The Gathering Dusk (Killer Instinct 0.5)(10)

Samantha slipped around him. Bandages covered Missy’s arms, and she could see the bulk of other bandages poking up beneath her hospital gown. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

Missy lifted the hand that wasn’t hooked to an IV. “All stitched up.” Dark shadows lined her eyes. “He’s...he’s really dead, right? I—I didn’t dream that? Y-you shot him and—”

“He’s dead,” Samantha assured her. “He won’t hurt you or anyone else ever again.”

Missy’s breath blew out on a rough exhale. The machines beeped faster. “I was just... I was running, doing my morning jog in the park. He was waiting in the lot, said he had a flat and asked if he could use my phone.” Her eyes squeezed closed. “I didn’t want to be rude. Rude. That’s what I was worried about...being rude.” Pain and shame flashed on her face. “I gave him my phone and h-he grabbed me.” A broken laugh escaped her. “What in the hell was I thinking?”

Her father stiffened. “Missy...”

“I should have just gotten in my car, walked away. Why did I care about being rude to some stranger? What—”

Samantha stepped closer to the bed. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” She’d seen this before—victims, blaming themselves. “He was a predator, Missy. You weren’t the first woman that he took.”

“Just the only one to survive,” her father said darkly.

Cold words, but, yes, he was right.

Samantha hesitated as she stared at Missy. She shouldn’t be there. Official questioning would come later but...

I just needed to see her once more. To make sure that she really was okay. “Get some rest,” Samantha told her. “You need to focus on healing.” She turned for the door.

“Tell me...about them.”

Her shoulders stiffened at that soft request.

“The other victims...” Missy murmured. “How did he pick them? Why? Why did he pick me?”

Samantha glanced over her shoulder. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said again, her voice calm but strong. “You have to understand that. You didn’t cause the attack. You didn’t draw his attention. George Farris was the one with the issues. You just—”

“I had the bad luck to get in his path?” Missy licked her lips. “I saw...on the news...” She pointed to the TV that was attached to the right wall of the room. “A guy on the news was saying that serial killers like Farris had—had victim types. Was I...his type?”

Samantha kept her expression blank. “He preferred young blonde women with delicate builds. Probably because he, himself, wasn’t an overly big man. Women of that type—he found them easier to control.”

Missy’s father swore.

“I need to leave,” Samantha said. “You don’t need to hear this now. You have time, Missy. Time for all the bad details later. You survived. You got away—you have time for everything.”

“He thought I was weak.” Missy’s hand fisted over her covers. “That’s why he took me.”

“No, he thought you were perfect.”

Missy’s head jerked up.

“He thought you were the perfect woman, Missy.” There were things she wouldn’t say right then, about the way that Farris had arranged the bodies of his victims, how he’d styled their hair. How he’d taken their pictures with such care after he’d mutilated them. “Men like him...they fixate on their ideals of perfection. Blonde, young, delicate like a ballerina—to him, that was perfection.”

A tear leaked down Missy’s cheek as she stared at the bandages on her arms. “I’m hardly perfect now.”

Farris had liked to destroy the perfect beauty of his victims. As if he were punishing them.

When she’d created the profile for Farris, an unknown perp at the time, she’d theorized that he chose his victims for two main reasons.

One...their delicate builds made them easier to overpower. That was one of the reasons she’d known that she was looking for a killer with a slight build himself.

Two...he was striking out at someone in particular. Someone who had been personally involved in his life—someone who had been blonde and beautiful and who he had wanted to slice apart.

Samantha found herself heading back to the bed. She waited until Missy’s gaze rose to meet hers, and then she said, “You survived a serial killer’s attack. You were with him for over twenty-four hours. You have lived through a hell that few people can understand. Will you have some scars? Yes...but scars fade. The fact that you are a survivor will never change. Your spirit doesn’t change. You are perfect. And soon enough, you’ll see that for yourself.”

Missy’s trembling lips lifted into a smile. “You almost make me believe it.”

“We all have scars, Missy.” Samantha certainly carried plenty of her own. “They don’t matter.” She nodded to Missy—and to Missy’s father—then Samantha headed for the door. She skimmed past the curtain, curled her fingers around the door handle and pulled it open.

The guard was still outside.

But he wasn’t alone.

Blake was there, his brows raised, and his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

Samantha stilled. “Eavesdropping, Agent Gamble?”