Missy’s father swore.
“I need to leave,” Samantha said. “You don’t need to hear this now. You have time, Missy. Time for all the bad details later. You survived. You got away—you have time for everything.”
“He thought I was weak.” Missy’s hand fisted over her covers. “That’s why he took me.”
“No, he thought you were perfect.”
Missy’s head jerked up.
“He thought you were the perfect woman, Missy.” There were things she wouldn’t say right then, about the way that Farris had arranged the bodies of his victims, how he’d styled their hair. How he’d taken their pictures with such care after he’d mutilated them. “Men like him...they fixate on their ideals of perfection. Blonde, young, delicate like a ballerina—to him, that was perfection.”
A tear leaked down Missy’s cheek as she stared at the bandages on her arms. “I’m hardly perfect now.”
Farris had liked to destroy the perfect beauty of his victims. As if he were punishing them.
When she’d created the profile for Farris, an unknown perp at the time, she’d theorized that he chose his victims for two main reasons.
One...their delicate builds made them easier to overpower. That was one of the reasons she’d known that she was looking for a killer with a slight build himself.
Two...he was striking out at someone in particular. Someone who had been personally involved in his life—someone who had been blonde and beautiful and who he had wanted to slice apart.
Samantha found herself heading back to the bed. She waited until Missy’s gaze rose to meet hers, and then she said, “You survived a serial killer’s attack. You were with him for over twenty-four hours. You have lived through a hell that few people can understand. Will you have some scars? Yes...but scars fade. The fact that you are a survivor will never change. Your spirit doesn’t change. You are perfect. And soon enough, you’ll see that for yourself.”
Missy’s trembling lips lifted into a smile. “You almost make me believe it.”
“We all have scars, Missy.” Samantha certainly carried plenty of her own. “They don’t matter.” She nodded to Missy—and to Missy’s father—then Samantha headed for the door. She skimmed past the curtain, curled her fingers around the door handle and pulled it open.
The guard was still outside.
But he wasn’t alone.
Blake was there, his brows raised, and his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.
Samantha stilled. “Eavesdropping, Agent Gamble?”
“Maybe. A bit.”
Shaking her head, she marched past him. Her gaze was on the bank of elevators.
“Does Bass know you’re here?” Blake asked her.
She jabbed the button for the elevator. “I was just checking on her. Nothing official about my visit.”
“Hmm.”
Samantha crossed her arms over her chest as she waited for the elevator to arrive. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I don’t think you’re very good at staying away from a case, Bass’s orders or not.”
Fine. So she was a little guilty. “I want to find his trigger.”
The elevator dinged.
“What?” Blake asked.
Samantha stepped into the elevator. “The woman who started it all. The woman who stirred all that hate inside of George Farris. The mystery blonde.”
Blake didn’t follow her. “Samantha...”
“I’m sure there’s a clue to her identity in Farris’s house. Sooner or later, I’ll be cleared on this shooting.” She threw up her hand, stopping the elevator doors before they could close. “And then I’m going to find her.”
He stepped closer. “How do you know Farris hasn’t already killed her? Maybe she was his first victim. Hell, when we start digging in that house, we might very well find her—buried in the basement or in the backyard or—”
“We could,” Samantha agreed, cutting through his words. “And then I’ll know who she is.”
His head cocked as he studied her. “Knowing is important?”
“Knowing gives me his motivation. It helps me to understand him. He didn’t have to be a killer. Something changed him.” I think it was the blonde. Samantha let her hand drop. “Better move back, Agent Gamble. You don’t want to get hurt.”
“Trust me, I don’t exactly ‘hurt’ easily.” One dark brow shot up. “Why am I suddenly ‘Agent Gamble’ to you?”
The doors closed before Samantha had to answer. Because I’m trying to put some distance between us. You’re getting too close to me. I’m letting you past my guard.
I can’t do that. It isn’t smart. It isn’t safe.
Not for either of us.
*
THE ELEVATOR DOORS dinged when they opened in the parking garage. Samantha hurried out, her gaze automatically sweeping the area. It was early, so the visitors’ parking section only contained a handful of cars. The air was crisp and her steps seemed to echo against the concrete as she marched toward her vehicle.