Epoch (Transcend Duet #2)(89)

“I saved a life. Many lives.”

I’ll tell myself that every day too. I have to think that. I have to believe it.

“How many? How many do you think he killed?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Why?” she whispers.

I don’t answer. I know her question is rhetorical. Sane people can’t explain what exactly makes a serial killer.

“He always had these women coming and going from his apartment. I assumed they had to be hookers.”

“Could have been. People like him don’t kill everyone they associate with. Think of the fucked-up serial killers who have had wives and children.”

“So who does he choose? Why Daisy? Why Erica?”

I shake my head. “I really don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine. He was clearly upset with Daisy for cutting his face. Did he kidnap her? How long was she missing before they found her body? Did her slashing his face thwart other plans he had for her? He was a sick fuck.”

“Other plans?”

“Let’s just drop it. It doesn’t matter.”

She pulls her hand out of mine, hugging herself. “You think he did stuff to her or was planning on it?”

I rub the back of my neck. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t deserve our thoughts.”

“How can you say it doesn’t matter? How can you believe that I was her, yet say it doesn’t matter if that sick bastard did unthinkable things to her—to me.”

I hold my tongue for a few seconds. She’s here. Alone. She walked away from Nate and that life. She walked away from the past. But she’s right. It will always be with her, just beneath the surface.

Just like I will always think of Doug’s lifeless body hanging from a noose. And she will always think of dying tragically.

“He’s dead. You can’t change what happened. So it doesn’t matter.” I grab her face and lean down until my nose brushes hers, until we share the same breath. “We will bear each other’s burdens forever. But for us to have everything, the burdens have to live in silence. We can never give them a voice.” I close my eyes. “And I want everything with you.”

She drifts forward to kiss me. I pull back, releasing her.

“Let’s live in the now. And right now I want food.” I take her hand again and lead her to the door.

“It’s Swayze.”

I open the door and shoot her a confused look.

“Not Samantha.”

I grin. “Are you sure?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes. And so is my bank. You owe me grocery money.”

“I’ll work it off later.”





CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR




Swayze


After the race ends, I manage to get shoved into the hallway with the rest of the departing crowd. Lifting on to my tiptoes, I try to see Griffin. He’s right inside the doorway, chatting it up with some of his friends.

On a defeated sigh, I head to the stairs and back down to my apartment. It’s almost ten. I’m emotionally and physically exhausted.

After I get my face washed and teeth brushed, I lift my shirt and stare at my refection in the mirror. He cut me with the jagged piece of metal I used to cut him. I shake my head.

“Unbelievable,” I whisper.

Investigators probably dismissed it as a cut from the dock or the boat in my struggle. I don’t know. But all this time I’ve worn my past on my chest.

I crawl into bed. The second I get the light shut off, there’s a knock at my door.

“Really?” I throw back the covers and turn on the light.

No surprise, or maybe the best surprise of my life, Griffin’s on the opposite side of the peephole. I open the door.

He inspects my nightshirt which happens to be his shirt. “Nice shirt.”

“I think so.”

He steps toward me. I step back. The door shuts behind him. He locks it.

I raise a single eyebrow. “Are you staying?”

Griffin exchanged his jeans and boots for exercise shorts and untied running shoes, no socks. “Do you want me to stay?” He takes another step toward me.

This time I don’t step back. “Wanna crawl under the sheets with me and hide out for the night?” I shrug. “Not because we have to … just because we want to?”

He ditches his shirt. I ditch mine. He slips off his shoes and gazes upon me expectantly. My eyes rove along his chest, jerking to meet his gaze again when he clears his throat.

“Panties. Off.”

“You’re still wearing two things. I only have one.”

“Do I really still have two items of clothing on?”

Of course … he’s not wearing briefs under those shorts.

I rub my lips together. He still hasn’t kissed my lips. It’s been seven months. I’m dying. It’s a brutal replay of when we first started dating.

“You’re toying with me.”

Trapping his lower lip between his teeth, he inspects me for a few long seconds. “Am I?”

“The way you toyed with me on our third date.”

“Ah … our third date.” He smirks. “It was a really good one as I recall.”

I nod, hating the rush of insecurities. How many dates did he have with Ginny? Three? More than three?