Page 42 of The Woman Who Couldn't Scream
No one.
Would they?
She signed, “He said, ‘Remember. You cannot scream.’” She didn’t tell the whole truth. She didn’t say that he’d called herHelen. The name, for her, was a shameful brand that burned and burned and never stopped.
Kateri sucked in her breath. “Damn. Not surprised you were scared. I’ll send a patrolman.”
Merida pointed. “You?”
“I’m sorry, Merida, but I can’t come myself. Right now, we’ve got a situation.”
Merida glanced at the clock. ThreeA.M.
Kateri was awake, alert, dressed in her sheriff’s uniform. She tied off her braid and flipped it back over her shoulder.
A man, a tall man, Native American and bare to the waist, stepped into range of the camera, kissed her on the cheek and murmured, “Take care.”
“I always do,” Kateri said to him. She leaned down and petted her dog and with tablet still in hand, she picked up her walking stick and walked out of her apartment and into the night.
Behind her, a young, red-haired patrolman followed, speaking into the radio clipped onto the shoulder of his uniform.
“A crime?” Merida asked.
“A murder.”
That word,murder,jolted Merida into thinking logically and without that knee-jerk fear. “Don’t send anyone here.” Because she didn’t want to make a scene at the B and B. She didn’t want Sean Weston to be the patrolman who came to check on her. Most of all, she didn’t want Benedict to know his scare tactics were working. Because it had to be him, didn’t it? He had arrived in town and within hours a strange man called and “warned” her of oncoming trouble. “I’m fine. I’m safe. Take care.”
Kateri understood. “I always do,” she said again.
Merida cut the connection. She held the tablet and thought, then with every evidence of casualness, she turned off the lights—and dropped to the floor. She crawled to the window and looked out into the yard. She scanned the trees first—the moon was close to full and no clouds covered its face, and in the light she saw no suspicious shapes, no lurkers in the branches.
But when she peeked out into the shadowy yard, she saw furtive movement. A flash of eyes? A scuttle against the ground? Maybe a raccoon? Or a wolf? Or a… not a wolf. Not… it was human. Someone was watching.
She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall.
Who was watching? Paparazzi? Benedict? Someone who was after her?
Who?
And why?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Officer Rupert Moen had parked the patrol car at the curb by Kateri’s door. He opened the passenger side door.
Kateri slid in, placed her walking stick in the back and watched the young officer as he crossed in front of the headlights. His mouth was pinched as if he wanted to vomit, and he walked like a man suffering from a massive hangover. But he’d been fine yesterday… and he’d been on duty all night. The boy was not hungover. He was sick in his heart and soul. He started the car and headed out of town and down the dark and winding coast highway toward the crime scene.
“You were the first responder?” she guessed.
“Yes.” In the dash lights, he looked scared… no, not scared. Haunted.
“You want to fill me in?”
“No.” That was all. No description, no details, no excitement. The young officer was uncharacteristically silent.
So it was bad. Very bad.
She patted his hand on the steering wheel.
