Page 54 of The Survivor
He tried to shut out the unwelcome intrusion. He couldn’t think about Kate right now. He couldn’t listen to her reprimand him from the goddamn grave.
And yet his conscience refused to let him ignore—both Kate and the truth he was considering withholding from Sam. Because Kate was right. What Rick had just told him affected Sam and he would be buying a one-way ticket to hell if he kept it from her.
“Blake…you’re scaring me,” she murmured.
He raked his fingers through his hair and took another breath. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to scare you. Sam…” Another breath. The oxygen burned right down to his lungs. “Elaine Woodman killed herself.”
CHAPTER 12
The world promptly crumbled beneath Sam’s feet. She staggered forward, right into Blake’s solid chest, right into a pair of warm arms that instantly wrapped around her and pulled her close. He was saying something to her, but the words were muffled by the dull roar of her pulse in her ears.
“Is this a joke?” She pressed her palms to his chest and pushed him away. Then she was stumbling backward, edging toward the doorway as if running would make it all go away. “Is this some kind of sick, insensitive joke?”
He shook his head.
She shook her head right back. “No.No. You’re lying.”
Pain filled his amber-colored eyes. “I’m sorry, Sam. Rick just heard from Mel. She was staying with Elaine at the safe house, and she—” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “She found her about twenty minutes ago.”
“She’s lying.” The vehemence in her tone terrified her. Did that shrill, enraged voice belong to her? “Elaine would never do that. She wouldn’t kill herself. She’s twenty-three years old, for God’s sake! And she…she…”
It suddenly became increasingly difficult to breathe. Her heart was pounding so hard her ribs were beginning to hurt, her chest felt like it would cave in any second, and her eyes were stinging so badly she couldn’t even see Blake anymore.
She could hear him, though. And God, how she wished she could shut out that calm, almost mechanical voice he was using.
“Melanie found her in the bedroom. She used a telephone cord to…to hang herself.” Now he was cool and efficient. “She left a note.”
Sam stared at him, horrified. Wanting to slap that professional expression off his face, but her hands were shaking so wildly she couldn’t even lift them to wipe the tears that poured down her cheeks. So instead of hitting him, she exploded.
“What is the matter with you?” She gasped for air. “How can you just stand there like a robot and tell me Elainehanged herselflike you’re reciting a passage from a goddamn textbook? Do you evencarethat she’s dead? Do you?”
For a moment he looked stunned. Then a flash of fire erupted in his eyes. Every feature on his face tightened, his shoulders stiffened, his hands curled into fists.
“Of course I care,” he hissed out. “It tears me up inside knowing that innocent girl took her own life, that she was so goddamn traumatized by what that maniac did to her that she didn’t feel it was worth living. It tears me up.”
He finished with a ragged groan, and a wave of guilt slammed into her as she saw the pure anguish flashing on his face. Oh, God. Why had she said those hurtful things? She knew Blake wasn’t a robot, she knew how deeply he cared about the victims whose killer he was chasing.
“I’m sorry,” she managed to whisper. “I’m…sorry.”
He was by her side again in an instant. This time he didn’t draw her into his arms, but he did reach out and lace his fingers through hers. “I know how much this must hurt. I know you and Elaine connected and that you cared about her.”
She clamped her lips together to keep a sob from slipping out. Taking a long breath, she opened her mouth and said, “You said there was a note. What did it say?”
The hesitation on his face caused her to shrug her hand away. “It’s…not important,” he said roughly.
“Like hell it isn’t! What did it say, Blake?”
He was quiet for so long she thought he wasn’t going to answer. But then he opened his mouth and told her, and suddenly she wished he hadn’t.
Her throat squeezed. “Say it again,” she choked out.
“Sam—”
“Again.”
“The note said, ‘I’m not a survivor. I’m not strong like you.’” He hurried on. “It doesn’t mean she addressed it to you. It could have been written to anyone.”
Sick. She was going to be sick. Spinning on her heels, she tore out of the kitchen and stumbled into the small bathroom in the hall, where she dropped to her knees and emptied the guilt and horror from her stomach. And when there was nothing left, she just sat there and cried. Cried and cursed and cried some more until the guilt turned to anger and the anger to sheer rage.
