In a Heartbeat. Rita Herron
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to clear the tears and regain control, she forced herself to concentrate on the beauty surrounding her. In the fall, when the apple trees were heavily laden, their fruits spilling to the ground, she gathered the Granny Smith apples and baked dozens of pies. Last year, she’d canned and frozen at least a bushel, had made homemade applesauce, apple butter and jelly. She’d savored the tart tastes, the miracles of nature.
How could that nature include humans so depraved that they fed on the weaker at heart?
Humans like William. And now this latest sick man.
How did Brad Booker continue to do his job without the atrocities of it eating at his soul?
She was still shaking when she sped up the driveway to her cabin, the serenity she normally experienced at the sight of her log home lost in the emotions warring within her.
Brad had suffered the atrocities—she’d seen it in his eyes. Heard it in his voice.
And there were the recriminations.
He was blaming himself now for this woman’s disappearance. As she’d once suspected he might have blamed himself for her abduction.
But it hadn’t been his fault. Just as it wasn’t this time.
Brad was the good guy.
William had been psychotic. And she had been a fool for not believing Brad the first time he’d hinted that her old boyfriend was trouble.
Her emotions in a tailspin, she glanced down the valley at the cabin where the stranger had just moved in. He’d been lurking outside her place this morning. Who was he really? What did she know about him?
Panicking, she threw open the car door and bolted up the graveled drive toward the house. Warm sunshine splintered through the dark clouds, the afternoon heat engulfing her as she opened the door and slipped inside. She slammed the door and locked it, then leaned against the wooden frame, trembling. She was safe. No one had followed her. She could hide out here forever.
The quiet seemed eerie around her.
Then the truth assaulted her. She’d chosen this cabin because it was at the top of the hill, away from strangers, from the town, so no one would bother her. Yet the location had isolated her from others to the point of preventing her from making friends.
Because she had wanted it that way.
The kitchen cupboard in the corner, filled with dozens of jars of apple butter and jelly she’d canned, mocked her. Dozens of jars—but she lived alone. All alone.
She had no one to share them with. Wouldn’t allow anyone close enough to even consider offering a dinner invitation.
She dropped onto the sofa and heaved for air, the realization that she’d locked herself away in a self-imposed prison filtering through the haze. William had taken everything from her the day he’d kidnapped her. Had stolen her innocence. Her trust in men. Her dreams of the future.
She glanced around at the bookcase, the sofa table. Empty. Only a few pictures of family. No boyfriend. No hopes of ever having one.
Only a framed photograph of her mother, and a picture of her father, sat on the table, one she’d clipped from the newspaper. He looked austere. Imposing. But he’d actually smiled, obviously primed because the article declared him a brilliant surgeon.
He never smiled at her now. Since the trial, she was no longer daddy’s little girl. Although they occasionally spoke on the phone, conversations remained brief to prevent any tracing so she could remain hidden. Of course, they had argued long before William had entered her life. Her father’s goals for her had been different from her own. He wanted her to be a social star, she wanted none of the limelight.
And she’d hated it even more when all the publicity about the trial had focused on her.
Sure, she’d told herself she was healing.
But this morning’s headlines, seeing Brad Booker again, knowing another woman was suffering as she had—the fear, the paranoia, the anger all came crashing back.
How could she say that she was happy here when she refused to open the door to a neighbor? When the least little shadow or sound sent her skittering into near cardiac arrest?
When she would choose to run and hide rather than help another woman escape the horrors she had experienced? What kind of coward was she?
And how much more was she going to allow William to take from her?
BRAD KILLED THE ENGINE. Although he needed to work the case, he wasn’t quite ready to head back to Atlanta. He phoned Ethan for an update, but they were still chasing leads. They desperately needed to find out where the killer had taken Mindy.
Had Lisa remembered something that might help?
How do you know this guy is using the same place to hide his victims? He could be anywhere.
His stomach growled, adding to his irritation. He might as well grab something to eat before he faced the two-hour drive. The waitress glared at him as he entered the café, as if she’d seen Lisa running out, and wondered what he’d done to her. Great. Now everyone in Ellijay would probably think he was a bad guy.
Hell, who was he kidding? They’d be right. He’d just thrown Lisa back into her nightmarish past.
Besides, he couldn’t show the locals his credentials without revealing Lisa’s identity, something he’d sworn not to do.
The diner was rustic, with knotty pine walls and plank flooring. Photographs of antique cars and local scenery hung along one wall, and a collection of antique farming tools filled a case in the corner. Checkered tablecloths and fresh daisies on each table gave the restaurant a homey feel, the smells of homemade vegetable soup and pies wafting through the air.
He ordered a bowl of Brunswick stew and a glass of sweet iced tea, his gaze automatically scrutinizing each patron. Mostly old-timers. Three women wearing outdated Sunday dresses gathered at a round table eating coconut cream pie and sipping coffee. Two farmers conversed over the blue plate lunch special—meat loaf, green beans and mashed potatoes with gravy. A handful of teenagers stuffed into a booth laughed over their milkshakes and burgers. A real southern small town.
Everyone appeared friendly, seemed to know one another. A safe place to raise a family. Nothing like the city, where psychos could hide among the masses.
Yet was Lisa really safe here?
Not if there had been an accomplice, or if this latest killer came looking for her.
Brad finished the stew, paid the bill and headed back to his car, knowing the clock was ticking. He was just about to leave when his cell phone rang. He winced, then checked the display, bracing himself for bad news from his partner.
A private number showed up, instead. “Brad Booker.”
“It’s Lisa.”
He closed his eyes, his gut knotting at the sound of her strained voice. “Are you all right?”
A long sigh escaped her, heartfelt and labored but resigned. “Yes. Where are you?”
One hand tightened around the steering wheel. “Getting ready to leave town.”
“To go back to Atlanta?”
“Yes.”
A breathy quiver followed his reply, then she whispered, “I…I’m sorry, Brad.”
He scraped a hand through his hair, the sweat-coated strands sticking to his fingers. God, why was she apologizing? She had every right to hate him. “Don’t, Lisa, it’s all right. I shouldn’t have come—”
“No,” she said, her voice stronger, “you obviously care about this woman, she’s missing… I…I’ll help you if I can.”
He heard her insinuations. She thought he and Mindy were involved. He should correct her. But why bother? He did care about saving