Rita Herron - Silent Surrender

Another shudder passed through her as she heard Detective Black’s gruff voice. She’d never met a more masculine man, one who radiated such stark power. He’d watched her with an intensity that had burned straight to her core.

She’d never felt that kind of heat from a man before.

It was the very reason his laughter had hurt so much. She’d been ridiculed as a child. Without her hearing, she’d learned to read nonverbal facial and body gestures, little nuances that others never even noticed. The very reason she’d felt such a strong attraction toward him. The reason she’d avoided his gaze. The sultry heat charging the air between them had been too electric.

Why had he been irritated at her, though? Because he saw her as weak? Didn’t he realize she was trying to help save this poor woman?

“That broad must have come from the psych ward,” she heard the detective named Fox say through the door. “She was beautiful, but crazy.”

A curse word erupted from Detective Black’s mouth, burning her ears through the walls. She could almost see those wide cheekbones tighten, his naturally dark skin glisten with sweat as his anger mounted. “A sexy one, but you’re right, she needs medication. And what about that closed mouth? If she’d been able to hear until she was five, surely she had developed some speech.”

“Yeah, more than a little weird.”

She fought not to let the humiliation overwhelm her, but childhood memories of being taunted surfaced, clawing at her self-control again. Sol had been disappointed she hadn’t instantly regained her speech when her hearing returned. Another reason he wanted her in therapy.

She moved toward the front of the station house, ignoring the curious looks. A tall, lanky man wearing khakis and wire-rimmed glasses bent to drink from the water fountain. He looked faintly familiar, as if she’d seen him when she was in the hospital. No, it couldn’t have been. Yet, he watched her as she crossed the room and she did remember him. He was the reporter who’d confronted her outside the hospital wanting an interview about her hearing implant. He’d known about the explosion that had caused her hearing loss, and all about her father. So many ghosts to deal with…

Had he followed her here?

She squared her shoulders and ignored him, then strode toward the female officer’s desk. Sarah swallowed, angling herself so the reporter couldn’t see her.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked.

Sarah nodded, took a pen and paper from the officer’s desk, then scribbled a few lines. She hesitated, continued writing, then handed the note to the other woman.

The officer frowned at her message just as the two detectives emerged from the back. Sarah walked out the door, struggling not to reveal her emotions as their laughter boomed behind her down the hall.

Seconds later, she entered the darkened parking deck, shivering at the early-afternoon shadows hovering around the concrete structure. As usual, she hesitated, gave her eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness and scanned the interior for strangers, wielding her keys between her fingers in case someone tried to grab her. She wasn’t paranoid, but any female alone in the city had to play it safe, especially a deaf one. Her other senses had to make up for her lack of being able to hear someone approach.

The acrid smell of garbage seeped into her nostrils and the clattering of something—an aluminum can maybe—sent goose bumps up her arms. Another rattling sound broke the strained silence. Keys? Footsteps? Traffic noises, a hushed voice, a scrape. The different sounds bombarded her, disorienting her as to their proximity. She searched the darkness, found her car and headed straight toward it, almost running. Down two aisles, over beside the far wall. Only two more rows to go.

Her breath caught in her throat when she spotted a dark van parked beside her Jetta. She’d heard a news report say vans were the primary vehicle used for abductions.

She heard a clickety-clack sound and froze, then resumed walking and realized the sound had come from her own heels. Deciding she’d let the past few days rattle her, she slowed her steps. But a shadow caught her eye. Something had moved. A cat maybe? Somebody lurking behind one of the boulders?

She glanced to her left, quickly cutting a path around the van, her gaze scanning the area around it in case someone was hiding there. Laughter echoed off the concrete walls behind her and she tensed. The sound reminded her of the detective’s harsh laughter. His mocking words ran through her mind, distracting her momentarily, and she stumbled over the drain and dropped her keys. Cursing, she knelt to grab them when a shuffling noise reverberated behind her. Then a pair of black shoes suddenly appeared, and a man’s hand reached out for her.

A tall lanky man rushed out the door behind Sarah Cutter. The skinny guy had been eyeballing her from the corner, but Adam hadn’t thought much of it at the time. After all, oddballs drifted in and out of the precinct at all hours, reporting crimes, claiming to be victims, sometimes admitting to crimes they hadn’t committed just to get attention. Was the man following Sarah Cutter?

Bernstein handed Clay a note. Clay studied it while Adam retrieved his gun to go to Denise’s. Just as he made it to the door, his partner caught him.

“Hey, Black, what’s your sister’s married name?”

“Harley, why?”

Clayton held out his hand, a note tucked between his fingers. “Maybe you’d better take a look at this.”

Adam glanced at the hastily scribbled message: “Check to see if a doctor named Hardy or Harper, something like that, works at the Coastal Island Research Park on Catcall Island. Make sure she’s okay. Tell the other detectives the weird broad from the psych ward doesn’t need medication. She’s trying to save a woman’s life.”

Adam’s breath caught in his lungs. How had the woman heard their conversation through the closed door? He reread the note. Hardy, Harper—Harley? Was it possible? Could Sarah Cutter have been talking about his sister?

Sarah opened her mouth to scream but the only sound that emerged was a low gurgle. Her heart pounding, she twirled around and pushed at the man’s hand, ready to raise a knee to his groin.

The scrawny reporter stood in the shadows, surveying her with his beady eyes as if she were his prey. He swiped her keys from the ground and held them by his side. “Wait, Ms. Cutter, I’m Robey Burgess from the Savannah Times.”

She pursed her lips, fury welling inside. How dare he scare her like that? For once in her life, she wished she could make her voice work just so she could give him a piece of her mind. She opened her mouth again to do that when she heard her own thick, almost childlike squeak.

“I—I just want an interview,” he stammered. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Why don’t we go someplace and talk?”

His nasally voice sounded unpleasant, and the look of avid curiosity in his eyes reminded her of all the taunting she’d received as a child. This man knew about her past, about her father. He wanted to write about her in the paper as if she were some sideshow freak in a circus.

She shook her head and mouthed “Go Away,” yanked the keys from his hand, then spun around and crossed the distance to her car. She was sliding inside when he caught her, wedged a hand in between her and the door, and stopped her from shutting it.

“I’m going to find out everything I can about you and what’s going on at that research center,” he said, “so you might as well talk to me.”

She glared at him, her chest constricting. What did he mean? What was going on at the research center?

She held up a hand as if to ask him to wait a second, grabbed her Palm Pilot and wrote, “If you want to talk about the Coastal Island Research Park, talk to my godfather, Sol Santenelli. He’s the director. Leave me alone.”