Say You Love Me by Rita Herron Page A

onto a tiny bridge. Moss hung like clusters of spiderwebs from the trees, creating a trap for whatever stepped inside.
    Water lapped and receded against the jagged rocks while frogs croaked and whined. The stench of swampland, decay and something else that smelled rancid floated from below. Several yellow-greenish eyes glowed in the dark on the water’s surface—bodies submerged, only long snouts and scaly heads visible in the darkness. The gators. A pair of sharp teeth shimmered in the moonlight.
    â€œLet’s go back,” she said in a shaky voice. “I don’t like it out here.”
    He pushed her forward. “No. I have a surprise for you.”
    Fear ripped through her at his ominous tone. “Please, I don’t like it here—”
    â€œI bought you, Ginger,” he said in a low voice. “You’ll do whatever I want.”
    The legend about the house suddenly took on dire meaning. She reached inside her purse for her mace, but he twisted her arm and she cried out. Terrified, she kicked upward toward his knee, connecting with bone. He yelped and momentarily released her. She tried to run past him toward the car but he slammed her face-down onto the bridge. She tasted blood.
    Dammit. She’d worked too hard to end up like this. She swung her loose arm toward his feet, but he stomped on her hand and she screamed in pain. Bones crunched and blinding pain shot through her. Dry brush, stones and bark clawed at her knees and face as he dragged her toward the shanty.
    Suddenly a loud growling erupted, then another and another. Finally a hideous, terrifying cry. The gators’ cry of warning before they charged.
    Dear God, she’d thought he was safe. What a fool. This man was going to kill her.
    Then he might feed her to the animals.
    Or would he feed her to them alive?

CHAPTER SEVEN
    B RITTA’S HANDS TREMBLED as she lifted the door latch and allowed Jean-Paul and his partner into her apartment. How much should she tell Jean-Paul about her conversation with the killer? If she confessed that the man had hinted that he’d known her in the past, she would open Pandora’s box.
    Yet, if she had drawn the madman to murder, if she had known him, not telling the police would only enable him to kill again.
    â€œAre you all right?” Jean-Paul asked.
    She nodded and gestured for them to sit, then offered coffee, which both men declined. Jean-Paul settled into the chair across from her, while Detective Graves claimed the loveseat.
    â€œWhat time did he call?” Jean-Paul asked.
    â€œJust before I talked to you.”
    â€œTell us everything he said, word for word.”
    She knotted her fingers into the folds of her robe, wishing she’d changed into her clothes. “I’m not sure I can remember.”
    â€œListen, Ms. Berger,” Detective Graves cut in. “It’s important that you try. At this point, everything we learn about our unknown subject, our UNSUB we call him, is a clue that might help us figure out his identity.”
    She chewed on her bottom lip, searching for the bravado that usually saved her. Paste on a detached face. Chin up. Maintain eye contact. Don’t let anyone know you’re afraid.
    Up went her chin. She was in control now. These men had no idea who she was. She’d covered her tracks well. No paper trail. And there had never officially been any charges filed. Besides the only one she could think of who’d want to hurt her was the boy she’d run from. And he had died.
    â€œBritta,” Jean-Paul said. “Are you sure you’re all right? Do you need something to drink?”
    She shook her head. “No, I was just trying to sort through the conversation.”
    Sexual looks she was used to. But having a man worry about her launched her into uncharted territory.
    â€œBritta?”
    â€œI asked him who he was and he repeated what he’d written in the note.”
    â€œThat he knew your