Authors: Shirlee McCoy
Tags: #Love Inspired Suspense
He nodded. “I asked them to. I still have a few questions. So if you haven't called for a ride already, I can give you one.”
Hesitating, Amber scoured her brain for an excuse. Then again, what excuse could she have? She hadn't called anyone. She blew out a breath. “Okay...if you don't mind.”
“I'm ready whenever you are.”
Which would be never.
Patrick pulled keys from his pocket and Amber blinked. The man at the door was not just her old boyfriend, he was a law enforcement officer, here to do his job. That truth alone should have calmed her.
Instead, a fresh burst of regret exploded in her chest. Regret for choices she'd made and the results they'd caused.
* * *
Patrick pulled his SUV to the curb in front of Amber's wood-frame bungalow and killed the engine. Gusty wind whistled and raindrops pelted the windshield, punctuating the awkward silence that had settled in the air between them.
As eager as Patrick was to jump-start the investigation, he could tell Amber was still shell-shocked. Even as he'd updated her on the bomb squad's initial report for the explosives involved in the blast, she'd stayed rather apathetic, acknowledging his comments with a nod, but not saying much else. He had hoped to engage in a fact-finding conversation, but so far, that was not happening.
And after he spent two solid hours at the station poring over data collected at the crime scene, he realized very quickly that this wasn't going to be a slam-dunk investigation. And, as with most crimes of this magnitude, time was of the essence, meaning, like it or not, he needed to dig more into Amber's personal life.
Patrick flicked on the car's interior lights. He twisted in his seat and rested his arm on the center console. Not an easy feat for his large frame, but he wanted to give Amber his full attention. “I need to ask a few questions about your relationships. Is there anyone, in the past or presently, who might be nursing a grudge of some kind? Ex-boyfriend, spouse or otherwise.”
She took a deep, silent breath. “Well, I've never had a spouse, and I can't think of any looming relationship issues.”
Good. Not that it had any bearing on him personally, but it might make working with her a little less awkward. “How about outstanding debt? Do you owe anybody anything?”
She shook her head. “No, I live pretty frugally. Other than my house, I'm debt-free. Well,” she amended, “I guess I'll be buying a new car.”
Patrick caught the subtle tremble of her body, but she kept any emotion off her face. He admired the way she was trying to stay strong, but he got a knot in his gut thinking about what she'd been through. A need to comfort her welled up inside of him.
He quickly stifled the impulse to pull her into his arms and offer her support. That wasn't his place anymore.
“I'm sorry about your car.” His eyes captured hers, hoping to provide some solace, yet feeling ineffective against any stress she was dealing with.
“Thank you.”
He shook his head, thinking back to the destruction the bomb had left. “It was only by God's grace that you made it out alive.”
As Amber acknowledged his remark with a small nod, her gaze drifted away to the storm raging outside. “Yes, things could have been much worse.”
It wasn't just her averted eyes, but the fleeting look of remorse tightening her features that made him wonder what kind of storm was raging inside her.
Patrick hesitated, giving her a moment. “Amber, are you okay?”
She returned her gaze to him, shapely brows drawn together. “Sorry. It's been a crazy day.” She pushed hair from her face. “Are you finished with your questions?”
“No, I have a few more.” Patrick shifted in the seat and switched modes, turning his focus once again on solving this case. “You talked about recently opening a counseling center. What kind of clients do you cater to?”
At the mention of her place of business, she brightened some. “Well, I work with two other counselors and we offer a variety of services, geared mostly toward women in crisis situations. We deal with everything from marital and family discord to substance abuse and mental health issues.”
Patrick nodded to himself. “Okay, how about a family member or significant other of one of your clientsâanyone seeking revenge for your intervention?”
Amber hesitated, brushing another stray lock of hair from her cheek. “It's possible, I guess. But most of my referrals come from the women's shelter or hospital social workers. It's a very confidential climate. I stay pretty much under the radar.”
“I understand,” Patrick said, although he did not completely dismiss the theory. “Have you received any unusual phone calls or messages lately?”
She shook her head. “No. Not that I can think of.”
“How about someone threatening harm or making you feel unsafe?”
There was a short pause as she folded her hands in her lap. “No.”
Patrick lifted a brow. “No one?”
She shook her head again.
Patrick gestured toward her house. “Do you feel safe staying here alone?”
Amber cast him a cool look, her eyes glinting amid the dim glow of the car's interior lights. “Why wouldn't I feel safe? You said yourself the bomb was crudely made. The work of an amateur.”
“Amateur or not, someone planted it. In your car.”
“In an almost empty lot.” Her tone took on a bit of a defensive tenor. “I understand, Patrick, that it's your job to consider every angle. But I can't imagine anyone targeting me.”
He nodded, hoping she was right.
A moment passed between them. Amber fiddled with her bag, and he was close enough to feel her discomfort.
She'd had a rough day and probably enough questions. “I think you've answered everything for tonight. Let me get an umbrella and walk you to your door.” As Patrick reached into the backseat, his arm brushed hers. Something in the way she pulled away made a shiver run down his back.
“Thank you, Patrick. I really appreciate the ride, but I can see myself in.”
Before he could remind her of the pouring rain, she jumped out of the vehicle and scampered down the sidewalk, her jacket pulled over her head.
He stared after her, waiting until she disappeared inside the house, the front door closing behind her.
She was hiding something.
A couple of fragmented thoughts pushed through the fog in his head. None of which had anything to do with a car bomb.
He had to stop himself. If he gave in to the urge to march to her door and ask a few questions, he'd be treading on unprofessional territory.
Patrick took a deep, bracing breath and started the engine. Personal issues would have to wait.
* * *
Soaking wet, Amber slumped against the door, her ears still ringing from the explosion, her knees throbbing. Not the best start to her weekend.
Seeing Patrick again definitely didn't help.
Taking a shaky breath, she turned around and engaged the dead bolt. She heard Patrick's SUV start up. The loud engine noise melded with the steady downpour. She waited a moment more until only the remnants of the storm filled her ears. Patrick was gone.
The one man in the world she never wanted to see again. And here he was, the investigator for a crime that she, unfortunately, had gotten pulled into. Professionally polite, professionally impersonal, giving her no indication if he'd grown to forgive her or despise her for what she'd done.
Her mind wanted to go numb with the memories of the last time she'd seen him. The wounded look in his eyes when she'd told him she wasn't ready to commit. She'd needed time. She'd needed space. He hadn't responded well. Not that she'd expected him to.
That day she'd held him for the last time. Walked away. Grieved every step.
She'd made a sacrifice, penance for a mistake he couldn't understand.
Painful memories stabbed her, sending an icy shiver up her spine. Skin pebbling, she squeezed her eyes shut to block them, but instead more memories flooded in, and with them came the grief.
Indescribable grief that clung to her spirit was as fresh now as the night an unknown assailant had brutally attacked, drugged and attempted to rape her.
Although another student's intervention had halted her attacker's plans, her honor and dignity would remain tarnished. Forever.
Amber expelled a sharp sigh.
She had no one to blame but herself.
Patrick had warned her about the campus parties. But with him attending college on the other side of the state, she'd assumed he was being protective. And as her freshman year had neared the end, curiosity and boredom had outweighed good sense and she'd accepted a roommate's invitation to attend an end-of-the-year bash at a local fraternity.
The repercussions of that choice had changed the course of her dreams and sent her life spiraling into a sea of shame and regret.
No! Not tonight!
Amber's jaw tightened as she willed the memories to cease.
Just thinking about the past, about Patrick, made her crazy. Especially since the path she'd paved for herself could never be erased.
Amber blinked back tears. She wouldn't cry. She refused to wallow in self-pity.
Lifting her chin, she hung her coat on a hook by the door and then trudged to the bedroom and dropped her bag on the floor. Her chest heaved with exhaustion. A shower might relax her and then maybe she could sleep. What she needed was a new day. Fresh thoughts.
Twenty minutes later, she crawled into bed, closed her eyes and tried to get comfortable while listening to the gentle howl of the wind and the last remnants of the rain patter on the window. Even as every fiber of her being cried for rest, insomnia settled in.
Time crawled, ticking unhurriedly in the darkness. The storm outside abated, leaving the shadows, the room, the air around her draped in a cold and eerie silence. Peace and quiet used to be a commodity she yearned for. But tonight it seemed more of a paradox than a possibility as thoughts of car bombs and explosions, of the upcoming charity fund-raiser and even Patrick Wiley wrestled in her mind.
Amber sat up, pumped her pillow, curled it into a ball and stuffed it back under her head. Okay, especially Patrick Wiley.
Emitting a groan, she wrenched up the blankets and pushed the disturbing thoughts aside, allowing pleasant ones to fill her mind.
Moments trickled by and finally her body and mind started to unwind. Her eyelids grew heavy and at last sleep pulled her in.
From the corner of her eye, she caught a movement. She jerked her head. Eyes flickered back at her from the shadows.
“Amber.” His voice was low, distorted.
Goose bumps pebbled her skin. “Who's there?”
“The man of your dreams.” His low, chilling laughter echoed in the small space.
Dark. Claustrophobic. Panic stole her next breath. She needed to run. Needed to get out of there.
“Where's
Boy Wonder now?” The man gave another laugh, his booted footsteps moving closer. “Who's going to save you now, Amber?”
Dread building, a scream rose in her throat. She tried to run, to get away...
Amber shot up with a gasp, her breathing short and rapid as her heart pounded like a sledgehammer in her chest.
Where am I?
Trembling, she sat there, chilled and clammy with sweat, her mind spinning. For long seconds she worked to steady her breathing, control the adrenaline pumping through her.
Her pulse slowed as reality trickled in.
It was just a dream.
She sagged against the headboard and shakily daubed the moisture from her brow. Of course it was. Just a dream.
For over a year, she'd been free of the nightmares. The haunting dreams, reeling like slow-motion pictures in her head. Terrifying and so realâpulling her back into that small, dingy frat room.
She crunched her eyelids against the memories and yanked up the comforter to her chin.
It was only a bad dream. No one can hurt me
.
I'm safe.
Amber mentally chanted those thoughts over and over again.
A streak of lightning flashed outside the window, and distant thunder boomed, rattling the glass.
She sat straight up as all of her senses shot to full alert. She held her breath, listened. A creak. A pop. Another rattle.
What if she was wrong? What if she wasn't safe?
Throwing back the bedspread and sheets, she clambered out of the bed and fumbled for the light switch on the wall. She flipped up the switch and the lamp flickered on, chasing away the darkness and sending twisting shadows dancing on the pale walls and textured ceiling.
Icy chills rippled across her skin. Her gaze darted frantically around the room. What if someone was trying to get in? Even as she reminded herself that every door and window was bolted shut, she had to check again. It was a ritual she remembered well. Her voice of reason was lost in the memories. She groped the flashlight from the nightstand, ignoring the sting of cuts on her palm, and passed quickly from one room to another turning on lights and making sure everything was locked tight.
After a thorough search, she breathed relief when nothing looked out of the ordinary. As she turned out the lights, her gaze snagged on the laundry room window. The old wooden frame hung askew. Night air eerily whistled through the small gap.
She took a step closer. One of the two latches on the window was unlocked.
Someone had tampered with that window. Heart galloping, Amber tugged on the wood frame and engaged the lock, then spun on her heel, her mind reeling, grappling for a plan. Instinct told her to call the police, but what if they took too long to arrive? Maybe call a neighbor first, seek refugeâ
Amber came to a screeching halt as she suddenly remembered her handyman, Charlie, had been by and cleaned her windows. He mentioned there were a couple warped window casings. He must have forgotten to latch that one.