He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not

to a restaurant since I moved back from Tennessee.”
    Stunned, he looked back down at his menu as he tried to digest what she’d just said. She’d moved back from Tennessee two years ago. In all that time, she’d never been out to eat? That must mean she hadn’t dated either, since going out to eat was the main thing people did on first dates. Did that mean she didn’t have any friends? Was she totally alone, with no one to talk to? Hoping he was wrong, he probed for more information. “What do you and your friends do for fun?”
    She chewed her bottom lip again and flipped the menu over as if she were suddenly interested in the senior specials listed on the back. “I keep busy . . . with work and all. I . . . watch movies a lot.”
    At home. On TV. Even without her saying it, he knew that’s what she meant. He noted the tension in her shoulders, the way her knuckles whitened as she held the menu.
    She didn’t have any friends. She probably never went anywhere unless she absolutely had to. The only reason for her to seclude herself that way was if she was scared to go out.
    Logan suddenly felt like kicking himself. He was the world’s biggest jerk. He’d pressured her to do something that seemed ordinary to him, but to her was probably like climbing Mount Everest. All because of his selfish desires, both for the information she could provide and the enjoyment of her company. She was a beautiful and intriguing woman. He liked her, too damn much. He’d allowed his feelings to blind him to hers.
    He studied her posture. Embarrassed, uncomfortable, but not scared. Maybe he could still salvage the evening for her. If he could help her have a good time, maybe she wouldn’t regret her decision to come to the station or to drive with him out of town.
    And maybe he wouldn’t feel like such an ass.
    A manda stood just inside her kitchen while Logan lounged in the doorway that led to the carport, one shoulder resting against the doorjamb.
    “I had a wonderful time,” she said. She cringed inside as she realized how intimate that had sounded. She looked down at the floor.
    “Amanda?”
    “Yes?” she said, still unable to look him in the eyes.
    “I had a wonderful time, too.”
    Surprise had her meeting his gaze again. He was smiling and she couldn’t help but smile back. He raised his hand as if to touch her face, and she stiffened before she could stop herself. His smile turned sad and he lowered his hand.
    Amanda died a little bit inside, wishing she could take back her automatic reaction. He’d touched her at the station, put his arms around her after she’d seen those horrible pictures. She hadn’t flinched then. Why had she flinched now?
    “Thanks for coming to the station today,” he said, smiling that sad smile. “And thank you for having dinner with me. If you have any trouble accessing the station’s computer system from home, let me know. Or if you just want to talk, my offer of a shoulder is always open.”
    Before she could respond, he turned away. She shut the kitchen door, set the alarm, and trudged into her living room. Collapsing onto the couch, she wondered what would have happened if she’d let him touch her. Did he really have feelings for her apart from his desire to know more about her abduction? Would he have run his thumb across her lower lip the way he’d run his thumb over the cloth napkin that day in her kitchen? Would he have slid his hand behind her neck and pulled her forward for a kiss?
    For the past few years she’d convinced herself she didn’t need anyone else, didn’t need to feel the touch of another human being. All she needed was to be safe. But meeting Logan had reawakened a part of her she’d forgotten ever existed.
    She rose from the couch and paced back and forth in front of the fireplace. Her entire body shook and her hands fisted at her sides. She couldn’t think straight, couldn’t focus with so many thoughts and emotions pulsing through her.
    A nameless, faceless killer had stolen so much from her, far more than she’d realized until now. She’d thought she’d won with her little victories. She continued to wear her hair long just to prove the killer’s obsession with her long hair hadn’t forced her to cut it. She’d learned self-defense, how to shoot a gun, how to use knives. Her home was safe, secure—a place where no one could hurt her.
    Lies. They were all pathetic lies. She’d lied to herself, told herself she was in control, but