch steps. Ellen slipped, then climbed up two of the steps. “I want you off my property right now, or I will call the cops.”
“The cops are already investigating you. Want me to tell them about George Russell?”
George Russell. The name was from her past, so long ago. Dead and buried. Her skin went ice-cold, then red-hot pinpricks seemed to burst from her cheeks. “I don’t . . . he’s dead.”
“Of course, he is. The man came to you for help. You were supposed to make him better, but after just two session with you—two—he slit his own wrists.”
“George Russell was a disturbed individual.”
“Eleanore Thomas.”
Oh, dear God. She climbed up another stair. “Get off my property.”
“You were supposed to help her, too, but you didn’t. Another suicide, on your watch, Dr. Summers.”
“I treat disturbed individuals! Profoundly disturbed! Sometimes, no matter how hard I try, they are beyond my help.” Her voice broke at the end. This man—he was frightening her. It was late, and he shouldn’t be there. “Get off my property. Now.” Then, she didn’t wait to see if he listened to her or not because every instinct she possessed was screaming that she was in danger. Ellen spun and ran for her door. She fumbled with her keys, shoving them into the lock. She turned the knob—
He grabbed her from behind. His hands locked around her neck. She screamed, but he laughed. He laughed and his mouth brushed against her ear as he whispered, “Know what I think? I think you’re profoundly disturbed.” Then he slammed her face into the wooden door. The wooden door that she’d just sanded and stained last weekend.
She felt her nose break. Heard the crunch of bones as blood spurted down to cover her lips. Ellen tried to cut him, tried to jab him with her keys, but he just slammed her head into the door a second time.
She didn’t feel any crunch then. Actually, she didn’t feel anything at all.
The ringing phone woke Cash the next morning. Squinting, he turned on his side and saw that it was just past seven a.m. His head hurt like a bitch and the ringing phone was just making things worse. He grabbed for it and yanked the phone to his ear. “Agent Knox.”
“She’s not here.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Who the fuck is this?” His right cheek was a bit sore to the touch. Courtesy of Asher Young’s fist.
Asher. Ana.
Hell.
He’d drunk hard last night, determined to get Ana’s tear-filled face out of his mind. He’d gone to a nearby bar—the only bar in Langmire. He’d sat at the bar, drinking too much, and he’d seen couples dancing and thought . . .
I want Ana to dance. I want Ana to be happy.
Too bad Ana hated him. With damn good reason.
“This is Donovan Langley. We met yesterday.” The man’s words came quickly, edged with a faint Boston accent. “I’m the attorney for Dr. Ellen—”
“Summers,” Cash cut in. “Yeah, I remember you. Dr. Summers ready for her trip to meet with the FBI?”
“No. That’s the problem. That’s what I’m trying to—” He broke off, and a heavy sigh slipped over the line. “She isn’t here. I’m at her home and I think I see blood on her door.”
His hand tightened on the phone. “What?”
“Her car is here. Her keys and her bag are on the porch, and it—it looks like blood.”
“Have you called anyone else? Local cops?”
“I called you first.” His voice cracked a bit.
“Get back in your vehicle,” Cash ordered. “Lock the door. Stay there. Do not touch anything at that scene, got me? I’m on my way.”
“Is she . . . is she all right?”
If there was blood at the scene . . . I’m guessing no. “Get in your car.” He hung up and dressed as fast as he could. It could be a staged scene. Maybe Dr. Summers had panicked and fled or maybe—
Maybe the killer just got a new victim.
Three minutes later, he was in front of Ana’s door, pounding damn hard, still feeling like an ass for what he’d done to her, but he needed Ana. She should come with him to the scene. And if Summers was a victim, the killer might be planning to make contact with Ana again.
Only . . . Ana wasn’t answering the door. “Ana!” Cash called. “Ana, shit, I know you don’t want to see me now.” Or probably ever, baby. “But Dr. Summers is missing! We have a case to work. You wanted to be my partner, remember?” That was the one link they still had. He pounded again. “Ana!”
Wheels groaned as an older lady—dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a white apron—came toward him. When she saw him standing there, she stopped, frowning. She had a cleaning cart in front of her, loaded down with towels, garbage bags, and spray bottles. “I thought the room was empty.” She started to back away. “Early checkout?”
What? Then he realized just why the room was so quiet. He rushed past the lady, heading for the motel office. The clerk was inside, watching the news, but when he saw Cash, he straightened quickly.
“My partner,” Cash snapped. “Room 109. She’s gone?”
The guy’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “L-last night. Left around midnight.”
When he’d been drinking his ass into a stupor. Shit.
Ana had run from him. And he didn’t blame her. Not even a little bit but . . .
I can’t let you go, Ana. He turned away from the clerk and headed outside. He had a crime scene waiting, so he couldn’t chase after Ana. He couldn’t run to her and get her to try to understand—
I was a bastard, baby. I should have stayed away from you, but I didn’t. I wanted you too much. I needed you too much. And I still do.
After their one night together, two years ago, he’d known he was screwed. Ana deserved only good things in her life. Total honesty from her partner. She’d left him, and it had hurt like hell, but he hadn’t followed. Because he’d known she deserved someone so much better than him.
Then the damn Bernie Tate mess had brought them back together and he’d realized his feelings for Ana Young had never gone away.
He’d been living in hell for a very long time. Being with Ana again . . . it had seemed like he’d finally gotten to glimpse a bit of heaven.
Rain started to fall on him.
Fuck me . . . right back to hell. He pulled up his collar and ran for his rental. He’d take care of the scene at Dr. Summers’s place, and then he’d go after Ana. Things weren’t over between them, not yet. He just . . . he couldn’t let it end this way.
Not with Ana hating me.
“I’m sorry, Ana.”
She was back home. Safe and sound . . . such bull.
Asher stood in her living room, shifting from foot to foot, looking nervous as all hell, and Asher wasn’t the nervous type.
They’d driven through the darkness. She’d stumbled into her house, showered for far too long, hidden in her bedroom, then realized . . .
I won’t hide. I won’t. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She hadn’t lied. She hadn’t screwed with someone’s life. That had all been Cash. “What tipped you off about him?” Her bare toes pressed onto her hardwood
floor. She was wearing an old T-shirt and her sweats. Her comfort clothes. She wanted as much comfort as she could get right then.
“You were different when you talked about him.”
She frowned at her twin. “I don’t even know what that means.”
“I think you were falling for him.”
She looked away. “No, I wasn’t.” I’d already fallen. Too fast. Too hard. And now I’m paying the price for my mistake.
“I was a bastard, okay? An interfering bastard. But you softened when you said his name. You slipped up. Didn’t call him Agent Knox. You said, ‘Cash’ like he was a friend. A lover.”
She flinched. “We aren’t going there.” She grabbed for a cup of coffee. Straight black. She needed that caffeine hit hard right then.
“You never seemed . . . interested in other men like that.”
She’d been interested in plenty of men.
“There was emotion when you talked about him. I saw it. And I . . .” He raked a hand through his hair. “I checked him out because I wanted to make sure the guy wouldn’t be a threat to you. I just wanted to make sure he was everything you needed. You deserve the damn best, and I wanted to make sure you got it.”
Everything you needed. Her palm pressed to the mug of coffee, letting it warm her skin. “What do you think I need?” She was curious about that.
“Someone who will always put you first. Someone who would walk through fire for you. Someone who looks at you and knows just how wonderful you are. A guy who can’t be bought, can’t be threatened, a guy who won’t back down from anything or anyone, not when it comes to you. Because you are his everything.”
She had to laugh at that. “Oh, Asher, a guy like that doesn’t exist.”
“I want him to exist, for you. I want you happy.”
His guilt. It was always there between them, no matter how many times she told him that nothing had been his fault. “Look, just because you fell in love and you get the whole white picket fence deal with Bailey, it doesn’t mean that’s happening for me.” She took another long sip of the coffee. “And now I have to ask . . . do you investigate every guy I meet?”
“No.” He held her stare. “I only did it this time because you were different.”