Broken Silence. Annslee Urban

      Patrick. She took a deep breath, ignoring the chill seeping through her, and started down River Street toward the Safe Harbor Counseling Center. Could he possibly have more questions?

      Before the thought fully penetrated, the answer came. Detectives always had questions. And that was what Patrick was—the detective on the case. Nothing more.

      Buoyed by that thought, Amber shouldered her messenger bag and pushed through the narrow double doors of the center. The cozy ambience wrapped around her like a warm blanket. The place was small—only had a quaint waiting area and hallway that led to three offices. And the simple decor of overstuffed seating and antique tables, framed pictures of Savannah’s old harbor and a comfortable array of potted plants warmed her further.

      Just being at the center made her feel better. After a long weekend of nursing her wounds and musing over Friday’s bombing and Patrick Wiley, her nerves were about shot. But common sense reminded her to stop being ridiculous. Even if Patrick did show up, she would be fine.

      Shedding her jacket, Amber hung it on a hook on the wall. Then she picked up a bundle of mail from a wicker basket by the front door and headed to her office, determined to have a good day as she chastised herself for her paranoia.

      Two steps from her office, Amber paused when a masculine and very familiar voice sounded from behind her colleague’s closed door. She bit back a gasp as her stomach did a crazy flip she couldn’t explain.

      Patrick.

      Wrong. She wasn’t fine.

      The urge to put on a good face and properly welcome him to her center quickly abated, switching instead to a desire to turn around and make a run for it.

      The door to her left opened. Too late.

      Tony Hill, a fellow counselor, stood next to Patrick, shaking his hand. “I appreciate your persistence in getting to the bottom of this, Detective Wiley. We sure don’t need a lunatic running around blowing things up.”

      “I agree.” Patrick turned and stepped into the hallway. “Amber.” His eyes narrowed and his mouth lifted in a lopsided grin, sending a little fluttery sensation through her midsection and making her wish he’d stick to the stoic cop face she’d seen the other night.

      “Good morning.” She tried for a smile, too.

      “How are you? How are your injur—”

      “Healing.” She cut him off, holding up a bandage-free hand, aware that his gaze was washing over her.

      “Glad to hear you’re doing better.” He smiled more broadly.

      “Amber, I wasn’t sure you’d be coming in today,” Tony interjected, hovering in the archway. “You know Pam and I could hold down the center for a couple days.”

      “Thanks, Tony. I appreciate the offer, but I’m fine. Really.” Amber couldn’t bear to be cooped up in her house for another couple of days.

      “Okay.” Tony tugged on his sparse goatee. He eyed her a moment longer. “Let me know if you need anything.”

      “I will.”

      Tony shut his door and Patrick moved closer. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing to an office door with her name engraved in bold lettering. “I have a few questions. Shall we talk in there?”

      “No,” Amber answered, immediately regretting the way her tone sharpened. She quickly added, “The waiting room is more comfortable.” She started walking as fast as her high heels and sore knees would allow, not waiting for his reply. In the lobby, she motioned for Patrick to have a seat on the couch. Then she slipped into one of the upholstered chairs, folded her hands in her lap and tried to relax. “I’m not sure what kind of help I’ll be. I don’t know any more than I did on Friday.”

      “Actually, I have a hunch about something.” Patrick ignored the sofa, pulled a chair from the wall and sat down, facing her. A little too close. She took a deep breath. “I came across something this weekend that I think may tie in to your case. And although Mr. Hill answered most of my questions, I’d like to run a couple scenarios by you.”

      Her stomach dropped further, but she didn’t let it show on her face. Patrick was convinced the bomb was meant for her. Why wouldn’t he buy into the random-crime theory like everyone else she knew? There was nothing to suggest it was anything other than that.

      Patrick flipped open the folder and started shifting through the contents. Crime scene photos, detailed crime reports and other paperwork involving her case.

      Amber swallowed. Maybe this was more serious than she’d thought. No. She tamped down the thought, reserving any speculation until there was evidence to support it.

      Finally Patrick pulled a single sheet from the stack and pointed to the title with a blunt finger. “I believe this is a brochure that your center put out.”

      “Yes.” Amber glanced at the flyer that featured the charity fund-raising dinner her counseling center was hosting. “I sent those to local businesses in the area advertising the event and requesting support.” She met his gaze. “I don’t understand what this has to do with the car bombing.”

      Patrick set the open folder on the coffee table. “Silence No More. That’s the name of your fund-raiser?”

      “Yes.”

      “Tell me about it.”

      “Well,” Amber said with a shrug, “the fund-raiser is intended to raise money for the local women’s shelter as well as promote awareness for violent assaults against women. I’m not sure if you’re aware, but one in three women suffer from some sort of abuse during their lifetime. Many suffer in silence, feeling shame and guilt for something they weren’t responsible for. And the challenges they live with are innumerable, like low self-esteem, depression and trust issues.”

      Patrick nodded. “Sounds like a worthy cause.”

      “Yes. It is.” More than he could imagine.

      Patrick scooted to the edge of his seat, arms resting on his thighs, hands clasped. “However, it brings me back to one of my earlier concerns—that the car bomb may have been planted by a revengeful abuser of one of your clients.”

      Drawing in a slow breath, Amber tried to detach herself from the equation and objectively consider Patrick’s hypothesis. As much as it probably made sense to him, it still didn’t feel right to her. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “Actually, the women I work with spend more time with social workers or staff at the women’s shelter. Why target me?”

      “Well, we have to start somewhere.”

      Amber fought not to shrink under Patrick’s speculative stare. “Yes. That’s true, but—” she held up a hand “—I was home alone all weekend. If someone wanted to hurt me—”

      “It’s not that simple, Amber.” The grooves on either side of his mouth deepened into a frown. “This perpetrator may be lying low until the news dies down. And if he turns out to be someone from one of your clients’ past, that client may very well be the next victim.”

      Amber’s stomach lurched at the thought. She hadn’t considered that. “That would be terrible.”

      Patrick leaned closer. So close that she caught a whiff of his cologne. Still so familiar and clean. She slid back in her seat. “Yes, it would,” he concurred. “I’d like to talk to any of your clients who feel particularly threatened by someone.”

      Rubbing her nose, Amber sat up straighter, determined to not let him blow this incident out of proportion. “The majority of my clients feel threatened by someone. However, I have client confidentiality to consider. I can’t just hand information over to you.”

      As a cop, Patrick should understand that.

      Patrick frowned at her. Guess he didn’t. “I need your help on this, Amber. I’m sure you work with a lot