into her voice. “I’ll be fine.”
Chuck lifted a thin, pale eyebrow in doubt, but turned without a word and left the darkroom. Shortly afterward, while she was still mixing developer, she heard the back door shut and the roar of his Cadillac’s engine. She couldn’t deny the relief of finally being alone.
As she printed the larger versions of the beach pictures, though, she did ask herself exactly what she would do with them. The weekly news magazine she worked for, Events, didn’t publish “pretty” photos. Her New York editor wanted grit—the grittier, the better. She’d given him just that for six years now, first in Africa, more recently in Eastern Europe and Afghanistan.
They’d been a damned good team, she and James Daley, even after she ended their brief engagement. Despite the pain caused by James’s unfaithfulness, Sarah had stayed on the job. Anger and hurt feelings had, with time, given way to mutual respect; together they’d earned a notable reputation for delivering the story with his spare reporting and her uncompromising pictures.
Then, between one heartbeat and the next, James was gone. A witness to the shooting—she stood only a few steps behind him as he fell—Sarah remained at the scene and finished the story for James…for them both. She’d managed to work through the memory of his sightless eyes, the smell of blood and munitions in the air, the one ragged cry he’d given before dying.
Until that last morning, by a pit in a field outside Kabul, a vast cavern filled with the bodies of women and girls, when the shaking had gotten so bad she couldn’t hold the camera steady, and there wasn’t any way to make it stop. She’d seen herself falling into that grave. She could still hear the voices of the dead—James’s among them—crying all around her, waiting for her…
On a deep, shuddering breath, Sarah jerked her mind back to the present. This was not a war-raped field in Central Asia. This was Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, USA, where the sun sank gently behind the dunes, shedding an amber light over little girls dancing on the beach in their best clothes.
Eyes closed, she focused on that peaceful scene, recalling each lovely detail. Gradually, her heartbeat slowed, the shakes went away.
See, she was getting better. Six months of therapy had restored her ability to cope, to function. She’d been tired when she got back to the States…well, okay, exhausted. Yet she’d had trouble sleeping. The dreams had been even worse than her memories.
Now, though, she was rested. Soon, she’d be well enough to resume her job. She’d worked hard to get a permanent assignment with Events and she would cover whatever story they asked for.
That she’d been shooting pictures yesterday testified to her recovery. Not since…then…had her camera come to hand so easily, so smoothly. She could thank Luke Brennan for that. Luke Brennan and his precious little girls.
Sarah cleaned up the darkroom, glancing often at the pictures she’d developed tonight. He wouldn’t be easy to forget. His laugh was warm, his grin contagious, but the shadows in his eyes spoke of deep trouble. What could have brought such pain to his face?
She’d never know. And even if she found out, she was the last person who could help him. Daily life was as much of a challenge as she could manage these days. Until she could take charge of her own life again, she couldn’t possibly solve anyone else’s problems.
After sweeping up, she made sure Luke Brennan and his daughters had dried thoroughly, then closed them into a folder inside her portfolio. Tomorrow she’d get the release and send the shots to her agent. If they found a place to sell, good. If not, Sarah congratulated herself on at least taking pictures again. Six months was a long…vacation.
She tidied the kitchen area in the back of the shop, washed her cup and Chuck’s and set the coffee to brew in the morning, then picked up the portfolio and her purse and left by the rear door.
The June night folded around her, not yet humid enough to cling. Screams of tourists riding the roller coasters on the boardwalk a few blocks away speared the darkness. Floodlights crisscrossed the sky from all directions—the beach attractions to the east and the giant performance halls to the west. Myrtle Beach prided itself on giving great value for an entertainment buck.
Thinking about the sleepy little town she’d visited during high school summers, Sarah whistled lightly as she walked toward her Jeep. Thanks to the tourist boom, the town had mushroomed in the last fifteen years, bringing in big-city problems without always providing the means to deal with them. Still, those little girls on the beach had been safe and happy—
Footsteps sounded behind her, running. Keys in hand, Sarah started to turn, but was too late even to scream. A man slammed into her back, taking her to her knees. Arching her body, she tried to buck, but he was too heavy. His breathing was a ragged gasp in her ear as he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her forward. She braced her arms, palms sliding against the gravel; he reached over, jerked her hands up, and shoved her down hard. Her face hit the ground, tore, burned.
She tried to twist underneath him, but his knees held her shoulders down as he sat on her back. Every other pain faded as he closed his hands around her neck and squeezed. And squeezed. Sarah stabbed at him with a key—he jerked the ring out of her fingers. She kicked with her heels, but his grip only tightened on her throat.
Weakening, she gasped, pleaded with no sound, fought the weight on her ribs and spine until a black fog clouded her vision.
And then she stopped fighting.
CHAPTER TWO
LONG PAST TIRED of his own company and fed up with self-pity, Luke checked in at the precinct station late on Sunday night.
“You’re the only cop I know who has hair like that.” Sergeant Baylor clapped him on the shoulder as they passed in the squad room. “Brennan, you’re a disgrace to the uniform.”
“The hair is the uniform, Sarge.” He pulled up a grin, poured a cup of coffee he didn’t need and propped a hip on the corner of a nearby desk. “Anything going on tonight?”
Nick Rushe, Luke’s partner and frequent handball opponent, leaned back in his chair. “Just the usual—drunks and rowdies, a lost kid at the boardwalk. Oh, and a mugging.”
“Yeah?”
“Not four blocks from here. Woman about to get into her car, guy knocks her down, takes her purse and what she was carrying. Beat her up pretty bad. Jordan’s taking the report.”
Luke glanced over at Hank Jordan’s desk. A woman huddled in the chair on the aisle, eyes downcast, her face almost completely hidden by the cloth she held to her cheek.
But he recognized that curling, golden-brown hair. The part of her face he could see seemed familiar. And when she looked up to answer a question, he recognized the long-lashed, hazel gaze. This was the woman on the beach yesterday afternoon, the one taking pictures. Sarah…Sarah…something.
He was standing over her before he realized he’d moved. “Are you okay?”
She lifted her head to gaze at him, eyes dark with fright and pain. Her lips parted, but she didn’t make a sound. When he put a hand over the one she held to her face, she flinched.
Luke squatted to look up at her. “Sarah? Sarah, it’s okay. I won’t hurt you. Can I see your face?”
She stared at him for a long time, and he thought she would refuse. Then her shoulders relaxed a fraction. She nodded, wincing, and allowed him to lift the cloth gently out of her hand.
He pulled in air through his teeth to avoid swearing. Between bruises and swelling and scrapes, the left side of her face was a mess. Luke let her put the cloth back against her skin. Her white T-shirt was torn and stained with dirt and blood, her knees nearly as battered as her cheek. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“She just walked in, if you can believe it.” Hank shook his head. “Looked like death then, so she’s gettin’ better.”
Jordan