She was tired of treading water. She wanted, needed, to move forward.
And she wanted Quinn with her every step of the way.
“Do you want to kiss me?”
She felt his body tense. Had she overstepped her bounds?
“I’m sorry,” she whispered and looked away.
He lifted her chin with his finger and turned her to face him again. His brown eyes seemed black, his expression serious, and her breath almost stopped at the sheer beauty of his face. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since last September when I came back to see you. I’ve wanted to kiss you every day we’ve spent together, and every day we’ve been apart.”
Warmth, deep, satisfying affection, spread through her body as the sincerity of his words stroked her soul. She leaned forward a bit and whispered, “Kiss me.”
The light touch of his lips on hers made her shiver. Slowly, she put her arms around his neck. He kissed her with more urgency and she leaned into him. His arms wrapped around her and he pulled her close, his hands fisting in her hair at the base of her head, holding her tight but not too tight. To every shift she made, he yielded, every tentative touch on his face, his arms, his chest, he accepted.
She wanted more than a kiss.
“Stay with me tonight,” she whispered in his ear.
He moved so she could see his eyes. “Miranda, I want to. I want to make love to you. But not tonight. Don’t rush it.”
She blinked, coldness washing over her.
For two minutes, she’d forgotten about the Butcher. For two glorious minutes he’d been erased from her mind.
“It’s been a year,” she said, her voice flat. She turned away from him. “I haven’t rushed into anything.”
“I know. Honey, don’t be angry. I want to make sure you want the same thing I do.”
She bit her lip to stop herself from crying. Not because of Quinn, but because her life was so different from what she’d planned. She’d wanted to open her own business, something outdoorsy and recreational. She’d wanted to give river rafting tours in the summer and teach kids how to ski in the winter and help her dad run the Lodge.
“Nothing’s ever going to be the same,” she whispered.
He caressed her cheek until she faced him. The emotion in his eyes mimicked her internal turmoil. “No, nothing is going to be the same. But you’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met. Your will to survive, not just what happened a year ago, but also reclaiming your life, humbles me.”
She shook her head. “I’m nothing special.”
He almost laughed. “Miranda, you’re incredible.” He lightly kissed her.
“I know that having Sharon’s killer still out there is like a festering sore. It just doesn’t go away. I wish I could have done more.” He ran a hand through his hair, his voice rough with frustration.
“You did everything you could.” She’d been impressed with the FBI and the police during the investigation. But now her case was cold. Unless the Butcher attacked another woman, he’d never be caught. It wasn’t fair that another woman would have to be hurt-and possibly die-to find Sharon’s killer.
She wished there was something more she could do. Not only to stop the Butcher, but to help find other killers. Men who preyed on women, who hurt them for their own sick, twisted reasons.
Why couldn’t she? Why couldn’t she be proactive? She’d been sitting around the Lodge for a year-doing what? Going to college? Helping her dad with the guests? But really, what she was doing was feeling sorry for herself and doing nothing productive with her life.
That had to change if she were truly going to learn to live with what had happened to her.
“What would you think if I wanted to go into law enforcement? I could join the Sheriff’s Department.” She continued on before Quinn said anything, becoming more excited as the ideas came to her. “Or maybe I could become an FBI agent! I’m smart, I’m almost done with my degree, I’m back in shape, and don’t mind working hard. I can finally do something proactive for a change, not just sitting around here doing nothing. I’m tired of being a victim.”
He didn’t say anything.
“You don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” She wanted his approval. She needed his support.
“Miranda, I want you to do what you want to do. But I had no idea you were interested in law enforcement. You never said anything.”
“It was always just a thought in the back of my mind, but it developed fully as I sat here realizing that nothing is going to be the same and I need to take charge of my life.”
“You have to be twenty-three to be accepted into the Academy,” Quinn said.
“That’s only a year.”
“You have to finish your degree. A lot of agents get a master’s in another field, like criminology or psychology.”
“I’m a good student. I don’t mind another year of school.”
“The Academy isn’t easy. It’s physically and mentally grueling.”
“I can handle it. Don’t you agree?”
He paused. “Yes, I think you’d do well under pressure.”
“Quinn, I feel like I have to help people. I can’t explain it any better.” She frowned. She could barely explain it to herself, all these new ideas and thoughts swimming around. But one thing was clear: she now had a direction and she wasn’t going to lose her focus. Having a goal strengthened her resolve.
The Butcher was getting away with murder. She had to do something to stop another madman from doing the same.
“I’ll help you if I can,” Quinn said. “If it’s what you want.”
“It is,” she said, more confident now that she had his support.
He wrapped his arms around her and they stayed like that for some time. As the sun finished settling on the other side of the mountains, as the night turned cool, as the nocturnal creatures began to scurry, she and Quinn rocked on the swing, content in each other’s arms.
On that night, Miranda never would have believed Quinn could betray her.
An hour of hot water and jet action relieved most of the tension in her muscles, and when she stepped out her skin tingled, red and overheated and a little painful.
Rebecca was dead. Sharon was dead. But she was alive.
Guilt and confusion ate at her and she almost wished she believed in God like her father. Somehow, faith comforted her dad as it never had her. When she cursed whatever god had created the monster who had hunted her, who tortured women, she couldn’t imagine he was the kind and benevolent God her father praised. It was the kind God who had led her home, Daddy said. Who gave her the strength to survive, the will to live, the river to dive into.
But, Miranda countered, by that reasoning, He was the same God who’d created a man who took sick pleasure in killing women for sport. Of tormenting and raping and hurting them. Miranda couldn’t reconcile the two gods. It was much easier to believe in the devil.
Yes, evil was real. Alive. Burning.
She lay awake, body exhausted, mind too active to shut down. She pictured Rebecca running through the clearing, the rain beating down on her naked body, a madman chasing her. The loud report of his rifle firing, her body tensing, expecting to be hit. But the shot went wide and she was whole.
And she ran.
Ran down the path, stumbling, her feet aching. Trying not to cry out when a sharp rock pierced her foot. Getting up fast every time she fell, knowing he was coming. Knowing he would kill her. With deep pleasure, without remorse.
Running, running-and then she tripped and landed wrong, breaking her leg.
She crawled, tried to hide, but already it was too late.
He came upon her. Instead of shooting the wounded animal, he slit her throat.
And her blood drained into the earth.
Miranda’s hand flitted to her throat. She could feel the cold steel of the blade piercing the sensitive skin under her chin. Swallowing hard, she imagined Rebecca’s terrifying last moments of life.