The Woman Who Couldn't Scream (Virtue Falls #4)
Christina Dodd
To éowyn,
Brave, smart, and beautiful,
and the triumphant heroine of her own story.
I can’t wait to see what deeds you’ll accomplish to make this a better world.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A huge and amazing group hug with the people on my social media who, when I asked about American Sign Language and the Manual Alphabet (fingerspelling), were able to reassure me that many, many people learned to communicate in school, in Scouts, in college as a second language, and by studying on their own. Thank you for willingly offering your help whenever I need it.
Anne Marie Tallberg, Associate Publisher, and the marketing team of Jessica Preeg, Brant Janeway, Erica Martirano, DJ DeSmyter, thank you for your enthusiasm for The Woman Who Couldn’t Scream and the whole Virtue Falls series.
The art department, led by Ervin Serrano, captured such a shocking, visceral image of the title.
To everybody on the Broadway and Fifth Avenue sales teams—thank you for placing The Woman Who Couldn’t Scream in just the right places and at just the right times.
A huge thanks to managing editor Amelie Littell and Jessica Katz in production.
Thank you to Caitlin Dareff who keeps me up-to-date and on time.
Thank you to Sally Richardson, St. Martin’s president and publisher.
Finally and most important, to Jennifer Enderlin, executive vice president and publisher at St. Martin’s Press and my own editor; you provided the inspiration to build Virtue Falls and the guidance to make it the complex, marvelously interesting, and murderous small town that it is. No mere thank you could ever sufficiently express my gratitude.
CHAPTER ONE
Benedict Howard was used to having women look at him. He had money. He had power. He was ruthless. People saw that. In particular, women looked at him. As they always told him, they found him interesting.
Now, the most beautiful woman in the world looked through him. Not over him. Not around him. Through him.
The Eagle’s Flight, the largest and newest sailing yacht in the high-end cruise line, cut through the waves with an authority that spoke well of the vessel’s design as well as captain and crew. As the new owner of Birdwing Cruises, that gratified Benedict; his decision to buy the company had been sound.
But now at three days into the two-week transatlantic crossing, he stood by the port railing on the aft deck, and his whole attention was focused on the world’s most beautiful woman.
Her skillfully tinted blond hair was styled in an upsweep with short tendrils that curled around her softly rounded face. Her nose was short and without freckles. Her neck was long and graceful. Her figure was without flaw, Barbie doll–like in its architectural magnificence, and unlike the other, determinedly casual passengers, she wore a designer dress with matching jacket and one-inch heels. Her wide blue eyes were set deep in an artfully tended peaches-and-cream complexion … but they were blank, blind, indifferent. To him.
If she was trying to attract his attention by ignoring him, she had succeeded. But only for as long as it took him to recognize her machination. As he began to turn away, she looked toward a table set under the awning. She waved and she smiled.
Benedict was transfixed by her smile. He knew her. He was sure he knew her. From … somewhere. Business? No. Pleasure? No. In passing? Absurd. Who was she? How could he forget the most beautiful woman in the world?
Stepping forward, he caught her elbow. “We’ve met.”
She turned her head toward him, but as if his impertinence offended her, she took her time and moved stiffly. She shook her head.
“I’m sure we’ve met.” He searched her face, searched his mind, seeking the time, the place. “You must remember. I’m Benedict Howard.”
She wore a leather purse over one shoulder. With elaborate patience, she pulled it around, reached inside and pulled out a computer tablet. She brought up the keyboard and swiftly, so swiftly, she typed onto the screen. And showed it to him. It said, “How do you do, Mr. Howard. My name is Helen Brassard. I am mute, unable to speak. DO NOT SHOUT. I am not deaf. I certainly recognize you. You’re quite famous in the world of finance. But you don’t know me.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She gave him a look, the exasperated kind that without words called him an idiot.
He realized he had instinctively raised his voice.
She typed again and showed him the tablet. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other again. It is a relatively small ship and an intimate passenger list. Now if you’ll excuse me, I don’t like to keep my husband waiting.”
Benedict wanted to insist, but he glanced at the small dapper gentleman who glared at him with imperious fury, the gentleman who was old enough to be her grandfather. But wasn’t her grandfather. Benedict recognized him; that was French billionaire Nauplius Brassard. That was the husband.
Trophy wife. Helen was a trophy wife: head-turningly beautiful, no doubt accomplished in bed … and mute. Perfect for the short, thin, elderly gentleman who had no doubt purchased her services for the long term.
Benedict let her go and turned away.
She was right. He didn’t know her.
*
Helen Brassard seated herself next to her husband and used her hands to sign, “You look overheated and ready for your afternoon cocktail. Shall I order you a sidecar?”
Nauplius flipped his bony fingers around, grasped her wrist and squeezed. “I saw him speak to you.”
She groped for her purse and tablet.
“No! That’s how you communicate with everyone else. Sign to me.”
She shook her captured wrist, trying to free herself, to make it easier.
“Sign with one hand.”
She did as he commanded. “Benedict did speak to me.” She kept that gentle smile on her lips. Ignored the pain as the delicate bones ground together.
“He’s lost his looks.”
Signing: “He was never handsome.” Although that was the truth; when she had known him before, Benedict’s awkward arrangement of facial features had been offset by his youth and charisma. Now he looked … harsh, like a man who had tasted too much bitterness.
Nauplius adjusted his red bow tie. “What did he say?”
“He thought he knew me.”
“Impossible.”
Apparently not.
Nauplius was both jealous and selfish to the point of psychosis, but his skill at observing and interpreting others had brought him unimaginable wealth and a power he loved to abuse. Now he must have read her mind, for his grip tightened again. “You look … not at all like the woman you were when he knew you.” Menacingly, “Do you?”
There was the paranoia she knew so well.