Linda S. Prather
Would You Die For Her
Dedication
and Acknowledgements
Dedicated to my wonderful family, friends and fans for their encouragement and constant prodding.
A special thank you to Mel Comley and Mum, as well as a very special ARC group who keep me plugging along at the computer.
Thank you to Red Adept Editing, and thanks to my line editor, Stephanie and proofreader, Laura. Without you, I’d be lost.
And to the wonderful Facebook groups that help support independent and traditionally published authors. Waving to TBC and its fabulous readers and authors.
Prologue
Desperate to block out the screams in the distance, I covered my ears and closed my eyes. “Please, God, please make him stop.”
I’d never believed in prayer, but the screams stopped, or at least I couldn’t hear them anymore.
“See what happens when you make me angry, Dakota?”
I hadn’t heard him come in. I kept my eyes closed as I huddled in the far corner of the cage. A key clicked in the lock. His footsteps approached.
“Look at me!” He grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at his blood-soaked clothes. “She suffered your pain.” He squeezed harder. “Say, ‘Thank you, Christian.’”
Another part of my soul died as her blood dripped from my chin. “Thank you, Christian.”
1
Beaufort, South Carolina
“The doctor will see you now, Miss Dale.”
Shaking off the memory, I tossed the magazine I’d spent the past fifteen minutes flipping through and rose. I loved the way the receptionist said “the doctor,” as if mental illness were some type of curable disease. And as if I have a choice in being here. Sergeant Wagner had required six months of psychiatric analysis before he would allow me to return to my job. I took a deep breath to calm myself. I couldn’t afford to screw up my last visit.
I knocked on the door labeled Josh Rivers, MD/Psychiatrist and waited for him to answer, the same way I’d done every three weeks for the past six months. One thing I’d learned early—Rivers liked his little rituals. Keep him happy one more day, Dakota. Then you can forget this bastard ever existed.
The door opened. Rivers stepped to the side but just enough so that I had to brush against him when I entered. At first, I’d thought he was some kind of pervert that got off on women brushing against him, but after a few visits, I realized it was his way of seeing how much he could intimidate his clients. A broad smile lit up his face. “Come in, Dakota.”
Patience had never been one of my better qualities—even before Christian Salyer. I took my seat on the sofa. Rivers, like a psychopath, had a few more rituals he liked to go through before starting his sessions. In a moment, he would close the blinds, turn off the overhead light, and leave only the small table lamp to cast shadows around the room. Christian liked his rituals too. I wondered what Rivers would think if I told him how much he reminded me of the deranged serial killer who’d destroyed my life.
I shivered and clasped my hands in my lap. Memories had been plaguing me all day. The last thing I needed was for Rivers to pick up on the fact I wasn’t as stable as I pretended to be. Taking a deep breath, I repeated the mantra I’d given to other women over the years—victims of rape, domestic abuse, or just life in general. You’re only a victim if you allow yourself to be one. I’d learned the hard way that that wasn’t always true, so I had a second mantra. That was then, and this is now.
“Why don’t you leave the blinds open? Brighten this place up a bit. Don’t you think it’s depressing?”
Rivers stiffened for a moment before closing the blinds and flipping the switch for the overhead lights. I’d never challenged him before.
“Most of my clients find it easier to talk if the lights are dim.”
“Most of your clients don’t come here to talk. They come for medication. Ninety percent of them are depressed addicts.”
His face flushed. I’d hit a sore spot. Few psychiatrists did any real therapy or counseling. They wrote prescriptions so they could keep the money flowing in from pharmacy kickbacks and company referrals. Rivers had tried to medicate me from the beginning.
“I’ve been looking over your file. I found a few new records.” He moved his armchair closer to the couch before taking a seat. “You’re still running searches for similar murders. Why is that, Dakota? You killed Christian Salyer, didn’t you?”
“Copycats. Salyer was a media favorite.” I crossed my legs, refusing to fall for his intimidation tactics. “There are always a few followers—copycat killers that spring up after someone like him is captured or killed.”
Rivers smiled. “His body was never recovered.” He lit a pipe, another ritual I hated. In a few minutes, the room would be filled with a cloud of smoke. “How are the nightmares?”
“Better.” He was heading somewhere, but I wasn’t sure where. He’d tried to wind me up before and failed miserably. “I’d like to get back to work.”
“We may be able to accomplish that if we can get past a few barriers. Christian was your lover, wasn’t he?”
I could feel his beady eyes staring through the gloom.
“It would be easier on you if you admitted that. Some of us believe you didn’t kill him—you simply let him go.”
Now I know where he’s going. He was running out of time to break me. He had to either release me or label me unfit to return to work. Either way, he would be out of my life. I subconsciously rubbed the scar along my right wrist as I held his gaze. “Then you and they would be wrong.”
Unflustered, he smiled. “Tell me again why you tried to kill yourself, Dakota.” He liked to use my Christian name, as if the sound of it rolling off his tongue gave him some kind of sexual thrill.
“You ask that question every time I come in here. The answer hasn’t changed. I don’t know.”
“You wrote the word Broken on the bathroom mirror. What does that mean to you?”
“Same answer. I don’t know.”
He leaned forward, his smoky breath inches from my face. “Christian Salyer was innocent, wasn’t he? That’s why you tried to kill yourself. Why you continue the searches.”
“No.” He was pushing hard, determined to get down to what he called my real emotions. What he’d refused to accept from the beginning was that I no longer had any real emotions. Christian made sure of that before he painted me crimson, shoved a knife in my stomach, and left me to die.
Rivers studied me for a moment, undoubtedly not liking what he saw. Sighing, he sat back then pulled a sheet from the file. He scribbled his name. “I’m going to release you to return to work on probation for three months.” He held the sheet out to me. “I have little doubt that I’ll be seeing you again before that time is up. Or attending your funeral.”