The Woman Who Couldn't Scream

  Finally she did, losing herself completely as one surge of pleasure followed another, faster and faster until he gave a shout that gave voice to pleasure for them both.

  Motion slowed. He lowered her hips to the table, sank down on top of her, silent now, his fingers grasping her waist, his gaze fixed on her face as if being inside her wasn’t enough. As if he wanted to see inside her.

  Merida smiled, then closed her eyes, luxuriating in physical satisfaction, in the heat of his skin against hers, the pump of blood in her veins, the brief moment when she was no longer Merida or Helen or Merry, but simply herself, one woman united with one man in the dance of joy.

  Slowly Benedict pushed away, left her body, sat up beside her. The blue and red lights flashed across his body, illuminating all the shadows in brief glorious reveals. His voice seemed deeper, grittier as he asked, “Did I make you forget?”

  She nodded, then afraid he hadn’t seen, she spelled, “Yes.”

  “That’s good.” He lifted one knee, leaned an arm against it. “Because you made me remember.”

  There was a warning there, a toughness she hadn’t heard.

  She sat up, shedding satiation and gaining wariness.

  Deliberately he turned his head, looked right at her. “Merry. Merry Byrd. Where have you been?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Merida vaulted off the table, scampered toward her clothes to grab something, anything, put it on, run away.

  Because he was going to kill her … again.

  As she moved, her mind sorted: no T-shirt, she’d be vulnerable if she pulled it over her head; no pants, she’d be vulnerable when she pulled them on; no shoes … she snatched up her hoodie, turned and held it in front of her.

  Benedict sat on the table in the same position, unmoving, watching.

  Of course. Why not? He could outrun her. Because of her paranoia, she had three locks on the door and a chain; they kept her safe, but she couldn’t easily get out. And he’d already proven tonight that her puny self-defense moves could not defeat him.

  But bless him. He knew exactly what to say to bring years of pent-up fury roaring back. “Merry Byrd, I thought you were dead.”

  She threw the hoodie aside and advanced on him. If she was going to die, she wouldn’t do it cowering behind a feeble piece of clothing. She was going to go down fighting. “You ought to know,” she signed. “You killed Merry Byrd.”

  “No.”

  “You arranged for that airplane to explode.”

  “No.”

  “When I woke in the hospital, I cried for you. You were nowhere.”

  “When I woke in the hospital, they told me you were dead.”

  “Who told you I was dead?” Wait. “What were you in the hospital for?”

  He paused, studied her. “Do you not remember that explosion?”

  “Yes!” Except not really. She couldn’t remember everything, and she didn’t want to. The noise. The fear. The explosion. The heat. Oh God the heat the pain the death now run now not fast enough. “I was to solo at last … I was doing the preflight check…”

  He jumped off the table.

  She took a compulsive step back.

  Now uncaring of the cops, he flipped on a light. He pulled off his T-shirt and turned his back to her.

  The skin from his neck to his buttocks was rippled with red scars, testimony to fire and pain.

  She shook her head, little disbelieving shakes.

  “When you want to talk, you know where to find me.” Pulling on his shirt and his pants, he opened the locks and walked out, slamming the door behind him.

  The man knew how to make an exit.

  Damn him! The coward, leaving her here alone when she wanted to fight. Picking up one of his shoes, she flung it at the door. She stomped over and fastened the locks. She sure as hell didn’t want to think. She had never wanted to think about that day …

  The police lights flashed against the suits of armor like some freakish, silent music video.

  Benedict had recognized her. He had made love to her and somehow, he had known who she was. How was that possible? Because of her body? No, she had been substantially rebuilt on Nauplius’s specifications. She had no voice, so it wasn’t that. Maybe because … because … of the way she made love? Because he had never forgotten her?

  Merida, don’t go there. That way looms heartbreak.

  But the fact remained that somehow, he had known her.

  Somehow, he had been hurt.

  Somehow, she had never known that.

  She pulled on her T-shirt and pants, walked to the window and stared out at the street where the police lights flashed. An ambulance was parked at the curb—why? It was far too late for Carl. Men in uniform moved back and forth, and Kateri stood speaking into a radio, her gaze fixed … on the B and B.

  Merida stepped away from the window.

  She had never once opened the mental box that contained her memories. At first she had been too bound up in the fight for her life. Then Nauplius Brassard had come to her and offered the deal. She could have a life with the kind of face and form that made children cry and grown men turn away. Or she could become his perfect woman and live her life on his terms. He offered a contract.

  She had nobly refused. Even then she couldn’t speak, but she had written that Benedict Howard would care for her.

  Nauplius had laughed.

  She had never forgotten that laughter, or the cruel truth he had thrust upon her. Benedict Howard had tried to kill her. If Nauplius hadn’t recognized that she was the woman he sought, if he hadn’t let the world believe she was dead, Benedict Howard would have already finished the job.

  She hadn’t believed him.

  He showed her the photographs online, of a smiling, debonair Benedict dating a smiling, glamorous model. Current photos! She had checked the dates. She had feverishly sought more pictures, pictures taken while she struggled in the hospital with pain, fever, infection, the loss of her face.

  But that didn’t mean he had tried to kill her, only that he’d abandoned her in her time of need. Wasn’t that bad enough?

  Then Benedict’s aunt Rose had visited. The fragile old woman confessed her shame for her nephew and his nefarious deeds. At the same time, she had refused to show Merry proof or turn Benedict over to the law. She said she loved him. She said she feared him. She said Merry was safe as long as he believed her dead, and advised her to take Nauplius’s bargain. As reparation, she offered to negotiate his contract and get Merry better terms. And she did: because of her, Nauplius paid Merry that annual salary.

  The realization that the man she loved had betrayed her broke Merry. The woman she had been—optimistic, cheerful, helpful—disappeared. From that moment, she faced life as it truly was, and she tried never to remember. Not Benedict, not the circumstances of the accident. She had concentrated on the future, and revenge.

  But tonight changed everything. Because he had the scars.

  How? Why?

  Without turning on a light, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom.

  None of that helped her know what to do now.

  She should shower. She smelled like sex and sweat and him.

  She lowered herself onto the bed and shut her eyes … and tried to remember.

  All her life, Merry Byrd had wanted to fly, and for her birthday, Benedict Howard gave her flying lessons. Everything about the experience lifted her heart and each flight was a gift. She embraced the adventure. She loved the freedom of soaring high above the earth. Her instructor, Bob, said he had never seen anyone who was such a natural at the controls. Benedict Howard rode along for every lesson, and every time they landed, he looked at her as if she was the most wonderful woman in the world.

  Yes. She was really flying.

  At last she was ready for her solo flight.

  The message came. Benedict had been detained—business. He couldn’t wave to her as she took off, congratulate her when she landed. But he would be thinking of her every
moment. She was disappointed. Of course. But he sent flowers, and Merry did as she always did—she took joy in his thoughtfulness.

  Bob handed her the list and sent her out to the plane to do the preflight check. He told her he had to speak with his wife—she was ill, in the hospital for tests—but he would join her soon and give the plane the once-over, too, just to be sure. He seemed nervous, but Merida reassured him, told him she was ready to fly on her own and to go to his wife if she needed him.

  Merida walked out to the plane sitting on the tarmac. She performed the visual inspection: fuselage, wings, empennage, power plant, the undercarriage. No nicks, dents, loose fasteners. Checked fuel levels, landing gear, wheels, ignition wires, fuel lines … Bob kept his plane in prime condition, and she didn’t stop until she had given a good mark to everything on the checklist. She was ready to climb into the plane, do the cockpit check, when she heard him call. She turned and waved, so happy to see him …

  Him. Bob?

  No. Not Bob.

  Benedict loped toward her, carrying a gift box under his arm, calling, “Merry, wait!” …

  Merida found herself lying stiff and breathless, straining to remember the following moments.

  Nothing. She didn’t remember anything until she woke in the hospital, wrapped in bandages and hounded by pain.

  The doctors had told her remembering that trauma might be something she could never do.

  Once she knew the truth about Benedict, she hadn’t wanted to.

  But she didn’t know the truth about Benedict. She only knew what Nauplius and Rose had told her, and what she’d seen online. After living with Nauplius, she now knew how well the wealthy could manipulate their stories.

  Maybe after Merry’s “death,” Benedict hadn’t really been out partying.

  Merida sat up.

  Here in Virtue Falls, he’d had plenty of chances, but he hadn’t killed her yet.

  So she might as well go ask him what had happened to cause those scars on his back.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Benedict stepped out of Merida’s room, heard something thump hard against the door’s solid wood panels—his shoe, he supposed. He’d made a grand exit, but now he stood in the entry of the Good Knight Manor Bed and Breakfast wearing the bare minimum for decency.

  Luckily, the guests were gathered on the front porch, watching the police action. As he started for the kitchen and the back entrance, he caught tidbits of their avid conversations.

  “Did you hear what happened next door?”

  “Another one?”

  “Stabbed?”

  “When he got the call, that policeman who hangs around here ran out the door and drove away.”

  “Sean Weston. He hangs around to visit with that beautiful woman who is mute.”

  “A man this time. Really? Next door?”

  “Is it always like this in this town?”

  And finally, in thrilled tones, “Those policemen are coming up the walk. Do you think they’ll want to interview us?”

  Benedict walked faster.

  “Mr. Howard, have you heard the news?” Phoebe came hustling out of the kitchen holding a tray of macaroons and tiny cut-crystal glasses of port. “The police got an anonymous call about a body and—” She stopped. Looked him over from top to toe and tittered. “Oh. My. The police have arrived, but you have your alibi. I suppose she has hers, too.” She gazed pointedly at Merida’s door.

  Benedict always took pride in his ability to conceal his emotions.

  Perhaps, at least at this time, it was an undeserved pride, for as he walked toward Phoebe, she stopped smiling and moved briskly out of the way.

  He walked through the kitchen. Phoebe’s handyman sat at the table, hunched over a plate of macaroons, shoving them into his mouth one after another. He was one of those men Benedict automatically despised: sulky, unambitious, blaming his miserable fate on everyone but himself. He looked up at Benedict, scowled and went back to binge-eating.

  Benedict walked out the back door and stepped into a different scene, one with law enforcement thick at the curb and in the yard, radios crackling, and the bright glimmer of floodlights through the hedge. He saw Merida’s friend Sheriff Kateri Kwinault talking to one of the guests, taking notes. She saw him, too, and waved.

  Benedict wondered how long it would take before they traced his call. Wondered, too, how he’d been so lost to all sense that he used his own phone to make that call.

  He knew the answer.

  Merida made him lose his sense.

  Merry. Of all the women he thought she might be, Merry Byrd had never occurred to him. By the time he woke up in the hospital, two weeks after that explosion, she was dead and buried.

  They had lied to him.

  Apparently, they had lied to her.

  The question remained—who exactly were “they”?

  A car drove slowly up the drive. The Cipres. They pulled the car in front of him, blocking his path to his cottage.

  If he could, he would have walked around them. But he was barefoot. He had to step carefully and even then, gravel bit him on his heel, on the soft flesh by his toes … Next time he made a grand exit, he’d grab his shoes.

  Dawkins rolled down the window and leaned out into the light of the porch. “Did you hear?” he asked. “Somebody’s dead next door. For a town this size, bodies certainly pile up. I told Elsa we should keep going down the coast, but when she met Merida she insisted we stay to help her get her feet under her. And what thanks do we get? She avoids us.”

  “Yes, dear. I know.” Elsa sat in shadow. “You’re right. We can move on tomorrow. Mr. Howard, I’ve never seen you so informally dressed. Not everyone can get away with it. It takes a man of supreme confidence like you or Dawkins.”

  “Thank you.” The gravel in the driveway dug into the bottoms of Benedict’s feet.

  “Did you and Merida have a date tonight?”

  “No.”

  “But you’ve seen her?”

  “I believe she is in her rooms.”

  “Good. With the murders tonight, she shouldn’t be out on her own.” For the first time, Elsa leaned into the light.

  Benedict saw the bruise on her jaw.

  Dawkins shot her a glare.

  She pulled back into the shadow.

  Dawkins drove on.

  Key in hand, Benedict limped his way to his cottage, entered and locked the door behind him. Then unlocked it. He’d seen the look on Merida’s face; he believed she would be along soon.

  He flipped on his computer and while it came up, he made the call to the cruise ship. The connection took a few minutes; he had to explain to the bridge crew member that yes, this was an emergency and he didn’t care what time it was there, he had to speak to his aunt and uncle.

  While he waited, he brought up his investigation into the business account discrepancies and once again examined the evidence.

  The phone rang.

  Rose answered. Naturally, she didn’t ask if he was ill or had been in an accident or been named in a paternity suit. No, not dear Aunt Rose. In her quavering voice, she said, “Dear! Did you discover what’s wrong with our spreadsheets?”

  Yes. The businesses are being hacked. He’d known that already, but he’d held off giving them the information until he tracked the perpetrator or at least discovered the reason for it. As of about fifteen minutes ago, he was pretty sure he knew everything there was to know. But he ignored Rose’s question, and said, “I’m calling about the past.”

  “The past.” Her voice got sharp and wary. “At this hour?”

  “Did you and Albert try to kill Merry Byrd?” To hell with tact; he enjoyed this frontal assault.

  “Merry Byrd?” Rose pretended to grope among unsteady memories. “Remind me, who is she again?”

  “Have you tried to kill so many people you can’t remember who she is? Merry Byrd. The woman I loved.”

  A silence. He could almost hear Rose sorting through her options. “You know w
ith the death of your parents, we took you in. We cared for you, loved you as if you were our own.”

  First, she was playing the guilt card. “Thank you, Aunt Rose. That was good of you.”

  “You don’t understand this, because you never had a child, but when our beloved boy strayed into danger, we always stepped in to rescue you. Remember when you just turned thirteen, got mad at Albert and wanted to run away? You climbed out of your bedroom window and into the old oak, fell and broke your arm. We immediately cut that oak down.”

  He did remember. That had been a beautiful oak, over one hundred years old, its broad branches gloriously flat, the perfect place for a boy to lounge in the summer. He also remembered coming home from the hospital, bruised and battered, his arm in a cast, and hearing the horror of chain saws dismantling the mighty tree.

  His fault. He had known it was his fault. Albert and Rose had made sure of that.

  “We did that because we loved you and couldn’t bear to see you hurt.”

  “You did that to punish me for trying to rebel.”

  “We would hardly be good guardians if we allowed you to roam the streets alone. You would have been hurt!”

  Looking back, he thought of other manipulations, punishments, revenges on him for behavior unbecoming to their heir. He hadn’t thought of it before, hadn’t considered the ramifications on his own character or realized the swift ruthlessness of their reactions. “So you treated Merry Byrd as if she were a rebellion and eliminated her. As if she were the oak tree.”

  “You were acting out of character, spending time at an orphanage—”

  “A day care.”

  “Coming home with vomit on the shoulder of your best suit. An Armani! You neglected the business. You were losing your edge. We had trained you to know what was important in life—”

  “The business.”