He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not

she would have to face them alone.
    An image of Logan Richards popped into her mind, how he’d stared at her with such compassion and tenderness. If he had a sister in trouble, would he turn his back on her?
    Amanda didn’t think so. He seemed like the kind of man who would race in and try to help, like one of those fairy tale knights on a white horse charging to rescue a princess. Only she couldn’t picture him on a white horse. He would ride an enormous, black war horse that struck fear into the hearts of the men on the battlefield, but no more so than did the fierce knight who rode him.
    Shaking her head at the ridiculous image, she grabbed the kitchen garbage can from under the sink and raked the massacred food into it. Tomorrow was trash day. She might as well haul everything to the curb before it got dark. Too bad she didn’t have her own fierce knight racing to her rescue on his black war horse to take out the garbage for her.
    She peered out the kitchen window as she always did before going outside, but this time she was extra careful. Chief Richards’ warnings ran through her mind. She didn’t want to believe the killer would come after her again, especially this many years later, but she didn’t want to take any chances. After making sure no one was skulking out front, she looked through the peephole in her kitchen’s steel side door to make sure no one was on the carport either. Then she stepped outside.

 
     
    Chapter Four
     
    A manda shut the kitchen side door behind her and stood still. She studied the shrubs in her neighbor’s side yard, shrubs Mrs. Fogelman stubbornly insisted on not trimming because she liked the “natural” look. Amanda figured the real reason was to shield Mrs. Fogelman’s view of the ugly yard next-door. No bushes decorated Amanda’s landscape. No one was going to sneak up on her unless they came from Mrs. Fogelman’s side yard.
    Irritated anew at her neighbor’s dangerous stubbornness, Amanda grabbed the handle of the oversized, green rubber garbage can she kept at the far end of the carport. She tried to pull it to the street but it barely budged. She’d missed trash day last week so the can was twice as heavy as usual.
    She glanced toward the street and made sure no one was nearby. Then she turned around and grabbed the handle with both hands for better leverage. Now all she had to do was pull the monster from the end of her carport, maneuver it around her aging Honda Accord without dinging it any worse than it already was, and haul it down the driveway to the curb.
    Too bad it wasn’t as easy as it sounded. Maybe she should get one of those garbage cans with wheels. She’d have to add that to her shopping list the next time she ventured out. She managed to drag the can past her car but it was slow going.
    “What are you trying to do? Throw out your back?” a deep masculine voice demanded behind her.
    She jumped and fell backward, but an arm caught her around the waist with a vice-like grip. Jabbing sharply backward with her elbow, she stomped her tennis shoe down on her attacker’s foot and whirled around to face the threat. Her mouth dropped open in dismay when she saw who her attacker was.
    Chief Richards.
    “Oh, no, I’m so sorry—”
    “Don’t. Apologize.” He grimaced as he rubbed his ribs. “My fault for startling you. I am beginning to wonder, though, what you have against my shoes.”
    “Your shoes?”
    “You keep crushing them.”
    Heat flushed in her cheeks at his veiled reference to their first meeting. “I really am sorry, but you shouldn’t have sneaked up on me like that.”
    “I didn’t sneak.” He shrugged out of his suit jacket. “You weren’t paying attention.”
    He tossed his jacket over his shoulder and bent down to lift the garbage can. Amanda had enough sense to grab his jacket before it brushed against the side of the can, in spite of her sudden preoccupation with the muscles bunching in his arms.
    He nodded his thanks and carried the can to the street as if it weighed nothing.
    Dragging her gaze from his broad shoulders, she noticed his car parked along the curb. Her mouth quirked up in a grin. Forget the black war horse. Her knight had a black Mustang. She looked back at him as he turned around. “Thank you, Chief Richards—”
    “Logan.”
    “Thank you,” she said, uncomfortable calling the chief of police by his first name. She pulled her hair forward to cover her scar. “I appreciate your help, even