He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not

possibility but it doesn’t seem likely. The profile says the killer has a problem with authority. He’d never make it in law enforcement.”
    “Are your profiles ever wrong?”
    “Of course. But Nelson’s the best profiler we’ve got. I can’t imagine him being wrong about something that significant.” He set the letter down. “Why didn’t you open this at the station?”
    Logan’s jaw tightened and Amanda spoke up. “He was going to ask my permission before opening my mail. I saw that envelope sitting on his desk and opened it before he had a chance to warn me.”
    “I should have locked it in my drawer as soon as I got home,” Logan said, shaking his head. “I knew something was off, since it was mailed directly to the station. Amanda’s given me permission now to open all her mail at the station. I’m going to forward it there from now on.”
    Amanda rubbed her hands up and down her arms. She certainly wasn’t in any hurry to open any more mail, not after the surprise she’d had tonight. The note had echoed her attacker’s words all those years ago, “He kills me, he kills me not,” with “he kills me” underlined as if the decision had already been made.
    “I’ll have Nelson run the evidence to the FBI lab tonight,” Pierce said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll find a fingerprint. We could have a suspect by morning.”
    “I don’t believe in luck,” Logan said.
    “Unfortunately, neither do I.” Pierce clapped him on the back and took the evidence envelopes containing the thorns, rose petals, and note. He paused beside Amanda’s chair. “We’ll catch this guy, Ms. Stockton. Count on it.”
    She nodded. “Call me Amanda, please. And thank you for your help.”
    Pierce nodded and walked to the door with Logan.
    Amanda looked away as unshed tears stung the backs of her eyes. The cowardice she’d shown at the cabin had to end right now. The one thing she hadn’t told Logan yet was exactly what the killer had done to her, and the horrible thing she’d done to Dana. Neither of those seemed relevant to him catching the killer, but she couldn’t take that chance any longer. The killer had just announced his intentions. She had to fight back. Telling Logan the truth was the only way she knew how to fight.
    “You know I’ll keep you safe, don’t you?”
    She glanced up. Logan had come back in the room so quietly she hadn’t heard him. “I know you will. You’re a good man and you’re fighting hard to help me.” She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “You’re fighting more than anyone else ever has. It’s time I did the same.”
    He crouched down next to her. “What do you mean?”
    “I’m ready to tell you what really happened four years ago.”
    A fter what felt like an eternity later, but was really only a few minutes, she was sipping a glass of wine that Logan had insisted on getting for her. She didn’t really care for wine, but she wasn’t going to tell him that since he was trying so hard to help her. In typical male fashion, he had to do something to fix things when sometimes there was no fix.
    He moved the coffee table out of the way and slid a matching recliner in front of hers. If she needed him, all she had to do was reach out.
    He leaned forward, worry creasing his brow. “What did you mean, what really happened?”
    She hugged her arms around her waist and tried to prepare herself for the moment when he would shrink away from her in disgust. “I never told you what the killer did. What I did.” She closed her eyes, partly to avoid seeing the condemnation on his face that would soon be there, partly to put herself back in the cabin as she tried to remember anything that might help.
    “He took off our clothes that first day. With a knife. The floor was slippery with blood by the time he’d finished.”
    Logan didn’t say anything. She took a deep breath and continued. “There was only one bed. An iron bed, bolted to the floor. He made Dana sit on the floor, shackled her arms to the foot rail. He threw me on the bed—”
    “You don’t have to tell me this,” Logan said, his voice sounding strained.
    “—but he didn’t rape me. I don’t think I . . . excited him . . . in that way. Instead, he cut me. When he was . . . finished . . . he did the same things to Dana. And then he left. We spent the night tied to a blood-soaked bed in a pitch dark cabin with boarded up windows, crying and holding onto each other, wondering