Way of the Warrior (Troubleshooters #17.5)(82)

Chloroform! He was going to knock her out. She fought him, uttering as much of a scream as she could manage with his hand smashed over her mouth. He brought the cloth over her nose, and the acrid smell filled her nostrils.

No! I can’t let him do this!

“My father called me faggot and other vile names until he died when I was seventeen.” She struggled, but he continued talking in an eerily calm voice. “I watched you over the next couple of years. You filled in, became more beautiful. And you didn’t see me at all. Then you moved away, and I tried to forget you. Until I saw the ads. You in skimpy bathing suits showing off your flesh. An article in the Atlanta Constitution about the hometown girl who’d become a successful New York model and then, aw, moved back because her parents were worried about her. And everything I’d done to better myself, achieving detective at an early age, the cases I’d solved, all melted away to leave me as that invisible kid again. It’s your fault, Kristy. It’s your fault that deep inside I feel like a nothing. I wanted to make you feel bad, too.”

She was struggling, holding him off enough to grab a breath of fresh air and keep darkness from falling. “You’re… Eye?” she managed.

He shoved the cloth hard against her face, clamping down over her nose. “Yes, Kristy. And while the cops and your security expert are waiting for me to take the bait, you and I are finally going to get some quality time together.”

Darkness pulsed in and out. She knew his name. He was a cop. No way was he going to let her live to tell. And then she fell into the abyss.





CHAPTER 7


Griff had spent the afternoon watching the DVD. He’d hardly recognized the man helping Kristy drive through the bog or catch fish. That man laughed. Smiled. Forgot he was a beast. And she never looked at him with anything but acceptance. Trent had included footage of their kiss, too, right at the end. Griff had caved at the sight, bodies pressed together, his hands at her waist.

And he’d heard her voice as clear as a bell: “Griff, I don’t want a guy who looks good. I want a guy who is good.”

Was he a good man? Good enough for her? He had to take the opportunity to find out. He’d been given the gift of life, of surviving. She’d given him the gift of her heart. And when he’d made love to her, he’d felt like a man for the first time in years. He’d felt alive.

So he’d been driving to Atlanta all evening. He even decided that he was going to come in the normal way, right through the foyer she’d described. It was after ten when he drove into the area of the city where she lived. He imagined that people in the cars next to his stared over at him. He didn’t have to imagine the piteous stares of the man pumping gas across from him, or the kids who gawked.

What am I doing here? I need to be in my comfort zone, in a couple hundred acres of woods.

He dropped into the seat of his truck, hidden again by tinted windows. Maybe her affection was all about the fact that he was helping her. He rested his head against the seat with a loud sigh. He’d grown so insecure. Afraid. Not of physical pain—he’d endured plenty of that—but the kind that took even longer to heal.

All right, so he’d call her. If she sounded happy to hear from him, he’d see her. If she sounded hesitant or unpleasantly surprised, he’d go back to Tennessee.

He called the number she’d written on the note. It rang several times before someone picked up, and then another three seconds passed before he heard her tentative, “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Griff.”

Damn, another second of silence. Then, “Oh, hey.”

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” Yeah, he was digging for a reason she didn’t sound enthusiastic.

“No, I…I’m awake.”

“You okay? You sound kinda funny.”

“I’m…fine. I just woke up from…a nap.” There was another sound, though he couldn’t place it. “Griff, I have to go. It’s not a good time to talk.”

She was blowing him off. He gripped the phone, the edges biting into his palm. But he wouldn’t slink away in silence. No, he was going to put himself out there. “Did you change your mind? About us?”

The silence said it all. He was about to say good-bye, wish her well, when she whispered, “I meant what I said when you were showing me how to shoot the rifle. Please remember that, Griff. I have to go.”

The phone went dead. He stared at it, nearly dizzy from rejection. He didn’t want to remember anything now. He didn’t—

Wait a minute. He’d never taught her to shoot. What had she meant by that? She’d said it very deliberately, with more conviction than she’d said anything else.

Because she was trying to tell you something.

Hell. Was he just digging for a reason for her dismissal? When he pushed past his sensitive ego, he felt something dark in his gut. He’d rather her have a change of heart than be in trouble. He glanced at the note again. No way would she have changed her mind about being with him in the course of a day. Seeing her diagram, remembering her sadness at leaving him, Griff believed she meant everything she’d said. Which meant something was terribly wrong.

He drove the final four blocks to the address, passing a patrol car parked by the curb across the street. The guy inside was looking down, probably playing some game on his phone. Griff didn’t want to ask him to check on her, only to find an awkward situation. He parked along the side street and pulled his thirty-eight special from the glove box. He knew there were cameras outside the building, so with his gun tucked into his waistband, he strolled down the sidewalk and looked as casual as possible. He spotted the first camera, ducking around a bush and cutting around the back way. He used the neighbor’s table to climb to the second level, then sidestepped around some railing to climb to the third floor. The ledge was just above him, the wind chimes his assurance that it was her bedroom window.