Love Inspired Suspense March 2015 - Box Set 1 of 2: Protection Detail\Hidden Agenda\Broken Silence (46 page)

Her mind bounced from one thought to another as she forced herself to delve into her memory, searching for any snippet of information that would make either one of the men stand out.

She sat back, shrugged. “Sorry, Patrick. Nothing.”

The hopefulness in his expression faded, leaving nothing but murkiness in its wake. “Amber, dig deep,” Patrick persisted. “Think about that night. Wasn't there something that stood out? A voice? A laugh? Anything?”

Amber held Patrick's gaze across the desktop, feeling strangely at a loss. Patrick wasn't going to be happy until she gave him conclusive facts. Of which she had none. “Patrick—” she sighed “—so much of that night is still foggy. Honestly, I've told you everything I remember.”

Patrick lifted a finger, for emphasis, no doubt, but dropped it when there was a knock on the door. He glanced over her shoulder. “Come on in.”

Amber breathed relief. If he thought that by pointing out the urgency of the situation she could just will herself into remembering some kind of concrete evidence, he was dead wrong.

She completely understood the urgency, and the memories that scrambled her brain were bad enough.

The door creaked open. A man she recognized stuck his head in. Vance Peterson, another classmate from high school.

“Hey, Patrick, do you mind if I interrupt?” Vance said.

“Sure. Come on in, Captain.” Patrick eased back in his chair, folded his arms. “Amber, you remember Vance? He supervises this department and is the culprit who enticed me to quit the navy and come back to Savannah. He's also the man I answer to.”

“I see.” Amber nodded. “How are you, Vance?”

“Doing fine.” Vance stepped inside. He focused his gaze on Amber and placed his hands on his hips. “I hope you know how fortunate you are to have Patrick on your case. It took some hefty persuasion to get him here, but he's the best investigator on the force.”

“Persuasion?” Patrick erupted with a hardy laugh. “Don't you mean pleading and groveling?”

“Okay. I'll give you
pleading.
But
groveling
? Come on.” Vance sprouted the same impish grin.

The thick blond hair from his teens had now aged into a medium brown. He still wore it short, with soft spikes on top. Not quite as tall as Patrick, he stood about five-ten, with broad shoulders and a muscled physique.

Amber smiled. Patrick and Vance had been friends since junior high. They'd been an inseparable duo. They both were athletic, charming and funny. She'd always enjoyed the camaraderie between them. Seeing them together reminded her of better times.

“So tell me what's happening on the case.” Vance's deep baritone took on a serious lilt as he morphed back into police-captain mode.

Patrick rocked forward in his chair. “You know about the shots fired at Amber's counseling center?”

Vance nodded. “I heard it got hit pretty hard.”

“Oh, yeah, there's some damage, all right.” Patrick grimaced and added, “Blew out the front window and fractured the facade of the building.”

Amber pressed one hand to her churning stomach. Somehow hearing the details made the truth that much more chilling. This guy wasn't playing.

“But of course, those things are easily repaired,” Patrick said, giving her an affable yet serious look. Probably his way of reassuring her. Keeping her from a major meltdown.

Smart man.

“Brick, mortar and glass are easy to fix.” Vance crossed his arms. “Finding this guy seems to be our problem. But we need to get him off the street before he actually hurts someone. What do you have on the suspects?”

“We're making progress.” Patrick opened a file to read from his notes. “Liza did a little searching and found some pertinent data. Carl and Randall both have more history than originally thought. Carl, in fact, was issued a restraining order in college for stalking a former girlfriend. The charges were eventually dropped.”

“Dropped or not, that's pretty significant.” Vance scratched his chin. “What about Randall?”

“Last month, his wife filed divorce papers. Adultery and domestic abuse were cited as grounds.”

“Nice guy.” Vance paused, his deep-set eyes narrowing as he stared at the computer screen. “So what is your gut telling you?”

“My instincts say one or both are involved.” Patrick shook his head. “Which one or to what degree, I've yet to determine.”

“What about you?” Vance's gaze cut from the screen to Amber.

She gave a tiny shrug. “I don't have a gut feeling about much these days. This included.”

Vance nodded. “I'm sure this whole ordeal is quite disturbing. I'm sorry you're in the middle of this.”

“Thank you, Vance.” Amber mustered up a tight smile.

“What about you, Captain?” Patrick asked. “What's your take?”

Vance exchanged a look with Patrick. “No call on this one yet. Carl and Randall both grew up on the edge of trouble, but assault and attempted murder?” Vance glanced at Amber, brow knit. “I attended a couple of those frat parties myself. Things got crazy sometimes, but for either of those guys to be so cruel to a woman is—”

“Totally possible,” Patrick interrupted.

After a short pause, Vance gave a shrug, and nausea swirled in Amber's stomach. “You're exactly right.”

“Unfortunately, capable doesn't equal guilty.” Patrick emitted a deep sigh. “But both of them know they're being watched. And the moment one slips up...I've got them.”

EIGHT

L
ater that night, Amber's eyes drifted to the faint glow of the alarm clock. Two hours she'd been in bed, every moment plagued with mounting frustration. After tossing and turning and staring at the ceiling, she was now more awake than ever. She'd tried counting sheep, reading, pacing and even taking a hot shower, trying to relax.

Still she couldn't sleep. Her mind was too busy spinning scenarios. Conjuring up a litany of what-ifs and
maybes.
Who was her attacker...and what if she accused the wrong man? Maybe the gut feeling she'd had about Randall, Bruce and Carl was wrong?

Sighing, she rubbed her face. She was getting nowhere. Blunting the memories was far easier than trying to remember.

But Patrick wanted answers. Something definitive.

There had to be something. A word, a scent, some memory.

Crimping her eyes, she forced herself to think, focus, push her thoughts back to that dingy frat room.

She drew in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly as she let her mind drift back. Eleven years, to that unforgettable night...

A small room. Dark. The whir of a ceiling fan. The air oppressive, stale. With effort, she'd managed to grip her fingers along a table edge or desk. She was confused, dazed, wondering how she got there. Music played in the background. Classical. Eerie. Pain boomeranged in her skull. Claustrophobia swallowed her, the walls closing in.

Then she heard him. His voice was high and singsong—a phony disguised lilt. She tried to place it. Tried to replay his words in her head.
Patrick.
He kept talking about Patrick. Where was he now? Who was going to save her?

Then the man laughed. The most chilling laugh she'd ever heard.

Panic grew. Blood turned to ice. She forced her trembling legs to run. Her hands frantically slapped walls, furniture to guide her to escape...

Until strong arms grabbed her, keeping her from going anywhere.

Amber's eyes blinked open, her heart galloping in her chest, a sheen of cold sweat filming her skin. She couldn't do this tonight. Nighttime was always the worst.

Now more antsy than ever, she got out of bed. Lying still a moment longer was definitely out of the question. In an attempt to stave off the shiver that began in her very soul, she grabbed her robe and paced the room, each firm step adding to her stress.

She just wanted to wake up one day and have this nightmare be over.

Chilly air from the air conditioner wafted around her, pulling her back to the present. She stopped short as rational thoughts took hold.

She'd never stopped to consider how much worse things could have been. Maybe God had intervened before the situation had escalated further.

She was nearly blown away by the concept. The tension knotting her muscles started to ease, replaced by a strange peaceful feeling.

Slipping back into bed, she snuggled beneath the blankets. There was a gentle snore from down the hallway. She curled up tighter, glad Patrick could finally sleep. When Kim had suggested he bunk on her living room sofa for the night instead of his SUV, he'd jumped at her offer.

His dedication astounded her. She didn't deserve that.

It seemed ironic that Patrick was determined to protect her from the very madman who had pushed their life into a tailspin eleven years ago.

Or could it be that in spite of her severed relations with God, He had sent this elite soldier and detective back into her life?

Even if it was a temporary assignment for Patrick, her heart melted at the thought.

* * *

Hit by the first rays of morning light streaming through the slats of the window blind, Patrick squinted and checked his watch. Barely past six. He pulled the sheet over his head, tempted to roll over and keep on sleeping. Had he not heard somebody up and rumbling around in the kitchen, he might have done so.

Sitting up, Patrick swung his feet to the floor, every muscle in his back as tight as rubber bands. Apparently, his body's way of protesting for two nights of awkward sleeping arrangements.

But despite being stiff, he'd slept okay, although lightly, with one ear attuned to his surroundings.

The night had been peaceful. No bells or whistles from the security system. Nothing unusual to note. Outside of the periodic pattering of soft footsteps coming from Amber's room down the hall. She was restless and he didn't blame her—she was dealing with a lot.

Hopefully his presence offered her some solace and a sense of safety.

With a low groan, he rubbed at the cramp in his side. Over the years he'd slept in more confined and uncomfortable quarters. He almost felt like a wimp missing his own bed with the nice memory-foam mattress.
Guess that's what civilian life does to someone.

Patrick rose slowly, stretching his arms over his head and yawning.
Better.
He cracked his knuckles.

Now he was ready to start the day. A slight clanking came from across the hall, accompanied by a whiff of something savory.

Breakfast.

A low growl in his gut responded. He hefted the knapsack he'd brought in from his car and headed to the bathroom to change his clothes and clean up. Then he went to check out what was cooking.

In the kitchen doorway, he paused and, as Amber moved around the small space, he did a quick survey of the area. The round mahogany table sat empty, pantry open, nothing lurking in the corners.

Turning slightly, he glanced out the wide bay window by the table, his gaze traveling beyond the front yard to the neighborhood street. A minivan puttered along going east, and right behind it a patrol vehicle.

Good.
They were making rounds, just like he requested. He loved those guys.

Satisfied, he settled his gaze back on Amber. Humming softly, she continued cooking, her damp hair tumbling over her shoulders. Her pastel sundress clung softly to her curves, her feet bare.

The sight unleashed more unbidden feelings. Ones he'd kept locked up for years.

Patrick's mouth edged up as he watched her, hesitant to interrupt, reveling in the peaceful moment. He couldn't help but admire her beauty.

No other woman had ever affected him the way Amber Talbot did. Too much time with this woman and he'd be a goner.

A lump crowded into his throat. At one time he'd hoped for a scenario like this. Sharing a quiet morning with Amber—sharing a lifetime together.

He remembered how she loved to cook. And how she used to surprise him with new recipes when they'd dated. He'd tease her about opening a restaurant. She'd respond that she only enjoyed cooking for him.

That was forever ago. His heart thumped in his chest.

Amber turned and grabbed an egg from a carton on the counter. With a gasp, she jumped, her eyes going wide, the egg dropping to the floor. “Patrick. You scared me to death.” Her splayed fingers slapped her chest.

So much for not being obvious. “Sorry. I didn't mean to sneak up on you.” Patrick grabbed a handful of napkins from the table. “Let me clean that up.”

“No. I've got it.” Amber tore a paper towel from a roll, squatted down and sopped up the gooey mess.

“I should have said something. I wasn't thinking.” He'd been too busy reminiscing. Something he shouldn't be doing.

“I'm just a little jumpy these days.” She tossed the soiled towels into the trash and turned on the faucet to wash her hands.

“As you should be. By the way, whatever you're cooking smells great.”

“It's just bacon, eggs and toast,” Amber said, turning from the sink. She leaned against the cabinet and wiped her hands on a dish towel. “I thought you might be hungry.”

She'd thought right. He smiled. “It sounds delicious. What can I do to help?”

“Nothing. Just have a seat and relax.”

Once he was up and about,
relax
wasn't in his vocabulary these days.

“On second thought, you can grab some plates.” With her chin, she gestured to the cabinet to her left.

“Two? Three? What do we need?”

“Only two. Kim won't be joining us. It's her day off and she's sleeping in.”

Not that it mattered if they ate alone, although he didn't mind. He gathered the plates, and as Amber finished scrambling the eggs, he grabbed two cups of freshly brewed coffee and took them to the table.

“Here you go.” Amber set one plate in front of him and another on the place mat across the table before she settled into her seat.

“Do you mind if I say a blessing?” he asked her.

After a slight hesitation she shrugged. “Sure.”

They bowed their heads.

“Lord, please let this food bless and nourish our bodies. And thank You for our many blessings. Amen.”

“Amen,” she mumbled.

“And keep Amber safe.” Patrick met Amber's gaze, smiled.

“Thank you.” Amber gave him one of those squinty-eyed smiles. The one that meant she was trying to not cry.

He took a bite of his food. Amber's safety was on the top of his prayer list these days. He hoped his simple prayer might touch her some. He'd noticed her faith didn't seem what it once had been.

“You know, you're a pretty brave woman,” he said after a moment, lifting his coffee cup to his lips.

“Brave?” A slight laugh escaped her. “I hardly think
brave
is the best description of me.”

“Oh, but you are. With all that is going on, you haven't let it get you down.” He shoved a bite of eggs in his mouth and nodded.

She shook her head, staring sullenly into her cup of coffee, where she'd just stirred a serving of cream. “For over a decade I kept a painful secret from you. I gave in to fear and guilt. I feel anything but brave.”

Her rationale hit him like a blow. Was he to blame for her fear? Maybe if he hadn't been such a hothead, maybe if she had trusted him more—

No.
He refused to go there again. He took a sip of coffee, set the cup down carefully, so as not to give away the turmoil churning inside him.
Lord, give me the wisdom to break through the wall of guilt she's erected.

“Amber, you became victim to a vicious, selfish act. It's understandable how fear and guilt could clog your mind after something like that. But look at you now. You've dedicated your life to helping others. I admire that.”

Five seconds later, he regretted the words when Amber glanced up at him. Her expression of raw pain and remorse tore at his heart.

“Patrick, you can't minimize the mistakes I've made.”

What he couldn't minimize was the guilt she was carrying.

Silence settled between them. He forked another bite of eggs, watching Amber out of the corner of his eye.

For the past several moments she had been toying with her nearly full plate of food. His attempt at being supportive had batted zero. She obviously didn't want his understanding, only his help.

Truth be known, he was still trying to make sense of it all. Relieve some of the pain that had whittled away at him for years. Little by little, piece by piece, until he went numb.

And here he was, thrown back into Amber's life, his battered emotions spewing out like molten lava. Weakening him. Making him crazy.

He kicked himself for letting his guard slip so easily. So quickly. Again.

Before he got more caught up in his frustration, the ringtone sounded on his phone. He plucked it from his belt clip, thankful for the distraction. “This is Patrick Wiley.”

“Good morning, Patrick. I have some news.” His ears perked at Liza's words.

“Something good, I hope.”

“Good for you. However, bad for Carl Shaw.”

“Carl? What about him?”

“Well, he was picked up and brought into the station last night. A call came in that a vehicle was swerving on Highway 80 east. When an officer attempted to pull Carl over, he took off, leading them on a fourteen-mile chase before he ran off the road and into a ditch.”

His lips curved at Liza's words. “Where is Carl now?”

“Sitting in a holding cell, waiting for his bail hearing. Here's the added bonus—they found four loaded guns in his trunk. A shotgun, two semiautomatic assault rifles and a handgun. We checked the registration, and they all belong to Shaw. We're running a ballistics test to see if any of the weapons match the bullets fired at the Safe Harbor Counseling Center.”

“Excellent. I'll be right over. Thanks, Liza.”

He ended the call and met Amber's wide stare with a grin. “We need to get going. I think we may have just hit pay dirt.”