Silent Surrender. Rita Herron
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check it out one more time before he relented and talked to Sarah Cutter.
SARAH CLIMBED from her car, fought with her umbrella which completely turned upside down with the gusty wind, and rushed up the sidewalk to her apartment, ducking her head to dodge the drizzling rain. Water seeped inside her shoes, soaking her feet, and she shivered, a chill engulfing her as she ran up the steps. If only she could get the frightened woman’s voice out of her head…
Early spring flowers jutted from window boxes of the downtown Savannah homes and the beautiful historic 1790 bed-and-breakfast across the street, hinting at spring and warm weather around the corner, but Sarah felt a fog of gloom descend upon her. Horns honked, a dog barked, a siren wailed in the distance. The garbled noises around her were loud and frightening, the constant barrage assaulting her from every direction. It was all just too much.
She’d wanted to hear music, laughter, beautiful sounds like the song of the robin or a child singing. But so far, she’d heard a woman’s terrified cry, obnoxious traffic noises, thunder and the detectives’ laughter, which had been harsh and ugly.
Trembling and fighting a massive headache, she unlocked her door, nearly jumping out of her skin when she heard something scraping behind her. Footsteps. Rain sloshing. Had that reporter followed her home? She whirled around, throwing her broken umbrella in front of her like a weapon, her heart pounding.
Sol. She recognized the scent of his aftershave, the smell of the soap he used. Good heavens, she was so focused on distinguishing the sounds around her she’d forgotten to rely on her other senses.
“You scared me to death,” she signed, realizing the sound she’d heard had been his footsteps on the pavement.
“Why are you out by yourself in this weather? My God, Sarah, you just had surgery.”
“It’s just a little spring shower, Sol. Relax.” She waved him inside, smiling slightly at the worry in his eyes. Sol had always been protective. She’d known he wouldn’t want her venturing out by herself, but she’d never let her impairment keep her from being independent and she didn’t intend to relinquish her freedom now.
Worry furrowed his brow. “You look pale.”
“I’m fine.” She rubbed at her head again and his eyebrows rose. “Just a headache,” she admitted.
He cupped the base of her neck, and rubbed the tight muscle. “Where did you go?” Sol asked. “I’ve been sitting outside your apartment for an hour waiting on you.”
Sarah fixed them some tea and settled on the sofa, bracing herself for her godfather’s reaction when she told him where she had been. She wasn’t surprised when disapproval and worry flitted across his features, but the anger in his voice unnerved her.
“You shouldn’t have gone to the police.” Sol paced to the opposite side of the room by the bookcases and studied the family photos on the wall, his shoulders hunched. When he turned to face her, his gray eyes reflected concern, his wrinkles drawn around his mouth. “You had bad dreams, strange dreams, when you were little and underwent all those surgeries, Sarah, remember? Some of the dreams were a direct result of the medication, some of them from the trauma you suffered when you were little. Why can’t you see that this is the same thing?”
Exhaustion pulled at Sarah, making her signing short and jerky. “I know what I heard. And I think it was real.”
“What did the police say?”
She hesitated, picked up her cat, Tigger, and hugged him to her chest. “They didn’t believe me.”
Sol nodded. “Promise me you’ll see Dr. Armstrong—”
“He’s a shrink,” Sarah protested. “I don’t need to see a shrink.” Pain shot through her temple and she swayed on the sofa, but Sol steadied her.
“I think I’d better lie down,” Sarah whispered.
Sol nodded and helped her to her room. “Yes, rest now, honey. We’ll talk about this later.”
After Sol left, Sarah changed into a comfortable blue nightshirt, stretched out, closed her eyes and tried to block out the sounds of the storm raging outside along with the worry in Sol’s voice and the sound of the woman’s terrified cries. Sol didn’t want to believe anything bad had happened at the research center. After all, he was the director and cofounder of CIRP and oversaw the various companies that relocated there. CIRP was still campaigning to draw new companies in. He was the perfect man for the job, but he also knew the sting of negative publicity. After all, Sol had been left to clean up her father’s mess.
Still, the woman had sounded so frightened— Sarah had to believe that her cries for help had been real.
ADAM JIMMIED THE LOCK on his sister’s back door and crept into her apartment. Not bothering to turn on the lights, he called her name softly, even though he instinctively knew she wasn’t home. Four days worth of newspapers lay piled on her front stoop, her mailbox had been crammed full of unopened mail and her indoor plants drooped from lack of care.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. His sister was a type A personality. She paid her bills on time, tended to her plants religiously and kept her house neat and orderly. Like clockwork, she read the paper with her morning coffee. He’d lectured her on precautionary measures for a woman living alone ages ago, and she adhered to them rigidly, just as she did the other details in her life. When she traveled, she always asked him to bring in her mail so a possible burglar wouldn’t know she’d left town.
Now, although things appeared neat on the surface, the house smelled unoccupied, hinting at her absence. He quickly searched the rooms but found nothing amiss, then checked the bathroom for wet towels but found a lone, dry towel hanging neatly on the chrome bar. Even odder, her makeup was sitting on the vanity. His anxiety growing, he checked the closet in her extra bedroom. Her suitcase was sitting inside, where she always kept it. If she had left town without telling him, why hadn’t she packed a suitcase or taken her cosmetics?
He booted up her computer and scrolled her file manager, searching for her calendar, but he needed her password. What would Denise choose as her password?
His palms grew moist as he punched in guesses— her birthday, his birthday, her graduation date. Frustrated, he pounded the machine. What was the biggest day in Denise’s life? The day she’d earned her doctorate. Bingo.
Minutes later, he scanned her schedule. She didn’t have plans to leave town until July, over three months from now. In fact she had meetings with her research assistant set up this week to discuss her current project, but as usual she had some acronym, a code name, for the project to keep it secret. He’d have to talk to her assistant.
More worried now, he searched the file drawers for notes and found several pads filled with statistics, chemistry and math equations, stuff he didn’t begin to understand but knew were important to her work. Denise had also kept a daily journal since she was twelve. He searched her office, but couldn’t locate it, so he hurried to the den, but came up empty again. Finally he discovered the thick navy-bound book wedged between her pillows. He hesitated before opening it—this journal was private. Denise never allowed anyone to read it, and had been furious when he’d asked her about it as a teenager. He’d violate her privacy if he read it now.
But what if it told him where she was?
The storm reached a crescendo outside and so had Adam’s nerves. Denise never went anywhere without taking her journal. Never. She had only been thirteen when their parents died. The journal had been like a security blanket to her, a place to pour out her troubled feelings.
The simple fact that the book was here confirmed his suspicions. Something bad had happened to his sister, and if she had left town, she hadn’t left of her own free will.
Chapter Three
Instead of a restful, soothing nap, the voices came to Sarah again. Dull, muffled, breaking in and out, destroying her peace.
“Wh…at