He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not

wrapped her arms around his neck and snuggled against his chest. If the man didn’t care that her tears were soaking through his shirt, she wouldn’t care either.
    He carried her into the master bedroom. After gently laying her down on the cool cotton sheets, he disappeared into the bathroom. She heard the sound of running water and a moment later he sat on the edge of the bed, wiping her tears away with a warm damp washcloth.
    His eyes had darkened to a deep forest-green, and she wondered what he was thinking. He’d heard her confession. Even without knowing the details of how she’d gotten away, he knew she had and that she shouldn’t have. “You think I’m a horrible person, don’t you?” she whispered as she hiccupped into the pillow and breathed in the clean familiar scent of the soap he used.
    The washcloth continued its slow, comforting strokes across her cheeks, her brow. “I think you’re a wonderful person,” he whispered.
    She shook her head “no” but she didn’t have the energy to argue. She was so tired. Her eyelids felt sandpapery, heavy.
    Something else kept niggling at the edges of her mind, a shadowy memory that struggled to surface. Finally, she remembered. As her eyes slid closed, she murmured, “He called me Kate.”
    H e called her Kate?
    Logan didn’t know the significance of that, didn’t really care at the moment. He was still reeling from everything she’d told him. The torture and devastation she’d suffered were far greater than he’d imagined from reading the police reports. And after she escaped with her life, the cruelest punishment of all was that she could never bring another life into this world, never have children.
    He never should have asked her to talk about her abduction. Putting her through that again was too much to ask of anyone. He’d give anything to take it back, but he couldn’t. What was done was done, and all he could do now was help her in any way possible.
    He continued the gentle strokes of the washcloth until he was certain she was asleep. He set the cloth aside and stared down at her pale, tear-streaked face, her brow delicately knit with tension even in sleep. Her fists were knotted in the sheets, clutching them to her chest like a security blanket.
    Stroking one of her clenched fists with the pad of his thumb, he murmured soothing words like he’d done for his little sister when she’d had bad dreams. Madison’s nightmares were the typical stuff of a small child, full of dragons and other imaginary monsters. He suspected Amanda’s nightmares were about real monsters, the kind that didn’t go away when you woke up.
    When the lines of worry smoothed out on her brow and she relaxed into a calmer, deeper sleep, he moved to the chair next to the bed. He ran a shaky hand through his hair as he thought about what she had, and hadn’t, told him both tonight and that day back at the cabin.
    Most of what she’d said he already knew from the police reports. That the killer hummed was new. It didn’t seem like a significant piece of information, but it had been rattling around in the back of his mind ever since she’d told him. He knew he’d heard something like that before. Maybe not humming, specifically, but something about a killer and music.
    It would come to him eventually.
    That the killer had called her Kate seemed far more significant. Tomorrow, finding out who Kate was would become a top priority for his detectives. If anyone they had even remotely identified as a person of interest had a Kate in their lives, their name would move to the top of the list.
    Amanda’s breath caught and she mumbled something in her sleep. He started to go to her but she calmed and snuggled back into the pillow.
    He didn’t know how she did it, how she functioned each day with the memories that roiled around inside her mind, knowing the man who did those horrible things to her was still out there, stalking and murdering other young women. Just the suspicion that the killer Logan had let go had probably killed other women made it hard for him to function some days. Considering what Amanda carried around in her mind every day, he was amazed she functioned at all.
    His fingers dug into the soft cloth of the arms of the chair as he remembered the hospital pictures of her after the attack. It was difficult enough viewing them before he’d met her. Thinking about them now sent a jolt of fury coursing through him. How could anyone, no matter how sick, look