In a Heartbeat. Rita Herron
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Lisa Langley was suffocating. Being buried alive. Swallowed by the darkness.
Cold terror clutched her in its grip. The wooden box imprisoning her was so small, her arms and legs touched the sides. She tried to scream, but her throat was so dry and parched that the sound died.
Tears mingled with the sweat on her cheeks, streaming into her hair and down her neck. What kind of maniac buried a woman alive?
The same kind that robbed you of your life the last few days.
William White. The man she’d dated off and on for the past six months.
The man otherwise known as the Grave Digger.
Look what Romantic Times BOOKclub has to say about
RITA HERRON
A Breath Away
“Herron has crafted a psychologically frightening novel. The plot is complex and compelling…the story’s twists are refreshingly not predictable.”
Her Eyewitness
“Rita Herron will grab your attention.”
The Man from Falcon Ridge
“4 1/2 stars! Rita Herron’s eerie gothic is a bewitching mixture of suspense and paranormal.”
Saving His Son
“Rita Herron produces a prime intrigue.”
Mysterious Circumstances
“4 stars. A terrifying tale of terrorism and germ warfare that has a very realistic feel. Fast-paced, edge-of-your-seat suspense drives the story from beginning to end.”
The Cradle Mission
“An exciting and engaging read.”
In a Heartbeat
Rita Herron
MILLS & BOON
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To Allison Lyons—for our first big book together.
Thanks for all your suggestions and patience.
Hope we celebrate many more together!
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
PROLOGUE
LISA LANGLEY COULDN’T breathe.
Heat engulfed her, and perspiration trickled down her brow and neck, the cloying air filled with the scent of decay, blood and foul body odors.
Her captor’s smell.
Her own.
She was suffocating. Being buried alive. Swallowed by the darkness.
Cold terror clutched her in its grip. The wooden box imprisoning her was so small her arms and legs touched the sides. An insect crawled along her chin, nipping at her skin, biting at the flesh. She tried to scream, but her throat was so dry and parched that the sound died.
Tears mingled with the sweat on her cheeks, streaming into her hair and down her neck. What kind of maniac buried a woman alive?
The same kind that robbed you of your life the last few days.
William White. The man she’d dated off and on for the past six months.
How could she not have known what kind of monster he was?
She trembled as the terrifying memories rushed back—the first day the suspicions had crept into her mind. The subtle nuances that William possessed a violent streak. His morbid fascination with the articles in the paper describing the murders.
The odd look in his eyes when the press named him the “Grave Digger.”
Above her, a shovel scraped the ground. Dirt splattered the top of the box. Rocks and debris pinged on top of her. The shovel again. More dirt. Over and over. The eerie drone of his voice humming an old hymn faded in and out as he worked.
The past few days had been a living nightmare. He’d heard her call the police. Had known she’d figured out his identity. Had known that the FBI was coming for him.
There was nothing else he could do, he’d told her—except treat her as he had his other victims.
She’d thought each day she would die. But each time, when he’d finally left her, bruised and hurting, she’d managed to will herself to survive. Because she’d thought she might be rescued. That Agent Brad Booker would make good on his promise to protect her.
Particles of dirt pinged off the mound above her again, the sound growing faint as she imagined him finishing her grave.
And then the silence.
It frightened her the most.
He had gone. Was never coming back. Her body convulsed with fear. She was hidden beneath the ground, locked in the endless quiet.
No one would ever find her.
She tried to raise her hand, to roll sideways so she could push at the lid. Her right hand was broken, throbbing with pain, but she dragged her left one to her side, twisted enough to turn slightly, and clawed at the top. Her nails broke into jagged layers, and her fingers were bloody and raw, with splinters jabbing her skin.
He had nailed the top shut. And laughed as she’d begged him to stop.
A few grains of sand sifted through the cracks, pelting her face. She blinked at the dust. Tasted dirt.
It was so dark. If only she had a light.
But night had fallen outside when he’d laid her in her casket.
She pushed and scraped until her fingers grew numb. In spite of the unbearable heat, chills cascaded through her as death closed in. Then, slowly, peace washed over her as she