SAMANTHA FLASHED HER ID at the guard who’d been stationed at Missy Johnson’s hospital door. He gave a quick nod and Samantha straightened her shoulders. She’d woken up at 5:00 a.m., the image of Missy’s bloody body in her mind, and she hadn’t been able to go back to sleep.
Nightmares sucked. Especially when the nightmare that kept replaying in her head was the moment of the shooting. Bam. Bam. The shots fired from her gun and the life left George Farris’s gaze again and again.
Clearing her throat, she stepped inside the hospital room. She immediately heard the beeps and buzzes from the machines near the bed. Samantha pushed the curtain aside and pasted a smile on her face. “Missy, I’m—”
A man stood there, tall, with graying hair and deep lines on his face. “My girl ain’t seeing anyone right now! That damn guard was supposed to keep the reporters out and—”
“Dad...” A soft voice, coming from the bed behind him. “I don’t... I don’t think she’s a reporter.”
His blue eyes narrowed on Samantha.
She lifted her badge.
“She’s the one who saved me,” Missy said, her voice still soft, weak.
The man’s expression immediately changed. In an instant, he went from being fierce and angry to wild with relief. He grabbed Samantha’s hand, pumping it. “Agent Dark?”
She nodded.
He yanked Samantha forward and hugged her, hard enough to squeeze the breath from her. “You saved my little girl,” he whispered. “Thank you.”
He was too tall for her to see over his shoulder. He was big and burly, kind of like a grizzly bear, and when he finally let her ease back so that Samantha could suck in a deep breath, she saw the tattoos that covered his arms.
“My little girl means the world to me,” he added. “I owe you.”
“No, sir, you—”
“You ever need anything, you call me.” He yanked out his wallet and shoved a crisp, white business card into her hand. “My name’s Robbie Johnson, and you can believe I’ll pay my debt to you.” His hard gaze told her he was serious.
She smiled at him and put the card into her pocket. “I appreciate that, Mr. Johnson, but I was just doing my job. As far as I’m concerned, Missy is the real hero. She survived that hell. She’s a fighter.”
His chest puffed up. “She gets that from me.”
Samantha slipped around him. Bandages covered Missy’s arms, and she could see the bulk of other bandages poking up beneath her hospital gown. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”
Missy lifted the hand that wasn’t hooked to an IV. “All stitched up.” Dark shadows lined her eyes. “He’s...he’s really dead, right? I—I didn’t dream that? Y-you shot him and—”
“He’s dead,” Samantha assured her. “He won’t hurt you or anyone else ever again.”
Missy’s breath blew out on a rough exhale. The machines beeped faster. “I was just... I was running, doing my morning jog in the park. He was waiting in the lot, said he had a flat and asked if he could use my phone.” Her eyes squeezed closed. “I didn’t want to be rude. Rude. That’s what I was worried about...being rude.” Pain and shame flashed on her face. “I gave him my phone and h-he grabbed me.” A broken laugh escaped her. “What in the hell was I thinking?”
Her father stiffened. “Missy...”
“I should have just gotten in my car, walked away. Why did I care about being rude to some stranger? What—”
Samantha stepped closer to the bed. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” She’d seen this before—victims, blaming themselves. “He was a predator, Missy. You weren’t the first woman that he took.”
“Just the only one to survive,” her father said darkly.
Cold words, but, yes, he was right.
Samantha hesitated as she stared at Missy. She shouldn’t be there. Official questioning would come later but...
I just needed to see her once more. To make sure that she really was okay. “Get some rest,” Samantha told her. “You need to focus on healing.” She turned for the door.
“Tell me...about them.”
Her shoulders stiffened at that soft request.
“The other victims...” Missy murmured. “How did he pick them? Why? Why did he pick me?”
Samantha glanced over her shoulder. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she said again, her voice calm but strong. “You have to understand that. You didn’t cause the attack. You didn’t draw his attention. George Farris was the one with the issues. You just—”
“I had the bad luck to get in his path?” Missy licked her lips. “I saw...on the news...” She pointed to the TV that was attached to the right wall of the room. “A guy on the news was saying that serial killers like Farris had—had victim types. Was I...his type?”
Samantha kept her expression blank. “He preferred young blonde women with delicate builds. Probably because he, himself, wasn’t an overly big man. Women of that type—he found them easier to control.”