A/N: Thank you to those who kindly reviewed. I loved hearing your reactions!

Thanks to my betas once again. Love your insights ladies.

I've started another story... shorter one. Hope to have it done in the next few weeks. But we still have four more chapters of this one as well as the epilogue to go yet.

Warning: This chapter tells of a past incident of rape.


Early the next morning, Foyle and Milner visited the crime scene. Clearly etched in the dirt were drag marks, which supported Sam's story of Stevens' attack. Ten meters away, where the drag marks ended near the police garage, the soil was stained dark with his blood. The weapon was a screwdriver belonging to the Hastings Police garage, a weapon of convenience. The whole scene screamed self-defense, and yet Sam was willing to accept full responsibility.

Foyle was bewildered with Sam's behavior the night before. Her sense of right and wrong was a bit muddled. She seemed to believe that taking a life, no matter the reason, was beyond redemption. But why? She'd been with the police long enough to know the difference between self-defense and murder. Why was she so willing to accept a charge of murder? It didn't make sense.

After returning from the crime scene, Foyle barricaded himself in his office. The tension in the station house was palpable. Everyone liked Sam. No one questioned her position any longer; after five years of service to the police, she'd proven she belonged.

Foyle heard a quick tap on the door and looked up to see Milner entering, evidently out of sorts. "Sam still isn't saying anything. And I've tried to reach her father, but there's been no answer."

"Let's go."

"Where?"

"Lyminster. We're not getting any answers here." Foyle stood and grabbed his hat and coat.

"Do you want Sergeant Brooks to drive?"

Foyle stopped mid-stride, head tilted down, shoulders hunched. He swiveled back to Milner. Frustrated with the whole situation, he testily replied, "No, I'll drive."


Foyle remembered well the route Sam had taken on their first trip together to Lyminster. He found the vicarage easily next to the big church which stood out against the landscape.

Reverend Stewart was in his front yard as they pulled up, and he walked over to meet them, a welcoming smile lighting his face. "Good morning, Mr. Foyle, Mr. Milner." He seemed oblivious to anything amiss, despite the two policemen coming to his home, out of their jurisdiction. "What brings you to Lyminster?"

It was then that the older man's eyes glanced toward the car, evidently expecting his daughter to be in the driver's seat. Foyle watched his smile change to an expression of concern.

"Is Samantha not driving you today?"

"No, she's not," Foyle replied. "Could we, erm, take this somewhere more private?" he asked, nodding toward the vicarage.

The vicar hesitated, certainly now concerned. "Come this way," he said, gesturing towards the house.

The men walked together silently into the house and were greeted instantly by Mrs. Stewart. She was a plump woman with soft eyes and short, curly grey hair. The men greeted her kindly but solemnly, which was definitely not lost on her. She darted a glance at her husband as he ushered her to the sofa. Once everyone was seated, Mr. Stewart looked expectantly at Mr. Foyle.

"Is Samantha all right?" he asked.

Foyle tilted his head in consideration and licked his bottom lip. "She's uninjured, but… she's…" He hesitated only because Mrs. Stewart was suddenly appearing overwrought with worry, placing her hand to her lips. Foyle recalled Sam doing the same thing the night before. "Sam's in a bit of a spot and we need your help to clear it up."

"What's happened?" Mr. Stewart queried.

Foyle looked to Milner for help. He was having a rather tough time dealing with the parents of his young love. They knew and approved of their courtship, but his unexpected arrival without her was understandably worrisome.

"She's been arrested, Sir," Milner interjected.

Sam's mother gasped. Mr. Stewart wrapped his arm around her gently, comfortingly. He looked at the sergeant then back to Foyle and asked, "What is she charged with?"

Foyle's eyes flickered as he quietly said, "Murder."

Mrs. Stewart began to cry as Mr. Stewart stood defensively. "Samantha would never kill another person. You know that. She's… she would never—"

Foyle watched as the older man lost his confidence in his own daughter, suddenly hesitating to defend her. "She would never, what?" Foyle asked.

"She's not violent, Mr. Foyle. She wouldn't harm another living soul unless…"

"Unless what?" He wasn't about to put words in the older man's mouth. This case had to be by the book to ensure that Sam's name was cleared—if it could be.

Sam's father was clearly fighting a dilemma. It was what Foyle had counted on. He was right about his suspicions. The family knew something—something that Sam was clearly ready to die for rather than reveal.

Mr. Stewart look pained. "Unless she was being hurt."

"She was clearly being hurt, but…" He held up his hand to forestall their questions. "She was uninjured except for some bruising on her hands and arms."

"Please, Mr. Foyle. What happened to my little girl?" Mrs. Stewart asked softly through her sobs.

"She was assaulted by a young man whom she says she knew… from her childhood."

Mr. Stewart leaned forward and asked, "What was his name?"

"Henry Stevens."

Mrs. Stewart's sobs suddenly quieted and she shared a look with her husband. "I can't… I can't stay here and listen to this, but you have to tell them... everything." Sam's mother got unsteadily to her feet and left the room.

"Sir, what do you know about Henry Stevens?" Foyle asked.

Sam's father stared out the window past the men sitting before him. Moments ticked by as they waited for him to refocus.

He cleared his throat and looked down at his hands. "Henry Stevens was a young boy the last I, we, saw of him; that was before his parents moved the family away. They'd lived here for decades, until about thirteen years ago. Samantha was just turned fifteen."

He looked out the window again then stood and went over to it, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I don't know what Henry Stevens was doing in Hastings, but if what you say is true then I should think that assaulting a young woman and causing injury would be good enough reason for Samantha to do what she did."

Foyle fingered his hat, contemplating. He sensed that this conversation wasn't going to end well, although he hoped he was wrong. He stood and walked over to Sam's father and asked quietly, "What aren't you telling us?"

"It was thirteen years ago." Mr. Stewart bowed his head as he thought back. "I thought we'd put it past us, moved on, but it feels as if it happened only yesterday."

Foyle grew concerned at the melancholy evident in the older man's voice. If what could have happened last night to Sam was any indication of what had occurred thirteen years before, Foyle wasn't sure he'd be able to handle it. "Sam won't talk about what happened and has asked us not to investigate. She's willing to hang rather than tell us."

The older man turned to face Foyle, and then he nodded to the chair and sofa. "Please sit. I'll tell you what you need to know." They both took their seats again and Mr. Stewart leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands in front of him. They patiently waited for him to collect himself and begin the story.

"Samantha had just turned fifteen. She'd always been a bit of a tomboy, forever trailing along with her brothers, or fishing or tramping through the fields with the local children. She'd always been very responsible, though. She never came home late, always watched out for the younger children, or even some of the older ones who didn't act as if they knew any better." He looked at Foyle intently. "Although extremely chatty, and questioning every little thing, she never got into serious trouble. She was a good child—my delight."

"One sunny summer afternoon, she and some of her friends had walked to the creek. On the way, she'd stopped to admire some young lambs frolicking in a pen on the outskirts of the Stevens' farm. She's always loved animals, no matter their species." He sighed, shaking his head as he recalled events. "The others had continued on, not realizing she'd stayed behind. And Samantha also had not noticed that her friends had gone on ahead of her."

Samantha was laughing at one of the little lambs that playfully butted at her hand, when she suddenly realized she was alone. She stood up and turned to find her friends, but found Joel Stevens instead. The older boy, nearly twenty years old, towered over her with a set look on his face. She gasped, somewhat startled. But knowing him from the neighbourhood and church, she smiled at him. He didn't smile back, just stared at her. Unsure of his demeanor, Samantha turned to the lane to walk after her friends when he suddenly lunged toward her and yanked her braids, pulling her to the ground. Samantha began to yell, but he covered her mouth with his hand until she bit him. Furious, he struck her face with his fist, knocking her unconscious. She woke later as he dragged her across the field to the barn.

"She couldn't fight him. He was so much larger than she was," Mr. Stewart's voice broke.

Foyle felt the bile inching higher. His dear Sam had been violated in a way that no woman ever should. How could he have suspected that the lively young woman he had immediately liked and grown to love had ever endured such trauma?

"They searched for Joel Stevens, but couldn't find him. He'd disappeared." Mr. Stewart drew a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his eyes. "It was nearly two months later and Samantha had healed physically; emotionally, though, she was still withdrawn. She didn't play with her girlfriends as she'd done before. They came over frequently, but they'd rarely leave the house."

"One weekend, all of Sam's brothers were home. They were going to the Jamesons' for a traditional bonfire before school began. Sam, unbeknownst to her mother or me, followed them. She'd been asking questions about the bonfire earlier in the day, but hadn't shown any further interest." He closed his eyes. "If we'd known she wanted to go, we'd have made sure to go with her, or at the very least, her brothers would have watched over her." He rubbed a hand over his face, taking a moment.

She was watching her friends and brothers from the edges of the corn field, in the dark, when Joel Stevens found her. He covered her mouth and held a knife to her throat, warning her not to make a sound. While dragging her backwards to the Jamesons' barn, just as he'd done before, Joel tripped and lost his grip on her. He fell to the ground as Samantha pushed off him and ran. She then tripped and fell. He'd gotten back to his feet, and had started toward her. She turned over and saw him coming. She scrambled in a backwards crawl away from him, but her skirt caught and she couldn't get on her feet. When she tried to free her skirt, she realized it was caught on a pitchfork. She raised the pitchfork suddenly, just as Joel Stevens reached her.

Foyle could hear the quiet sobs coming from the other room where he knew Mrs. Stewart was trying not to hear the retelling of her daughter's brutal attacks.

"She killed him, impaled him through the chest."


The drive back to Hastings was quiet except for Milner's periodic musings and Foyle's quick one-word answers. Neither felt like making small talk, they had too many thoughts and too many disturbing images on their minds.

It was nearing eight o'clock when they pulled up in front of the station, and the sun was just beginning to set behind it. The two officers lumbered inside, heavy-hearted. Milner waited silently at the front desk with Sergeant Brooks as they watched their boss trudge down the stairs to the lower level.

His only concern was for Sam.

He found her in her cell, on a cot, curled up alongside the wall. He nodded at the sergeant on watch to unlock the door. Sam didn't look up as he entered, and he hadn't expected her to. He knew that she felt ashamed and was blaming herself for everything. As a policeman, Foyle had, in the past, dealt with assaulted women suffering from the after-effects of a rape. Although in this case, Sam had not been raped the night before, he was sure that she, like her father, was reliving the nightmare as if it had just occurred.

He approached her, placed his hat on the table, and then drew a chair up next to the cot. He sat down and waited for her to acknowledge him. But after several minutes, he couldn't wait any longer. He held his hand out for her, and while she didn't flinch, she wasn't accepting of it. She still hadn't met his eyes.

"Sam?" he asked. "Please look at me," he commanded softly. She darted her eyes to him without moving her head from against the wall.

"Thank you. Will you answer two questions for me, please?" Her gaze shifted to the tops of her knees, but she nodded.

"Did Henry Stevens threaten you in any way... verbally?"

"Yes."

"And what did he say?"

She sniffled. "He said I would get what I had coming to me. An eye for an eye was only fair."

"What did that mean to you?"

She continued to chew on her nails, not answering, and Foyle thought he was going to have to ask again, when she finally put her hand down on the edge of the cot and pushed herself upright. "I killed his brother, so he was going to kill me."

Foyle inhaled deeply, relieved.

She sniffled again and the tears she'd been holding back came tumbling out.

This time, when he held his hand out to her, she welcomed it. As soon as she grasped his hand, he tugged gently on her arm and held out his other arm for her. She leaned toward him and allowed him to embrace her. Foyle cradled her head against his chest, listening to the quiet sobs and soft whimpers as he comforted her. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and rocked her gently.

"I don't want to hang. Really I don't."

"I know. And you won't."

She lifted her head and stared at him, wide-eyed. "I won't?"

"No, Sam. It was self-defense… just as before."

She stiffened and her eyes grew dark. "You know?"she gasped.

His eyes closed briefly and he nodded. "We went to see your parents."

She buried her head in his chest and started to shake, but he held her close and reassured her. "It's all right, Sam," he whispered. "It's just us. No one else needs to know. Just you, me and Sergeant Milner."

Foyle felt her hands clench and tug on the lapels of his jacket as she attempted to stifle her new round of sobs. He shushed her quietly, continuing to rock her.

When she finally quieted, he loosened his hold on her and let her inch backward. "You're free to go, Sam. Feel like getting out of here?"

She nodded, but did not smile. Her mind was plagued with the knowledge that he knew about her past. What would it mean for them now and in their future?


After they climbed into the car, Sam asked him to take her home, to her flat. Foyle had planned for her to spend the night in his home, believing that she wouldn't want to be alone. He glanced at her where she remained curled against the door, staring out the window.

When they pulled up to her building, she didn't move; just stared distantly down the street. Foyle climbed out and went around the car to open her door. She startled at first but then he presented his hand and she took it gratefully. Once they reached her door, he offered, "You could stay with me, Sam. You don't have to be alone."

Sam considered his offer a moment, nervously biting the inside of her cheek. "I don't know."

He lovingly caressed her hand with his thumb and softly asked her to stay with him again. "You can have the back room and you don't have to talk about it yet. We should talk tomorrow, though." He knew she needed to compartmentalize this experience in her head as his employee rather than as his girlfriend, lover, whatever they were. He ached to hold her, comfort her, soothe her fears, but he'd give whatever she needed to help her deal with this trauma, and right now, she didn't want to talk.

She finally met his eyes, darting from one to the other, and then she acquiesced and told him she'd just grab a few things and be back.

Foyle waited for her at her door. A few minutes later, she returned carrying her suitcase and a coat. He took her suitcase then ushered her to the car.

Once they arrived at Foyle's home, she sat in front of the fireplace and stared silently into the ashes. Foyle felt a lump form in his throat. He didn't know what to do other than be there to catch her when she fell. He left her there while he took her suitcase to the back room before going to the kitchen to brew some tea.

On the drive back from Lyminster, he'd started piecing together little bits of information that should have clued him in that something was wrong. There were Sam's nightmares and her sudden fright that she'd heard someone at the river when they'd been fishing. Of course, there was also her obvious lie to him about Henry Stevens when he'd walked in on their confrontation the previous morning. It suddenly occurred to him that Sam had been trying to keep the whole thing from him for a much different reason. Their relationship had become very serious. The logical next step, of course, would be for him to offer her marriage.

While the tea brewed, he wiped his hands on a towel and glanced through the kitchen's open doorway to check on her. She hadn't moved from her seat, still sitting forward and staring into the fireplace. He tilted his head down, considering the implications of what he'd discovered earlier that day. He wondered what it was that had triggered Sam's nightmares. It was something he'd have to broach with her before they married. He considered the time by the river. Foyle thought they'd enjoyed themselves rather well that day, but as he remembered the look on her face when she said she'd heard something, he realized it was yet another lie. Foyle clenched his eyes shut at the realization that their romantic relationship had started out with lies. He had to find a way to make Sam understand that she could trust him with anything.

Minutes later, he sat in the chair across from her and placed the tea tray down to serve her. She eyed him carefully. He wondered what she was thinking. When he handed her a cup, she met his gaze steadily then took it from his hands.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"For what?"

"For everything," she said. "I haven't been truthful and I knew it was wrong and yet... I couldn't tell you."

Foyle, for a moment, felt like a heel. Sam had obviously been trying to keep her experience behind her and to keep him from knowing, why he wasn't necessarily sure, but he was sure that she didn't want it to interfere with their burgeoning relationship.

Foyle took a sip of his tea as she did the same. Sam's hands trembled and the cup clanked against the saucer as she replaced it. Setting his cup down, he reached for hers and took it from her hands to place it on the table next to his. Holding his hand out to her, she accepted cautiously, a whimper escaping her lips as she stood and allowed him to settle her on his lap. Curling against his chest, tucking her head under his chin, Sam melted within the comfort of his arms.

"I didn't want you to find out like this. I thought there had to be a way for you to never find out."

"Why, Sam? Did you really think that I'd not be handle it?"

"I didn't want to disappoint you –"

"Samantha," he exclaimed. "Nothing that happened to you was your fault. You didn't do anything wrong."

He held her for several minutes until her sniffles subsided and her breathing evened out. She sat up and tried to scoot off his lap, but he held her firmly until she met his eyes. He needed to make sure she understood he didn't blame her, for anything. Cupping her cheek in his hand, he leaned in and kissed her cheek softly.

"I'm tired, Sir."

"Yes, I'm sure you are." He helped her to her feet and guided her to the back room. She knew the way of course, but he didn't want to leave her side. Opening the door, he led her inside then put his arms around her once more. "Get some sleep. We'll talk more in the morning."

He left her and returned to the living room. He put away the teacups, checked the front door, and turned off the lights before making his way to his room. But he couldn't help checking on Sam one more time. Knocking on her door, he asked, "Sam, are you all right?"

A couple seconds later, Sam opened the door. "I was just going to turn out the light."

"If you need anything during the night, please let me know."

She nodded then said, "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Sam."


Foyle had risen early and dressed for work, making as little noise as possible so as to allow Sam to sleep in. He'd had very little sleep himself, but there was paperwork he needed to finish on the Stevens case to clear Sam. In the wee hours of the morning, he'd heard a noise coming from Sam's room and had checked on her. He'd found her in the middle of a nightmare, thrashing around and tangled in the bedcovers. Not wanting to startle her, he gently whispered her name and softly caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. It took two or three attempts but she finally quieted down into what he hoped was a restful slumber.

He wished he didn't have to wake her, but he also would regret not telling her and leaving her to wake up in an empty house. Tapping on her door, he waited for a response, but not getting one on the second try, he opened the door and found her sound asleep, facing away from the door with the pillow over her head. Chewing on his cheek, he considered waking her. Still, he didn't want to leave her without letting her know where he'd gone. Crossing to her bedside, he tentatively patted her arm that held the pillow over her head. To his surprise, she responded immediately, bringing the pillow down off her face.

Sam yawned then sheepishly apologised before mumbling a 'good morning' to him. She started to sit up but he gently halted her and told her to stay in bed.

"I'm sorry to wake you," he apologized. "But I didn't want you to feel I abandoned you when you woke."

Squinting, she looked back at him and noted his suit. "You're going to work?"

"Yes, paperwork," he stated simply. She nodded her understanding. "Get some rest. I'll be back this afternoon." Again, she nodded.

As he closed the door, he chanced another look at Sam and watched her sink back into the bed, curling her arm around the pillow and tucking it against her chest. He'd never before wished that he was a pillow, but in that instant he did, if only to provide some small measure of comfort to her.

TBC...