Search And Rescue. Valerie Hansen
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“I know.”
“And there was something else. Did your men tell you I thought there was somebody hiding and watching me while I was stranded?”
“Yes. Any idea who it might have been?”
“None. The only reason I suspected it at all was because of the way the dog bristled. I wasn’t sure but he was. That’s good enough for me.”
“Maybe someone heard you shooting and came to see why.”
Sophie scowled. “Or maybe they were already there and hoping I’d use up all my ammo and be defenseless.” She trembled. “I almost did.”
Feeling him squeezing her fingers a little more, she pulled her hand away. It was time to stop thinking and reacting on a personal level. She was a trained professional. She’d better start behaving like one.
Sophie sat up taller in her chair and took a sip from her mug. “All right. We can either assume it was Carrie sneaking around, unhappy that I’ve been talking too much to you lately, or we can look for somebody else. You and the team believe that Carrie likely didn’t have an accomplice because of the journal and so-called shrine you found at her place, right?”
“Right.”
His jaw muscles knotted visibly as he spoke, and when he clasped his hands in front of him on the table, Sophie noticed his muscles flexing. She was entitled to be upset because of her recent ordeal but Ryder had a much deeper reason. After all, Carrie’s collection of memorabilia about her victims had included more than just pictures and clippings of the two blond rookies she’d killed because they’d reminded her of him. A central feature was Melanie Hayes, Ryder’s late wife. Photographs and newspaper clippings on Melanie lined a wall of Carrie’s bedroom. But no one figured more prominently than Ryder Hayes himself.
Empathy filled her and she placed her hand lightly atop his clenched fists. Although he flinched, he didn’t withdraw until she said, “I apologize, Ryder.”
“For what?”
“For being insensitive to your loss.”
“Never mind that. Right now, we need to be thinking about who’s trying to hurt you. Start talking.”
“About what?”
“Anything. Everything. You might explain why a raised voice bothers you so much.”
“I never said it did.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Hey, I passed my psych eval.”
He didn’t reply immediately and she wondered what painful questions he’d ask next. Until now she’d managed to quell her adverse reactions to triggers that mentally transported her back to her abusive childhood and she’d just as soon not awaken those feelings further.
“All right,” he finally said. “Let’s talk about the night your partner was shot and why you quit the force after that.”
“I’d rather not.”
He propped his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “I don’t think you have a choice, Sophie. We have to start somewhere and that’s as good a place as any. Did you receive any death threats after that incident?”
“Police officers are always being threatened,” she insisted. “Almost nobody follows through.”
“Maybe this guy is the exception. Criminals can be very vindictive.”
The truth stuck in her throat. Was it possible Wes’s brother had made good on his wild threats and come after her at this late date? Why now and not sooner? Part of her mind wanted to brush away suspicion while another part felt as if the upcoming anniversary of Wes’s death might hold the answer. To voice that, however, was repugnant. The poor man and his family had suffered enough without blaming them needlessly and causing more pain.
Ryder had been studying her. “I want you to make a list of possible suspects. Don’t leave anybody out no matter how innocent you think they may be. Understand?”
She nodded as she noted his darkening mood and resigned herself to complying. “I’ll do it, but I don’t think you realize how difficult it will be for me.”
As soon as the words left her mouth she knew she’d inadvertently been insensitive again.
Ryder’s demeanor changed in a heartbeat. His eyes flashed, his jaw clamped and he stood so rapidly he almost knocked his chair over backward. Even before he said a word Sophie knew he was angry.
“Difficult?” he began. “You want to know what’s difficult? Looking at my wife’s picture posted with Carrie’s other victims and remembering how blind I was to the evil that was right under my nose every day. That’s difficult.”
She wanted to tell him how sorry she was, how sympathetic, but she knew better than to offer platitudes when he was upset so she clasped her hands around her coffee mug and remained silent. In seconds he’d turned and stormed out the door.
Ryder was absolutely right. His loss was worse than hers in many ways. Not only had he lost his beloved Melanie and been left to raise their baby alone, he blamed himself for not considering his wife’s killer could be a colleague. Carrie had presented such a mild-mannered facade they’d all been fooled.
As Sophie started to clear the table she recalled Ryder’s outburst and froze in place. He’d raised his voice again. And sounded furious. So why wasn’t she shaking like a leaf?
A glance toward the closed door allowed her to envision him slamming it behind him. No panic ensued. As a matter of fact, there were surprisingly warm and tender feelings flowing over and through her.
She closed her eyes and leaned on the table with both hands. Something momentous had happened tonight and it had nothing to do with snakes, at least not directly.
The emotional healing she had prayed for since she was a child had apparently begun. The scary question was, Why?
An even more disquieting answer came in the form of the admirable chief of police whose raised voice no longer set her nerves on edge. Why not? What had made the difference?
Phoenix came out from under the table and bumped her leg, wagging his tail and panting as he looked up expectantly. That gave Sophie her answer. She wasn’t afraid of Ryder for the same reason Phoenix had accepted her.
Trust. Plain, old, heartfelt trust.
And to nurture those feelings between herself and the chief she’d eventually have to break down and name her deceased partner’s disruptive brother Stan as one of her suspects.
She couldn’t expect Ryder to reflect her growing sense of trust if she weren’t totally honest with him.
Starting immediately.
A shiver sang up her spine and prickled at the nape of her neck. When Wes had died she’d blamed herself even more than Stan had blamed her, so his tirade at the grave site had seemed fitting.
In retrospect, it had been a lot worse than she’d realized. It wasn’t merely his voice, because the threat had been whispered. It was his eyes.
There had been hate sizzling in his gaze. Hate and murderous fury. The kind that lasted. Simmered. And sometimes boiled over.
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