Page 4 of The Survivor
“She lost so much blood that the doctors were surprised she managed to recover,” Rick added.
Sam stopped toying with the scar, clasped her hands on her waist and bit her lower lip. Why were they telling her this? Didn’t they care what it was doing to her? When she’d first seen themon her doorstep, she’d assumed they’d come to take yet another statement from her. That’s why she’d been antagonistic, why her guard had shot up. Because the idea of telling her gruesome story even one more time was about as appealing as eating dirt. But no, they were here to tell her about another woman’s horror, which was equally upsetting, if not more so.
Leaning forward, she fumbled for her coffee, gripped the mug between fingers that had suddenly grown icier than the air outside. A puff of steam rose from the cup and moistened the tip of her nose.
After taking a brief sip, she focused her gaze on the two men again. “I’m glad she’s all right,” she finally said, not quite sure why her voice sounded so cold.
“She’s not all right,” Blake corrected, his eyes meeting hers and holding. “Physically, yes, she’s recovering, but—”
The loud ring of the telephone cut him off, but Sam made no move to reach for the cordless phone sitting on the table. Both agents watched her expectantly, waiting, but they sat motionless. It was only when the answering machine switched on that she acted.
“Lori, it’s Virginia. I don’t mean to frighten you, but I saw a strange car pulling into your driveway, and I just wanted to make sure—”
Sam clicked the “on” button and pressed the phone to her ear. “Hi, Virginia, sorry, I didn’t make it to the phone in time.”
The relief in her elderly neighbor’s voice was unmistakable. “Is everything all right, Lori? I saw an unfamiliar car and I was scared it might be burglars.”
Considering that the town of Wellstock boasted a crime rate of zero, Sam managed a chuckle. “No need to worry, Ginny. I’m fine. Some friends of mine just came to visit, that’s all.”
“Oh, good. You know I don’t like knowing you’re out there in that big house all by yourself.”
“Don’t worry, I’m all right. But thanks for calling.”
Sam said goodbye and hung up, then turned to her visitors. “My neighbor,” she explained.
Neither man commented on the fact that she’d been screening her calls. These days the phone didn’t ring much, but when it did, she never picked up until she heard a familiar voice on the machine. Not until she was absolutely certain that whoever was on the other end couldn’t hurt her. But no matter how recognizable the voice, she still experienced a tremor of fear each time she heard the name Lori Kendall.
God, shewishedshe could be Lori Kendall. Lori was a writer from Chicago who’d moved out to this farmhouse because she was tired of urban life. She was working on a new novel about the love affair between a Nazi soldier and a Jewish peasant in war-torn Germany, and she was so wrapped up in her work that she never went into town or struck up friendships with the Wellstock residents. But they all understood because writers, after all, were a strange breed.
Sam didn’t know if the cover story made her feel like laughing or crying. The life the Bureau had given her was so different from the one she’d led before the attack, but it was a life she now wished she’d chosen for herself. Lori, the writer, would never have encountered a flesh-and-blood killer, only the ones she wrote about in her books.
But she wasn’t really Lori, was she? No, she was Samantha Dawson, and the alias she’d received from the Witness Protection Program was just another reminder of the danger she still faced. Would probably always face, as long as the man who’d hurt her was on the loose.
Crossing her legs, Sam raked her fingers through her long hair and sighed. “Where were we? Right, his latest victim.”
She sounded cold again, even a little indifferent, but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t want these men knowing thateverything about this visit scared the crap out of her. She didn’t want them to know that talking and hearing about another woman being attacked in the same way paralyzed her with fear. Better to let them think she didn’t care, that she was over it, so far past it she didn’t give a damn anymore.
“Elaine Woodman is in bad shape,” Blake said, the determination in his eyes giving way to weariness. “She refuses to talk about what happened to her, and we know she’s holding back details that could break this investigation. She’s too scared, won’t trust anyone to help her. It’s almost as if she thinks that as long as she pretends it didn’t happen, it will all go away.”
Sam stared at the agent, amazed by his cavalier tone. A slow and steady rush of anger coiled in the pit of her stomach and spiraled up her chest until all she could do was snap, “Of course she’s scared. She’s goddamn terrified!”
Slamming her cup on the table, she jumped out of her chair and took two steps toward Blake Corwin. “You actually blame her for that?” she demanded, her body simmering with rage. “For wanting to forget what happened? Well, she has every right to forget. She has every right not to want to talk to a bunch of egomaniacal shrinks and overeager cops who don’t give a damn about her. You think she wants to spill her guts to a complete stranger and relive every sickening thing that man did to her? Of course she doesn’t.”
Sam snapped her mouth shut and strode toward the window on stiff legs, gluing her gaze to the barren front yard. She couldn’t believe the nerve of these men, looking like a couple of wounded children over the “annoying” notion that a woman who’d nearly died refused to talk to them. Jerks. Insensitive jerks.
Anger continued to swirl inside her, but it was surprisingly welcome. For the first time in months she was experiencing something that wasn’t fear or pain or self-pity. She wondered ifit might have helped to be angry all those months ago, if maybe letting out her fury over what happened to her could’ve helped her heal faster.
As it was now, she didn’t feel healed or cured or even convinced in the slightest that she could ever get over this.
But the anger helped. Just a little.
“That’s why we came to see you.”
Blake’s voice remained steady, entirely unaffected by her incensed words. She turned around slowly and let their gazes connect again. Searched his magnetic eyes and found nothing more than that cool, calm and collected glint.
Never breaking eye contact, he clasped his hands on his lap and added, “We want you to see Elaine Woodman. We want you to break her silence.”
CHAPTER 2
