Page 89 of Noble Neighbor
Early in the morning following Aleck’s statement, the FBI had come calling. Her home had burned to the ground. What were her whereabouts last night? And in the days following, even the media blamed Savannah for the fire, because — wait for it! — she was a participant in Lathan’s sick and lethal game.
The fact that the FBI had, with her permission, torn apart the house that same afternoon she’d contacted them was of no consequence. They’d found Lathan’s hidden safe containing his diary.
He’d documented his kills in the most descriptive manner. And gloated about injecting the women with a fast-acting, short-lived muscle relaxant, restrainingthem by using his “expert” Shibari bondage skills, the necktie tightening as the drug wore off and theystruggled against the ropes. His grand finale was rapinghis “submissives” as they stopped breathing.
Savannah had been married to a monster.
And then the cockroaches appeared, so-called friends, who freely talked to the press about Lathan’s frustration when his mother — the pious senator who’d announced her presidential candidacy! — hadforbidden him from visiting certain underground venuesthat catered to his sexual proclivities.
“How could Inothave known?” It was a question Savannah had asked herself, repeatedly. Yet she had not. Lathan had been a strictly “vanilla” lover withher, even spurning some of her more adventuroussuggestions.
She attended his funeral, Aleck by her side. Not because she mourned Lathan. No siree. Any love she felt for the man had shriveled up to nothing but revulsion. The only good thing she had left of their marriage were her girls.
She went to her husband’s funeral for one thing only — to spit on his grave.
A picture of that act made front page news.
It was the last time Savannah Randolph read or watched or listened to anything related to the Silk Rope Strangler.
25
Go. Run.
Present day …
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she cried, kneeling before the mythical creature.
She lifted her arms high, pleading for understanding, for forgiveness, but the snowy unicorn continued staring, accusations deafening despite its silent and motionless stance.
She repeated the words until hoarse, and her drained body slumped to the ground in defeat.
“Did you know?” A soft voice drifted in the air, and she lifted her head. The mythical creature wasn’t alone now.
An exquisite woman, clad in a gauzy, multicolored garment, blonde hair flowing around her, sat atop its back. The woman’s blue eyes blazed jewel-bright from her serene countenance.
“No.” She buried her head in her hands, trying to quiet the self-accusations. “No. You must believe me. Please believe me,” she ended with a whimper.
“I believe you,” the rider replied.
“I don’t. Get up,” a new voice, harsh and angry, instructed.
She knew that voice. She loved that voice.
She lifted her head.
Green eyes raked over her in disdain; heated censure blazed from them. “You knew,” the man accused. “How could you not have known?”
“Never.” She struggled to her feet, swaying forward, arms outstretched, but she couldn’t touch, her hand just out of reach. “I never suspected.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Please. You must believe me.” She stretched some more, and her fingertips grazed his chest.
The contact scalded.
The man swatted her hand away. “You don’t get to touch me. Not anymore. Never again. Go. Run.”
Go. Run.
