Die For Me: A Novel of the Valentine Killer (For Me #1)(3)
Author: Cynthia Eden

He was too close to her. Her back was against the wall, and he stood inches away. Katherine didn’t like getting this close to people. Especially men. That was one of the issues she’d been working on with her shrink. Before she ditched said shrink.

She exhaled and said, “I’m not a reporter.” Her voice was stronger now.

“Then why are you in my precinct?” he asked. His gaze raked her body, and she didn’t like that too-assessing stare.

“Because I need to know about Savannah.” Truth. I need to know so I can decide if I need to run. Just when her life had started to get settled. The nightmares hadn’t stopped, but she’d almost felt…normal.

She should have known better.

“You’re out of luck.” He didn’t sound a bit apologetic. “’Cause I’m not talking about my case.” A faint drawl rolled lightly beneath his words.

“Fine. Then I’ll talk.” Her own words were clipped and gave no hint of an accent. She’d worked hard to lose that Boston tone. Katherine licked her lips, and Black’s gaze darted to her mouth as she said, “On the news, the reporter said that Savannah’s wrists and ankles were bound. Did the killer tie a handcuff knot with thick hemp rope? Because Valentine always used a Mexican handcuff knot—”

“Fucking news,” the cop muttered. “Look, we have no reason to believe the Valentine Killer is linked to this crime, got it? So if you think you’re coming down here to spin some bullshit story and jerk me around—”

“I’m not jerking you around.” Dammit, she was trying to help. Because she hadn’t helped before. She’d done nothing, and women had died. Not again.

If there was any chance this was Valentine and not a copycat, she had to speak out. She’d never bought the idea that Valentine had killed himself. Sure, she thought some of the cops back in Boston wished that the killer had taken his own life, but she didn’t believe that theory. It was a too-easy, too-neat theory to cover up the fact that the cops had never come close to catching Valentine. And, to her, he was Valentine. Not Michael. Never Michael.

Michael was the man she’d agreed to marry.

Valentine was the monster who’d stolen everything from her.

Keeping them separate was one of the ways she’d managed to stay sane after her life had turned into a nightmare.

By the time the cops had arrived at her house three years earlier, Valentine had been long gone. He’d just vanished and no amount of tracking had been able to find him. Until now? Because if Valentine had come out of hiding, if this was really him, then she had to speak, and screw what her handling officer with the Program thought. When she’d called him after leaving the café, he’d told her to stay away from the precinct. To keep a low profile and ignore the death.

But ignoring death wasn’t easy. She had the nightmares to prove it.

“If it’s Valentine,” she was now telling Detective Black, “then there should be eleven slices on Savannah’s left arm and ten on her right.” A precise twenty-one. The cops had never leaked that particular detail to the press. “Valentine always gave his victims those wounds because…because he had the same slices on his own arms.”

The cops hadn’t made the connection with the wounds. She had. When they’d made her stare at the pictures, over and over again, she’d realized that those wounds were in the same pattern as the scars on Valentine’s arms.

Silence beat in the small room. Then Detective Black leaned in until only a breath seemed to separate them. “Who the hell are you?”

“I told you. I’m Katherine Cole.” Say it until you believe it. “And I just want to help you find out if this is the Valentine Killer or if it’s just some wannabe trying to grab a headline.”

His gaze searched hers. She wondered what he saw there. No emotion, surely. She’d gotten very good at burying her emotions.

“This wannabe tortured a woman for hours.”

She didn’t blink.

“He drove his knife into her chest. Sank the blade into her heart.”

Her own chest ached. Katherine swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. Sweat slickened her hands. “Call your medical examiner. If he hasn’t already done it, then get him to count the slices on her arms.”

He grabbed her wrist. His hand was warm, almost hot, and when his long, strong fingers closed around her, she thought the usual fear would hit her. But it didn’t, and that fact shocked Katherine to her core.

Detective Black gazed into her eyes. “I get the feeling you’re a dangerous woman.”

She didn’t even have the breath to speak right then.

He pulled her toward the small table, pushed her into the wobbly chair. Katherine sucked in a deep breath that she really needed and tried to calm her racing heartbeat.

Then she saw the flash of silver handcuffs.

“Wait!” Katherine began, frantic. “What are you—”

He locked one cuff around the wrist he still held. Then he locked the other cuff to the leg of the table. “It’s bolted down,” he told her, giving a half grin that flashed the dimple in his left cheek, “so you’re not goin’ anywhere, lady.”

“I’m trying to help you!”

His fingers stroked over the skin of her inner wrist, an almost absent gesture, then he pulled back, taking that seductive warmth with him. “We’ll see.”

He turned toward the door with his broad back stiff.

Katherine realized he was going to just leave her there. Cuffed. “You can’t do this!” She knew her fear broke through the words.

“Watch me,” he tossed over his shoulder without glancing back.

“Please.” The plea slipped out, but she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t stand confinement. Being cuffed, yeah, that sure counted as confinement to her. And she felt like she was far too close to freaking out.

He stopped and looked back. A frown pulled his dark brows low. “Relax,” he told her, his voice softening just a bit. “I’ll visit that ME and be right back for you.”

He was checking out the story about the number of wounds. Okay. That was something. “Just hurry, okay?” Katherine tried to calm her racing heartbeat.

His gaze held hers. Then he left her. The door clicked closed quietly behind him.

She glanced around the room and finally saw the long mirror that ran the length of the left wall. A two-way mirror, she was sure.