Free Worth Dying For (A Slaughter Creek Novel) by Rita Herron

blinding her. She flipped the mirror up to diffuse the light, blinking to clear her vision. But the car jolted forward, then sped up beside her, skimming her side, jolting her toward the embankment.
    She gripped the steering wheel, slowing to let him pass. The road twisted sharply right, and she swerved just in time to avoid plunging into the ravine as the other car raced on. She squinted to read the license plate, but the sedan had already disappeared into the darkness like a bullet.
    Her breath puffed out as she righted her vehicle and accelerated. She wanted to catch the other car, but another curve caught her off guard, and she skimmed the guardrail. Reminding herself that it wasn’t worth dying to catch the creep, who was probably drunk, she forced herself to slow as she pulled back into her lane.
    By the time she’d reached her house, her muscles felt as strained as her nerves. She parked, then looked through the windshield, and thought she saw the silhouette of a man.
    Ned Harlan was standing in the shadows behind a moonlit live oak.
    Could it be . . .
    All these days and nights she’d imagined him coming back for her. Whispering her name in the dark.
    Slitting her throat until the blood drained from her.
    Her therapist had convinced her she was delusional, suffering from PTSD.
    But this didn’t look like a damn illusion to her.
    She pulled her weapon and got out of the car. She would kill him this time.
    But when she inched closer, the image faded.
    God . . . she blinked to regain her focus.
    She scanned left and right. Trees rustled. Gray clouds moved, covering the moon, making it even darker. A bobcat wailed from somewhere in the mountains.
    After the attack, she’d seen Harlan everywhere. On the street. In the coffee shop. In the woods behind her house.
    In the street when she’d gone shopping.
    Her therapist assured her that her reaction was normal, that victims often felt as if their attackers had returned to stalk them.
    That Ned Harlan was dead.
    Her hand shook as she held her weapon at the ready, making her way up the sidewalk to her front door. Leaves rustled in the wind, and the sound of her own erratic breathing filled her ears.
    Had she imagined Harlan’s face watching her?
    She fumbled with her key, but finally managed to unlock the door. She’d left a light on in the den—she always left a light on—but it was off now. A tremor ran through her as she reached for the light switch.
    Then the faint scent of a man’s aftershave hit her. A musky odor.
    Harlan’s scent. Dear God, was he alive?
    Or was she imagining things again?

Chapter Eight

    R afe didn’t want to make the drive back to his cabin. He wanted to be close in case Liz needed him.
    Why he felt that way, he didn’t know. Hell, it had been months since he’d seen her. Since the night she was rushed to the ER.
    But this case stirred up old anxieties and memories. Memories of that night.
    And the nights in bed with Liz, the best nights he’d ever had.
    He rented a room at the Slaughter Creek Inn, then walked across the street to the diner for a late dinner. The place was virtually empty, although when he entered he heard two old-timers talking about Ester Banning’s murder.
    A middle-aged waitress brought him a plate of country-fried steak, mashed potatoes, gravy, and biscuits. He thanked her, then dug in, but his phone buzzed halfway through.
    “Rafe, it’s Nick. Any progress on the murder?”
    “Too early to say. We brought a man in for questioning—a pig farmer whose mother was abused by Banning. He admits to hating her, had motive and opportunity, but we didn’t get a confession. I thought sitting in jail overnight might change his mind.” Rafe sipped his sweet tea. They could hold him for twenty-four hours, but then they’d have to charge him or let the bastard go. “How about news on the Commander?”
    “Nothing definitive there either. We questioned Seven, but she’s not talking. And so far we haven’t found a