Chapter 19: In the Still of the Night

Susan went to the window and watched as the floodlights revealed Dan’s shadowy figure. He trudged through the blizzard across the expansive lawn to his house, leaving big footprints in the blanket of snow. After a few steps, he disappeared into the pine trees. Susan thought it eerie the way the floodlights cast a long shadow of her standing in the window. As she stared out into the inky night, she noticed something awry. There were two shadows—one behind her. She froze with the grim realization that someone was standing behind her. The faint scent of his cologne told her it was Blaine.

“I missed you,” Blaine said in a raspy voice.

“You know I don’t like surprises.” Her voice was shaky.

“I know, darling, but I couldn’t wait any longer.”

Susan cringed. Blaine’s hands were cold on her shoulders. Her stomach churned as his six-foot-one frame loomed over her. Blaine turned her around, cupping her chin and forcing her gaze into his face. He wasn’t as frightening as the monster in her dreams. He was dressed in a dark blue sport coat, light blue shirt, and tan pants, looking as if he had just come from a business meeting. His expression was calm, and he was undeniably handsome. Yet, every cell in her body screamed danger.

Susan hid her fear and looked up at him with a question in her eyes.

“You look beautiful,” Blaine said. “You have a new look—a new haircut. And you’re tanned and toned. I saw your bikini line in the shower.” He flashed a wry smile. “Imagine—my little, Susan, the librarian—in a bikini. Who would have thought that my prim and proper wife would turn into such a slut in such a short time?”

“You shouldn’t be here, Blaine,” she said gently, not wanting to rile him.

“Sorry for the intrusion, but I have a lot of questions, and I have something important to tell you. Can we sit in front of the fire, have a glass of champagne, and talk? I’ve been waiting for months for you to come home.”

Susan nodded, unable to neglect the fact that she was about to sit down with a dangerous murderer. She plopped down in an overstuffed chair in front of the fireplace and pulled the knitted throw up snugly as if it could shield herself from him. She gazed into the blazing fire, afraid.

The sudden POP of the cork made her tense. She felt powerless and fearful. She craned her neck and watched him as he poured the champagne into the flutes, relieved that he hadn’t spiked her drink. She settled back in the chair, watching the flames climb in the fireplace as her pulse throbbed. He’d drugged her before. It was always unexpected. And he always denied it and played the gaslighting game with her—saying that it was probably the ice cream or soda that had made her sick. But it had happened too many times. She had searched the house for the pills he had used but hadn’t found anything.

“It’s like old times, darling,” Blaine said as he handed her a flute of bubbling champagne. “Cheers,” he said as he looked at her over the rim of his glass.

“Cheers,” she answered as she felt herself shrinking from his outstretched hand. Their glasses clicked, and the ting of crystal echoed throughout the living room. She cringed when she tipped the flute, and the light from the fire bounced off of her massive engagement ring.

“How did you meet Mr. Wonderful?” Blaine asked, staring at the ring on her finger.

“On the plane to Las Vegas,” she answered, her voice quivering.

“I don’t believe you,” he said, his steel-blue eyes narrow. “You were not a passenger on a Vegas flight or any commercial light. I checked all of the flights, and your name wasn’t on the list.”

“It was a private charter—a group going to Las Vegas. I stumbled upon it by accident.”

Blaine tipped his glass to finish his champagne and went into the kitchen to pour himself another. When he returned, he didn’t sit in the chair but shoved Susan’s feet to the side and sat down in the ottoman.

Susan waited in silence. She drew in a sharp breath when Blaine’s face changed. He was looking at her differently, as a man accessing a woman who has wronged him.

He leaned toward her. “You hurt me bad, baby,” he said accusingly. “What kind of woman would leave her husband on their anniversary? Why did it have to be that night? I brought you a dozen roses, champagne and made reservations for dinner at our favorite restaurant. I wracked my brain. What did I do, Susan?”

Susan tried to smile to appease him, but her face was as frozen as the earth outside. “I’m sorry if I hurt you, Blaine. You were having an affair. I didn’t think you’d care.”

“You’re wrong,” Blaine said through clenched teeth. “I did care. I thought you would go to Savannah to be near your aunt. I went there and searched for you at your old haunts, places I knew you liked to frequent when you visited your aunt—coffee shops and bookstores.” He grabbed her by the shoulders. “The entire time I was looking for you in Savannah, you were in Las Vegas with another man. You could have gone anyplace—but you chose Sin City. It didn’t make sense, and it still doesn’t. Why Vegas?”

“I got on the first plane, leaving Columbus. I didn’t care where it was going,” Susan lied, her voice quivering. “I didn’t plan any of it—.”

Blaine released her, and she fell back into the chair, trembling.

“I never stopped looking for you, Susan,” Blaine said with a condescending look. His anger seemed to have waned. “It took a while, but I found you. It was ironic. An old friend called me and said he’d seen you at The Ranch in Las Vegas. He told me you were with a former FBI agent—someone he knew. I went there to try to find you, and your Mr. Wonderful and two other guys beat me up pretty bad. They threatened to kill me if I came back.”

Susan’s mind was swimming. Derrick had never said anything about it.

Blaine’s blue eyes bore into hers. “After I got home, I investigated Mr. Wonderful. His wife died of a heart attack when they went to New York to a Broadway play, and it wasn’t an accident. He murdered his wife.”

“She had a heart attack and died,” Susan interjected. “Derrick didn’t kill her.”

Blaine’s voice turned icy. “Don’t argue with me, Susan. I investigated him. I went to Jenny’s parents, and they said she was in perfect health and had never had a heart problem. They hired a private investigator, and he did a thorough investigation. He believes that Jenny died of a drug the government makes available only to the military, FBI, Secret Service, CIA, and Navy Seals. The drug is similar to cyanide and stops the heart. It doesn’t show up in an autopsy.”

Blaine’s words rang hollow. “You’re wrong. Derrick’s a consultant, and he teaches martial arts at the FBI Academy a few times a year. He wouldn’t do such a thing.”

Blaine smiled a wry smile. “You are so naive, Susan. Do you really believe he makes that much money teaching martial arts? My friend told me that Derrick and his special agent, FBI friends, are specially trained to extract information from people who do not want to talk. They torture people, cut off body parts, and mutilate them. It’s much worse, but I don’t want to gross you out.”

“Is this what you came here to tell me?” Susan asked. “Because I don’t believe you.”

“I’m not finished. You could be Derrick’s deceased wife’s twin. I saw her picture when I was doing the investigation.”

Susan bit her lip and held her tongue. Blaine had a hair-trigger temper. If she riled him, he could kill her on the spot. She was sure that what he had done had been much worse than cutting off fingers. He’d bragged about missions where he had executed people and broke their necks with one snap.

“You’re right, Blaine. I look like Jenny—blonde—green eyes. Vegas is full of women who look like Jenny. I don’t know what that has to do with anything.”

“That’s a lie. You are extraordinarily beautiful, and so was Jenny. Don’t you wonder how he found you?” he asked in a calculating voice. “The FBI has databases; a man can find whatever kind of woman he wants.”

“Exactly what do you want, Blaine?”

Blaine changed like a chameleon. “I want another chance,” he said, his voice gentle and persuasive. “You did something stupid, Susan, and I’m willing to forgive you and take you back. It was all a misunderstanding.” He took her hand and intertwined his fingers with hers. “I admit there was a lot of things wrong with our marriage, but we could have worked through it.”

“It’s over, Blaine. I’ve moved on,” Susan said, none too gently, as she tried to pull away from his grip, but he hung on tight to her hand. He was like a man desperate to hold on to a piece of broken glass, knowing it was broken but thinking he could put it back together.

Blaine frowned. “If you left because of the journal, it was all a misunderstanding. You found a journal about a dream that I’d had. After Carol died, I had nightmares, and my therapist told me to journal about my dreams. That’s all it was—I never thought you’d leave me over something so insignificant.”

“It was more than the journal,” Susan said, speaking softly and choosing her words carefully—walking on eggs. “The marriage ended years ago. The journal was the catalyst.” Susan watched as Blaine’s face darkened. He released her hand, and Susan sighed a sigh of relief, then shrunk back, fear struck, when he drew up his hand in a fist so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

“Maybe the marriage ended for you, but it didn’t for me,” Blaine said in a melancholy voice. “I keep going back to that night where I came home with flowers and that sinking feeling I felt when you weren’t here. Even after I read the letter, I kept going back to your bedroom. I thought I was having a nightmare, and you’d be there reading in your bed or at your desk writing.”

Blaine was a man with a thousand faces. He wore his pity face—a look that held despair and hurt. But it could change in an instant to almost anything imaginable. That’s not what you were thinking, you fucking bastard. You were disappointed that I left, and you couldn’t kill me. “What do you want me to do, Blaine?” she asked in a gentle voice, masking her anger. “Why are you here?”

“I want to go back to that night when you left, Susan. I want to pretend it never happened. I want romance. I want you. I brought you flowers—I have steaks for dinner.”

Susan grew quiet. Pretend it never happened? That would be quite a feat, even for one night. She wished she could wipe that hopeful look off his face. He was treating the fact that she’d found a journal in the closet describing Carol’s death as a mere hiccup in their marriage. He was having an affair when I left. Why does he want me to go through this charade? She wasn’t sure how long she could keep up the pretense. Even if she’d never found the journal, there was a mountain of things wrong with the relationship—infidelity, broken promises, and his need to control.

Hanging by a thread, Susan sought to take the attention away from her. “I’m sure you moved on, Blaine. You’re free to do whatever you want. You must have a girlfriend, Blaine.”

“I do have a girlfriend. Her name is Mary Lou. I don’t love her. If you had met my needs, I wouldn’t have had to have affairs. You were emotionally unavailable.” Blaine’s face grew dark, his eyes reproachful. “Tonight, you are going to be emotionally available whether you like it or not.”

Susan grew rigid. Blaine’s threats were frightening, but he’d never actually physically hurt her. But he’d killed Carol. It was like trying to second guess a mad bull who may or may not charge. She chose not to wave a red flag in front of him. It was best to be silent and not offer him a reason to attack. She would listen.

She sipped her champagne, which was now flat and warm. She studied Blaine’s face and wondered how a psychopath could be charismatic, handsome, and charming. No one would suspect he was a killer. At parties, women couldn’t leave him alone. Blaine collected women like paper dolls to be discarded later. Susan set the flute down and pulled up the throw holding it tight around her.

Blaine went to the window and looked out at the snow falling in huge flakes. Then he started pacing. “You never wanted to make time for me, Susan,” he smirked. “You were too busy tearing down wallpaper or putting it up, tending your rose garden, or sending a piece of furniture out to be refinished. I admit to being bored, but I loved you. And I never stopped loving you.”

Over the years, a pattern had evolved. Blaine always faulted her and had an excuse for his wrongdoing. “I have a lot of hobbies, but they don’t mess up lives,” Susan said in an icy voice. “You used women for entertainment to cut through the boredom.”

“I like to think about it as having a huge libido and an unappreciative wife,” Blaine sneered.

Susan drew back when Blaine reached out and grabbed her glass. Again, she watched with scrutiny, her eyes following him as he went to the kitchen and refilled the glasses.

“Tell me how you feel about me, Susan,” Blaine said as he handed her the flute. “I’d like to know before we start our celebration. Maybe you could fake it and tell me you love me.” He chuckled. “I always knew when you faked it. That’s the worst thing a woman can do to a man because then you know they’ve lost interest and want you to stop trying.”

Susan could feel her anger growing and could not hold back. “You want to know how I feel? I feel like I was never enough, and I’ll never be enough, so let’s end the madness,” Susan lashed out. And then she made the mistake of saying what she felt. “I would rather die than let you touch me. I want it to be over, Blaine.”

Blaine’s eyes flashed in anger, no longer trying to reign in his frustration. “The marriage is over when I say it’s over,” he said in a low, threatening voice. He rose suddenly, ripped off the throw blanket—grabbed her, and pulled her into his arms. He lowered his head so that his lips played along the curve of her throat. “I want to hurt you like you hurt me. I’m fighting the urge to break your beautiful neck.”

Susan’s body stiffened. Her lower lip trembled.

“Lie very still because if you fight me, I won’t be able to control myself,” he said as he slipped his hands inside of her pajamas.

Susan lay motionless, listening to his ragged breathing, his whiskey breath whispering, filthy dirty words that made her recoil to his touch. Then his voice changed to a monotone as he said, “Baby, you’re not wearing any underwear. It should be a turn-on, but to tell you the truth—it’s a little disappointing—because all of my women have been wearing your underwear. It’s part of my fantasy.”

She tried to turn the conversation away from her. “I’ll bet you have a lot of women. You don’t need me. We can forget this ever happened.”

Blaine didn’t seem to hear her. “Be adventurous, Baby. Be bad with me. Even when I’m having sex with the other women, it’s you I want. At the end—I have them stuff your underwear in my mouth.”

Susan was sickened at his vileness. And her stomach churned as he held her down and kissed her. “Please stop, Blaine,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm so that he wouldn’t know how scared she was.

“Shut up, Susan. Don’t make me hurt you. I’m fighting the urge to cause you pain. I know you don’t like it, but I do,” he said, his breath hot against her neck. “Hurt me. Bite me on my shoulder.”

Susan’s voice caught in her throat, then she said, “I can’t; it isn’t normal to do things like that.”

Suddenly he turned her over hard, and she found herself staring at the floor as she felt the thrashing motion of his hand coming down hard on her buttocks. She screamed a loud, piercing scream.

“Stop, Blaine! Have you gone mad?”

“Bite me.”

Tears streamed down Susan’s face. “No. I’m not an animal.”

“That was a bad decision,” Susan, because now I have to hurt you, Blaine said in an eerie too calm voice. He threw her to the floor, crushing her with the weight of his body.

Susan writhed in pain as Blaine’s hand, entangled in her hair, pulled hard. She cried out in pain. But when the pain turned to anger fed by adrenaline, she fought back with a strength she didn’t know she had. She pushed him hard—enough to breathe.

Blaine looked at her in surprise. “Be submissive, bitch, or I’m going to have to hurt you bad.”

Susan mustered all the strength she could and cried out in a harsh voice, “My last hour of life is not going to be about fulfilling your sick fantasies. You might as well kill me, Blaine. I don’t like it. I’d rather be dead. Get the gun.”

Blaine slapped her hard across the face. “Stop talking crazy. Don’t ever talk about hurting yourself. That’s insane, Susan.”

Trembling and trying to recover from the blow, Susan’s hand went to her nose. She choked and tasted something metallic. She looked at her hand, covered with blood, and shuddered.

Blaine recoiled when he saw Susan’s face. “I didn’t hurt you, Susan. You did this to yourself.” He carried her into the kitchen and applied cold towels until her nose stopped bleeding, then he brought her back to the chair by the fireplace.

She sat dazed, with her head in the curve of his arm like a limp rag doll as he spoke in a low, raspy voice.

“We had it all—a million-dollar home, expensive cars. How could you leave everything we’ve worked for, Susan?”

Susan nodded, too battered to speak. The fight had gone out of her. Everything he said was a lie. Her parents had left her the house. And she worked five days a week at the library and paid for all of her necessities. She never asked Blaine for a dime.

Her head fell back, and she looked at the ceiling as Blaine loosened the belt of her robe. The robe slipped off her shoulders. Susan’s eyes went to the window, watching the storm rage, the snow falling heavy, drifting against the window. There was a full-blown blizzard outside. She could feel Blaine’s heavily aroused body against her and prayed he wouldn’t rape her. God, help me! God, help me! The feel of Blaine’s hot breath against her neck sickened her. Her eyes continued to watch the blizzard outside as her mind fought him. She imagined she was out in the blizzard looking in through the window. She cringed as he unbuttoned her pajama top, feeling humiliated as he touched her breasts. But she didn’t object because she didn’t want to take another beating. She’d never hated anyone as much as he overpowered her. She hated him.

Suddenly, Blaine’s head jerked, and his ears perked. He threw Susan aside and got up and checked the doors.

Susan’s eyes followed him as he walked to the window and looked out. Her mind reeled as she tried to visualize how she would kill him. There were knives in the kitchen. It has to be the knife that I use to cut up chicken. I’ll stab him through the heart. Susan tried to get up, but her legs felt rubbery.

“It was the bushes brushing against the windows,” Blaine said, gathering up in his arms.

“Did you put something in my drink, Blaine?” she asked in a small voice. “I’m not feeling well.”

“It wasn’t much—a little Xanax to relax you. You’re fine.”

“How much?” Susan pressed, wondering if it was a lethal dose. Was this the way she was going to die?” She shut her eyes tight. It was madness, not knowing if she was going to die. The rage turned to anger. Strangely, Blaine had grown quiet. He was resting his head in the curve of her neck.

She glanced at her bloody hands. Blaine had cleaned her face but neglected her hands. Blaine didn’t notice when she quietly wiped her hands on her face smearing the blood on her cheeks and mouth.

Working up all the courage she could muster, Susan could have won an award for best actress as she murmured. “Blaine, I’m all bloody.”

Blaine pulled back and frowned. “Damned, where did that blood come from, Susan? Get washed up.”

Susan felt stronger. Her mind was clearing. “Okay. I’ll get cleaned up, and then I’ll fix dinner. We should have dinner. It’s getting late. Then I’ll put on something pretty for you—one of those silk nightgowns you like.”

Blaine’s blue eyes turned steely. “Don’t fuck with me, Susan? I know when you’re lying.”

Susan barely heard him. Escape was first and foremost in her mind as her eyes went to the window, a storm raging, the snow falling heavy. The planes wouldn’t be able to fly. Derrick would not be able to get through to her. By the time he got here, she would be dead.

“You never were a good liar, Susan,” Blaine said in a low voice. “You’re stalling for time. We both know that sooner or later—someone is going to come. And I bet that it’s going to be your fiancé. Don’t fuck with me. I saw you with him at the casino. The way you looked at him—he didn’t have to beg for it twice a week as I did. You were hot for him.”

Blaine slapped her hard across the face, and she dropped to the floor. Then he kicked her in the back. “I don’t need you to pity fuck me. I don’t even know why I still want you, but I do. I will have my anniversary night with you—on my terms. I’m in control. I’m not playing fucking Mary Lou games. I’ve got you. I don’t need Mary Lou anymore.”

Susan lay with her knees drawn up in pain, dazed—Blaine’s words ringing in her ears. He had stalked her and seen her with Derrick. She shut her eyes tight and lay whimpering, listening to the sound of Blaine pacing, and smacking his fist into the palm of his hand.

She cried out in pain when he grabbed a handful of hair and jerked her head up.

“Shut up, Susan. Don’t make me hit you again. Why did you make me hurt you, Susan?” He smacked her hard across the face.

Susan’s neck flew back.

“I can’t stand the sight of blood,” he said. “Get cleaned up.”

The phone rang, breaking the tension that was so thick you could cut with a knife.

The answering machine came on: This is Susan. Sorry, I can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a message.

Then Derrick’s voice boomed. Honey, I’m on my way. There’s a blizzard, and I’m having trouble getting through. Hang in there. I’ll be there soon. I love you, baby.

At the sound of Derrick’s voice, hope sprang. She knew she had to live.

Susan could see Blaine standing in front of her and braced herself for another kick. But it didn’t come. He reached down and pulled her to her feet and slid his arm around her waist.

Susan’s bottom lip trembled as she spoke, “Blaine, if you leave now—I won’t breathe a word.”

“You amuse me, Susan. You turned my journal over to the sheriff and told him I murdered Carol,” he said, his tone angry. “And now, you won’t breathe a word….” He threw her down, grabbed her leg, and dragged her into the kitchen.

“Make us dinner,” he ordered as he pulled a skillet out of a cabinet and slammed it on the stove.

When she turned onto her side to get up, he stood ominously above her. Every time she tried to get up, he would kick her in the lower back, and she would fall back. She cried out in pain. Finally, he backed away, and she forced herself to get up despite the searing pain in her back.

She took the steaks out of the refrigerator and began to unwrap the packages as Blaine’s eyes bore down upon her. She thought about making a run for it, but Blaine was highly athletic. Even if she made it to the door and screamed—no one was likely to hear her in blizzard conditions with gales of wind up to sixty miles per hour.

Blaine grabbed the steaks and threw them in the skillet. “You didn’t give me a fucking card for our anniversary.” His voice was low and calculating.

“I have a card for you, Blaine,” she said. “It’s upstairs on my desk.”

“Get the fucking card and write something nice.”

Susan moved as quickly as she could up the stairs, but it hurt like hell. She limped down the hall to her bedroom. Her hands shaking, she picked up the phone and dialed 911. Miraculously, a girl answered.

“What’s your emergency?” the girl asked in a squeaky voice.

“This is Susan James at 19551 Monroe Mills Road. My ex-husband broke into my house. He’s threatening to kill me. Please hurry.”

She opened her desk drawer and grabbed the anniversary card she’d bought a few days before she’d left. She grabbed a pen, her hands trembling as she wrote, Happy 5th anniversary! All my love, Susan. Susan’s mind screamed for the sheriff to come. It was a small village. They were ten minutes away. She had just sealed the envelope when she heard a noise at the doorway and looked up. Blaine stood at the door—his eyes darted to the bed and then to her.

“Get washed up, and get in bed,” he ordered.

Susan went into the bathroom and wet a washcloth. She wiped off the blood, then rinsed the cloth, put the cold cream on, and rewashed her face.

“The steaks are on,” she called out. “We always have dinner first.”

“You’re stalling, Susan,” Blaine said gruffly. “Get your ass in here.”

Susan reluctantly trudged back into the room.

“Put something sexy on,” he said in a husky voice.

She sauntered to her dresser and pulled out a flimsy blush-colored negligee.

“Do you like this?” she asked, holding it up.

“It will do,” he said gruffly. “Take everything off, Susan.”

She fiddled with the buttons on her pajamas, praying for the sheriff to get there.

Blaine knew she was stalling. He strode over and ripped her pajama top off, then stripped her of the bottoms and ripped them to shreds.

She swallowed hard as she stood naked before him. When she reached for the nightgown, Blaine picked her up and threw her across the bed. She lay, feeling helpless. All the fight had gone out of her.

He took off his jacket and started to unbutton his shirt, all the while, his eyes locked on her.

“It’s going to hurt. It’s time you feel the pain I’ve felt since you left me. You’ve been playing games with me, but the games are over.”

Susan bit her lip to keep from saying anything at all. Whatever she said would irritate him. She looked at his naked body in disgust. He pinned her to the bed and lay on top of her. She braced herself for what was to come, but nothing happened.

“You’re going to have to help me, Susan,” he said, taking her hand.

“All right,” she said, her voice muffled from his heavy body—though she knew she couldn’t touch him. She stared at the ceiling—something was wafting in the air—smoke. She breathed in and choked.

“I smell smoke,” she cried out. “There’s a fire!”

Blaine rolled off her, and Susan grabbed her robe lying across the chair, putting it on as she limped out of the room, hurrying as fast as possible. The kitchen had filled with smoke, and the steaks were black and sizzling. Everything looked hazy gray, but when she turned to see if Blaine was behind her—her eye caught the glint of something on the counter. A Glock—partially hidden by the mail. Dan must have left it.

She could hear Blaine’s footsteps coming up the hall. She grabbed the Glock and held it behind her back. Blaine knew something was different as soon as he looked at her face.

Susan gripped the cold, steely gun hard with two hands and pointed it at Blaine, her feet shoulder-width apart. She leaned forward from the waist.

“Stay back, or I swear I’ll kill you.”

“You don’t have the guts, Susan. You don’t even know how to use a gun.”

He had consistently undermined her every move and dictated her every thought. But this time, Susan wasn’t listening. She heard banging at the door but stood firm. She knew if she took her eyes off of him for a second, she was dead.

She heard Bruce’s words in her mind. Blaine is your enemy.

There was a loud pounding at the door, and she heard the door open and muffled voices in the hallway.

Blaine took another step.

“Stay back, or I’ll shoot,” Susan warned.

A loud voice commanded, “Put down the gun, Susan. We’ve got it.”

A glance told her it was the sheriff and two deputies.

“If I put the gun down, he’ll kill me,” Susan said. “He’s dangerous. Blaine is a former Navy Seal, and he’ll kill me and everyone in this room if I don’t have this gun pointed at his head. He killed his first wife. It’s all written in a journal. I have a restraining order against him. He broke into my house.”

“That’s a lie,” Blaine said through clenched teeth. His mask never slipped to the outside world. “I wrote down a dream, and Susan thought I killed my first wife. The truth is—Susan is a scorned woman trying to get even. She called and asked me to come over for dinner. We made love. She led me to believe she wanted to get back together; then, she turned on me. I love Susan. I would never hurt her.”

“You always get away with everything,” Susan said bitterly, “tell the truth, or I’m going to put a bullet right between your eyes. I’m not going to let you get away with this or Carol’s murder.”

“Put the gun down, Susan,” the sheriff warned as his eyes darted from her to Blaine as if he didn’t know who to believe. “I’ve got it.”

Susan quickly put the gun down on the counter.

“Put your hands in the air, Blaine,” the deputy demanded.

Blaine ignored the order and took a step towards Susan.

A shot rang out.

Shell-shocked, Susan’s ears were ringing, and she was frozen in place as she tried to comprehend what had happened.

The deputy had shot Blaine.

Blaine swayed. His face turned white, drained of color, and when he took a step forward, he slipped in the puddle of blood at his feet, almost falling. His blue eyes looked crazed.

In a split second, Blaine lunged for her. As weak as he was, his face held a slight smile as he held her against the wall, and his hands gripped her around the neck. She felt his hands squeezing her throat and fought for air. He’d always bragged that he could snap a neck and kill his victims instantly, but his hands were slippery with blood, and he couldn’t get a good grip.

Susan could hear the deputies shouting for Blaine to release her and felt them struggling to pull Blaine away from her, but Blaine held on with brute strength despite his wounds.

The deputy slammed Blaine with his baton in the head, and Blaine cried out like a wounded animal. He fell, pulling Susan down with him.

Susan lay on top of him, covered in blood, dazed. Her eyes were slits. His blue eyes met hers, but they no longer welded control and power.

“Happy anniversary, Susan,” he said in a raspy voice. “I only wish I could fuck you one more time.”

“I would rather die,” she said in a cold voice.

She felt strong arms enfold her and lift her off Blaine.

“Are you okay, Susan?” Derrick asked as he set her on her feet.

“I think so,” she said, swaying as she tried to get her bearings. “Thank God you’re here.”

And then Bruce and Max were there surrounding her, their faces full of concern.

Derrick led her to the kitchen table, and she sat down. “You’re pale, and you’re limping,” he said. “What did he do to you?”

Susan was afraid if she told Derrick everything that Blaine had done, he would kill him. “It doesn’t matter. My back is hurting, but I’m okay.”

In the distance, Susan could hear the sounds of the sirens coming this way. The deputies were kneeling around Blaine, holding a towel to his wound. She looked at the puddles of bright red blood on the kitchen hardwood floor. Her neat, clean house was now a crime scene with yellow tape around it, and there were bloody footprints on her cream-colored carpet that hadn’t been there before their arrival.

Another car arrived with more cops and detectives. They swarmed the house. The sheriff went upstairs, and minutes later, he sent a detective for her.

Derrick helped her up the steps.

“What happened here, Susan?” the sheriff asked, gesturing to the ripped pajamas.

It was difficult to tell him in front of Derrick. He stared at the pajamas—his eyes dark and his hands drawn up into fists at his sides.

“He asked me to take the pajamas off and put on a negligee.” Susan pulled a blush-colored nightgown out of the open drawer and held it up. “I was stalling—going slow—and he ripped the pajamas off me.”

“Then what?” the sheriff asked.

“Then he threw me in the bed,” she said, agitated that she had to relive the horrific atrocity.

“Do you need a sexual assault test done at the hospital?” the sheriff asked with a sense of urgency.

Susan could feel Derrick’s dark eyes burning into her.

“No. Blaine didn’t rape me. He took off his clothes and pinned me down on the bed. He couldn’t get an erection and asked me to help him. That’s when I smelled smoke. The steaks were burning. I jerked away from Blaine and bolted.”

A forensic photographer snapped pictures of Susan’s wounds, Blaine’s bloody handprints on her neck, and the shredded pajamas that lay in a pile on the floor.

“Can you demonstrate how he held you on the bed?” the sheriff asked.

Susan was growing increasingly intolerant of the questions. It was like going through the attack over and over. “No. I can’t demonstrate anything,” she said with disgust. “He pinned me to the bed. Isn’t that enough information?”

“I’d like to take my fiancé home now,” Derrick said. “If you need anything else, you can contact my attorney.” Derrick handed him a card then flipped his badge. “Derrick Hampton, FBI.”

“This is highly irregular,” the sheriff said. “She’s battered. She needs to go to the hospital and have x-rays. And to my office to file charges.”

“I’m not filing charges,” Susan said with a note of finality, “Why?” the sheriff asked.

“Because I can’t win against Blaine. He will taunt me and make me look like a fool in the courtroom.”

“But he tried to strangle you. I saw it. I’ll testify.”

“It doesn’t matter what you saw. I’ve already been through hell tonight, and I won’t let Blaine put me through it again.” she swallowed hard. “Blaine’s smart. He knows how to work the system.”

The sheriff frowned. “I don’t understand, Susan.”

“I can’t win against him, and I won’t press charges. I’m going back to Nevada.”

“There will be a trial. My deputy shot him. You have to be here.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t help,” Susan sniffed.

“Do you think you have anything broken, Susan?” the sheriff asked.

“I’m hurting like hell, but I don’t think I have anything broken. I had a bloody nose—and most of the blood is Blaine’s when he pulled me down on top of him,” she said bitterly. “The humiliation hurts worse than the battering. Blaine wanted to rape me before he killed me.”

“You need to go to the hospital, Susan,” the sheriff said. “I need a report to add to the testimony.”

“The jury would laugh at my injuries,” Susan said. “A bloody nose, some bruises, bloody handprints on my neck. How can I make you understand? Blaine carried out a heinous crime. He broke into my home, battered me, tried to rape me, and held me captive for hours, but there isn’t a jury in the State of Ohio who will convict him.”

“Why are you saying that?” the sheriff asked.

“Because Blaine is good-looking, charming, and believable. Men admire him because he’s a former Navy Seal, and women want to sleep with him.”

The sheriff heaved a sigh. “I can’t make you stay, but I wish you wouldn’t leave. The prosecutor is going to have questions.”

“He can talk to my attorney,” Susan said. And now, if you’ll excuse me. I need to take a shower. I have blood all over me.”

“We’re still collecting evidence,” the sheriff said. “I need a few more pictures of your neck before you can take a shower.”

The forensic photographer snapped more pictures from every angle. Blaine’s handprints were visible on her neck. Then he took more photos of the shredded pajamas. A detective scrambled to bag the pajamas.

Susan was ready to drop. Her back was hurting, and she had a headache. After the sheriff and his people left the room, Susan headed for the shower.

Derrick sat in an overstuffed chair and watched her take a shower from the reflection of the mirror. When she finished showering, Derrick was waiting for her with a thick white towel. He dried her gently, then held her in his arms.

“If he had touched you, I would have killed him,” Derrick said, wrapping his arms around her.

“Well, he didn’t. I’m fine,” Susan murmured, her cheeks burning as she pulled away. She put on a pair of faded blue jeans, a sweater, and leather boots. “I’ll throw a few things in a bag, and we can go.”

Susan grabbed three pairs of faded blue jeans, a few tops, and another pair of boots. She put them in a small suitcase. When she looked up, Derrick was holding the blush-colored negligee. He threw it in the bag.

“I like it,” he said.

When they went downstairs, Bruce was handing Dan a bunch of one-hundred-dollar bills. “Thanks for offering to take care of this mess,” he said. “I don’t think we’ll be coming back until summer.”

Dan looked at the letter on the table. “You didn’t read your letter, Susan.”

“Oh, well…later,” Susan said, tucking it in her carry-on bag. “Thanks a million for everything. I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for your Glock.”

“You still need to make the cookies,” Dan chided.

“Come and visit,” she said.

“You’ll be getting a wedding invitation,” Derrick said.

“I’d love to come, but I don’t’ like to fly,” Dan said. “I’ll see you when you get back, buddy.”

Bruce took Susan’s carry-on bag from her and slung it over his shoulder. “I’ve got your number, Dan. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry; everything will be fine. I’ll get the cleaning crew in first thing.”

Susan’s heels clicked down the hall.

They all left the house together. Mac was in the car with the headlights on—Susan reached her hand around the corner to turn off the porch light just like she’d always done, and for a brief moment, she thought she felt a cold hand on hers. She squealed.

“What’s wrong?” Bruce asked in alarm.

“I thought I felt a hand brush mine when I turned off the porch light.”

“Come on, baby. Let’s go home,” Derrick said, taking her by the arm. “Your nerves are getting the best of you.”

A quarter of a mile down the road, the ambulance slid on black ice and wrapped around a tree, killing the deputy. Blaine lay on the ground next to the ambulance, unhurt. The deputy’s mangled body was lying beside him, his eyes open with a vacant look. Blaine knew the look; he had seen it many times when he was a Navy Seal. Blaine’s eyes glittered; once again, he had cheated death. A strange look of satisfaction covered his face.

The sheriff was directly behind the ambulance and transported Blaine to the hospital. They took him to surgery, removed the bullet, and released him from the hospital the next day. They took him back to jail, where he waited for an hour for his attorney to come and pay his bail.

Once again, Blaine was a free man.