Page 68 of The Survivor
Blake’s fingers hovered over the trigger of his weapon. He kept it aimed at Grant’s heart. “This woman isn’t your wife.”
A feral look replaced the fury on Grant’s face. He raised the weapon. “She needs to pay.” He pointed the pistol at Sam. “She needs to pay for what she did—”
This time there was no hesitation.
Blake fired two shots into Francis Grant’s chest.
With a strangled cry, the man stumbled forward. As he fell, he raised his gun and it went off, the deafening sound rocking the small room. Grant’s wayward bullet connected with theceiling, sending big chunks of stained plaster crashing down to the floor.
Adrenaline pumping through his veins, Blake bounded toward the man and kicked the weapon out of his hand. Grant’s blood poured out of his chest like sticky cough syrup and stained Blake’s fingers as he bent over the injured man.
“She needs to pay. She needs—” Grant gurgled, coughed out a spurt of blood, then gasped.
The man’s dull eyes rolled to the top of his head.
Swallowing, Blake pressed his fingers to Grant’s neck and checked for a pulse.
Nothing.
The Rose Killer was dead.
Heavy silence fell over the dark room, except for Blake’s ragged breathing. Grant was dead. A wave of relief crashed over him, so violent that he nearly keeled over backward. It was over, finally over. Eight months of hunting, eight months of headaches and insomnia and—
“Blake?”
Sam’s small voice sliced into him like a knife to the jugular.
With shaky legs, he hurried over to the cot and started untying the knots binding her wrists. He freed her hands, then her feet, then crushed her into his embrace.
“Are you okay?” he whispered into her hair, holding her so tight he feared he’d crack one of her ribs.
She clung to him, her tears wetting his shirt collar, her hands icy when she wrapped them around his neck. “I knew you’d come.” Her voice was muffled as she pressed her face to his chest.
He planted a kiss on the top of her head before pulling back. “Did he hurt you?” he asked, sweeping his gaze over her.
Aside from the tears on her face, a purplish bruise at her temple and the red welts the ropes had left on her wrists, she looked uninjured.
She opened her mouth but Rick, Hodges and Samson burst into the room before she could speak.
“He’s dead?” Rick asked in a brusque voice, kneeling beside Grant’s motionless body.
“Yes,” Blake said hoarsely.
Rick checked the man’s pulse anyway, then glanced over his shoulder at Hodges. “Get the coroner in here. And tape off the scene. Forensics will need to do a sweep.”
Still holding Sam, Blake got to his feet. “I’m getting her out of here.”
“Blake, we need her statement—”
“Later,” he cut in. “I’m getting her out of here.”
He held her in his arms as if she were a fragile piece of china and carried her out of the room. Ignoring the cops streaming inside, he walked purposely out of the greenhouse.
Detective Carol Samson followed them, and much to Blake’s displeasure, started taking Sam’s statement the second they stepped into the late-afternoon chill.
He set her on her feet, his arms cold and empty without Sam in them. He sucked in a lungful of oxygen and took a step to the side, turning to stare at the massive greenhouse behind them. How could a man who grew such beautiful flowers be so damn ugly on the inside? When he’d first entered the greenhouse, he’d been caught off guard by the beauty of the roses filling the space. He’d almost stopped—no pun intended—to smell the roses.
And then he’d heard Sam cry out.
