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Summary
Summary
A woman on the run must confront her dark past at her family's home in Cincinnati in this thrilling novel of romantic suspense from New York Times bestselling author Karen Rose.
Psychologist Faith Corcoran is desperate to escape the stalker who's made her life a nightmare for the past year--desperate enough to run to the one place that has been her nightmare far longer. Her recent inheritance of her grandmother's old house in Cincinnati offers sanctuary in which she can start her life anew, but requires that she face the dark memories that still resonate to this day. But she has no idea how close to home her fears still are...
Two college girls have gone missing in the area, and FBI Special Agent Deacon Novak is called to work on the case. When his inquiry unexpectedly leads him to Faith, he finds a beautiful and brave woman he can't help but fall for. Soon they'll discover that this seemingly simple investigation is anything but. Reaching back decades into Faith's own past, it will shatter everything she believes to be true and will give terrifying new meaning to flesh and blood.
Author Notes
Karen Rose was born the Maryland suburbs of Washington, D.C. in 1964. She received a chemical engineering degree from the University of Maryland. Before becoming a RITA Award-winning author, she worked as a chemical engineer for a large consumer goods company and as a high school chemistry and physics teacher. She is the author of The Cincinnati series. Book 4 in the series, Every Dark Corner, is a best seller.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (1)
Kirkus Review
Coming home to her family mansion in Cincinnati, Faith Corcoran hopes to escape a stalker, but the move puts her in even greater danger. Digging for answers with a sexy FBI agent brings unexpected loveif they can survive. After a year of being stalked by an ex-con, psychologist Faith leaves Florida behind for a new start in her long-abandoned family home, which she inherited from her grandmother. Except that once she gets into town, she nearly runs over a young woman escaping from the boarded-up building, where it soon becomes clear that a serial killer has taken up residence. As body after body is uncovered in the basement, suspicion falls on Faith's fractured familyincluding a couple of cousins and two estranged twin uncles. When the FBI is called in to support local law enforcement, Faith is drawn to Deacon Novak, an agent assigned to her case. Soon it becomes clear that someone is determined to kill her, and it's probably not the previous stalker. In fact, the stalker may have been a convenient cover for someone else's murderous intentions. Deacon and Faith begin to search for clues in Faith's past and those of her grandparents and their two sons and two daughters, who have a mysterious history of wealth, secrets and betrayal. Yet as they work through years of lies and misunderstandings, and more bodies show up in other locations, the killer is tightening his net, and it includes Deacon, since it's obvious that his relationship to Faith has become personal. Rose has written an intricately plotted mystery with enough suspects to keep us guessing and a chilling but believable killer who hides in plain sight. Rose delivers a chilling, enthralling read that succeeds on every level. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Excerpts
Excerpts
"THE QUEEN OF ROMANTIC SUSPENSE." SIGNET ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Prologue Oh God. Corinne fought the sudden wave of nausea, contracting her body into the fetal position. Wine. Too much wine. This is the worst hangover ever. But . . . Wait. No. Can't be. A sliver of clarity returning, she shook her head, swallowing a moan when the room tilted. Haven't had a drink in two years. The flu. Dammit . She'd had the damn flu shot. She lifted her hands to rub her eyes, but-- Tied. Realization rushed in. She gave her arms a panicked jerk, shooting pain up through her shoulders. Her hands were tied. Behind her back. The room wasn't dark. I'm blindfolded. She lurched to one side, heard the clank of a chain before her movement was abruptly checked. Terror crashed through her, filling her mind. Tied. Chained. Blindfolded. A scream rose in her throat but came out a rusty croak. Her throat was dry as dust, her lips cracked. Not a hangover. Drugged. I was drugged. How? When? Who would have? Who could have? What had they done to her? She drew a breath, tried to calm herself. Breathed deeply. Think, Corinne. Think hard. The musty odor of the room burned her nose, making her sneeze violently, sending her head spinning again. She clenched her teeth. Rode the nausea through. She listened, but there was nothing. She heard nothing. No wind. No music. No voices. Okay. Okay. This sucks. This really sucks. Calm down. Think. Think. She forced her arms to relax, felt the chain go slack. She moved her fingers, her toes. Straightened her spine, careful not to make any more sudden movements. She was on a bed. A mattress. With a sheet. And a pillow. Slowly she rubbed her cheek over the pillow. Rough. The room was musty, but the pillow smelled clean. A sudden creak had Corinne freezing. The door opened, letting in a cold draft. And the smell of lemons. And the beginning of a shrill scream, muffled by the quick closing of the door. Who was screaming? Who is here? And then Corinne remembered. Last night . Walking back to the dorm. From the library. With Arianna. They'd walked together because it was late. Oh God. Ari is here, too. She's screaming. Somebody has her and they're hurting her. They're hurting her. They'll hurt me next. "You're awake." It was a girl's voice, shocking Corinne out of her panic. The girl sounded young. Not a little girl. Not an adult. A teenager, maybe. She sounded . . . hesitant. "I've been worried about you," the girl added. Corinne could hear the girl's feet shuffle against the floor. Count her steps. One, two . . . four, five . . . eight, nine, ten. Ten steps to the door. "Who are you?" Corinne whispered, her throat so dry it burned. "Why?" The mattress shifted. Just a little. The girl was small. Cool hands cupped Corinne's face. "You had a fever," the girl said. "It's better now. Are you thirsty?" Corinne nodded. "Please. Water." "Of course," the girl said agreeably. A cup was placed against Corinne's lips. A metal cup. Not glass. Glass could be broken, used as a weapon, but that wasn't going to happen here. The water trickled down Corinne's throat, and she gulped greedily. "More." "Later," the girl said, gently laying her head back on the pillow. "You've been very sick." "Who are you? Uncover my eyes." "I can't. I'm sorry." The girl actually sounded sorry. "Why not?" Corinne asked, trying to keep the panic from filling her voice. "I just can't. I'm allowed to take care of you. I'm not allowed to take off your blindfold." Panic won, and Corinne lunged, rattling her chains. "Who the hell are you?" The mattress abruptly shifted as the girl jumped off the bed. "Nobody," she whispered. "I'm nobody." Footsteps shuffled, the girl moving away. "I'll come back later with some soup." "Wait. Please. Please don't go. Where am I?" A slight hesitation before the resigned answer. "Home." "No. This is not my home. I live in the dorm. King's College." "I don't know about your college. This is . . . home. My home. And yours. For now." For now? Oh God. "But where are we?" "I don't know." Said simply. Truthfully. "Can you help me get away?" "No. No." The girl's tone became adamant with fear. "I can't." But she wanted to. Corinne could hear it in her voice. Or she wanted so badly to hear it that she told herself it was there. Either way, she needed this girl on her side. "All right," Corinne said softly. "Can you tell me your name?" Another long hesitation. "I have to go." The door opened. Ari's screams filled the air. "Please. What's happening to my friend? Her name is Arianna. What's happening to her? " The girl's answer was quiet, spoken with a dull finality that had fresh terror clawing its way up Corinne's throat. "He's teaching her." "Teaching her what?" "What she needs to know," the girl said. "I'm very sorry." The door closed. Corinne waited a few seconds. "Hello? Are you there? Please ." But the girl was gone and Corinne was alone in the dark. Chapter One Mt. Carmel, Ohio Sunday, November 2, 5:45 p.m. "It's only a house." Dr. Faith Corcoran gripped her steering wheel, willing herself to look at the house in question as she slowed her Jeep to a crawl. "Just four walls and some floors." She drove past, eyes stubbornly pointed forward. She didn't need to see. She knew exactly what it looked like. She knew that it was three stories of gray brick and hewn stone. That it had fifty-two windows and a square central tower that pointed straight to heaven. She knew that the foyer floor was Italian marble, that the wide staircase had an elegantly curved banister made out of mahogany, and that the chandelier in the dining room could sparkle like a million diamonds. She knew the house top to bottom. And she also knew that it wasn't the four walls and floors that she really feared, but what lay beneath them. Twelve steps and a basement . She did a U-turn and stopped the Jeep in front of the house. Her heart was beating faster, she thought clinically. "That's a normal physiological response. It's just stress. It will pass." As the words slipped out, she wondered who she was trying to convince. The dread had been steadily building with every mile she'd driven the past two days. By the time she crossed the river into Cincinnati, it had become a physical pain in her chest. Thirty minutes later, she was close to hyperventilating, which was both ridiculous and unacceptable. "For God's sake, grow the hell up," she snapped, killing the engine and yanking her keys from the ignition. She leapt from the Jeep, angry when her knees wobbled. Angry that, after all this time, the thought of the house could make her feel like she was nine years old. You are not nine. You are a thirty-two-year-old adult who has survived multiple attempts on your life. You are not afraid of an old house . Drawing strength from her anger, Faith lifted her eyes, looking at the place directly for the first time in twenty-three years. It looked . . . Not that different, she thought, drawing an easier breath . It's old and massive. Oppressive. It was more than a little run-down, yet still imposing. It looked old because it was old. The house had stood on O'Bannion land for more than a hundred and fifty years, a testament to a way of life long gone. The three stories of brick and stone loomed large and dark, the tower demanding that all visitors look up. Faith obeyed, of course. As a child, she'd never been able to resist the tower. That hadn't changed. Nor had the tower. It maintained its solitary dignity, even with its windows boarded up. All fifty-two windows were boarded up, in fact, because the O'Bannion house had been abandoned twenty-three years ago. And it showed. The brick stood, weathered but intact, but the gingerbread woodwork she'd once loved was faded and cracked. The porch sagged, the glass of the front door covered with decades of grime. Gingerly, she picked her way across the patchy grass to the front gate. The fence was wrought iron. Old-fashioned. Built to last, like the house itself. The hinges were rusty, but the gate swung open. The sidewalk was cracked, allowing weeds to flourish. Faith took a moment to calm her racing heart before testing the first step up to the porch. No, not the porch. The veranda. Her grandmother had always called it "the veranda" because it wrapped around the entire house. They used to sit out there and sip lemonade, she and Gran. And Mama, too. Before, of course. Afterward . . . there was no lemonade. There was no anything. For a long time, there was absolutely nothing. Faith swallowed hard against the acrid taste that filled her mouth, but the memory of her mother remained. Don't think about her. Think about Gran and how she loved this old place. She'd be so sad to see it like this. But, of course, Gran never would see it again, because she was dead. Which is why I'm here . The house and all it contained now belonged to Faith. Whether she wanted it or not. "You don't have to live here," she told herself. "Just sell the property and go . . ." Go where? Not back to Miami, that was for damn sure. You're just running away. Well, yeah. Duh. Of course she'd run away. Any sensible person would run if she'd been stalked for the past year by a homicidal ex-con who'd nearly killed her once before. Some had said that she shouldn't be surprised she'd been stalked, that by doing therapy with scum-of-the-earth sex offenders, she'd put herself in harm's way. Some even had said she cared more about the criminals than the victims. Those people were wrong. None of them knew what she'd done to keep the offenders from hurting anyone else. What she'd risked. Peter Combs had attacked her four years ago because he'd believed that her "snitching" to his probation officer about missed therapy sessions had sent his reoffending ass to prison. Faith shuddered to think of what he would have done had he known the truth back then, that her role in his reincarceration had been far more than marking him absent. But given the cat-and-mouse game he'd played with her in the year following his release, the fact that his stalking had escalated to attempted murder four times now . . . Maybe he did know. Maybe he'd figured it out. Slipping her hand into the pocket of her jacket, Faith's fingers brushed the cold barrel of the Walther PK380 she hadn't left her Miami apartment without in almost four years. Miami PD hadn't been any help at all, so she'd taken her safety into her own hands. She was sensible. Prepared. But still scared. I'm so tired of being afraid. Suddenly aware that she'd dropped her gaze to her feet, she defiantly lifted her chin to look up at the house. Yeah, she'd run, all right. She'd run to the one place she feared almost as much as the place she'd left behind. Which sounded about as crazy now as it had when she'd fled Miami two days ago. But it had been her only choice. No one else will die because of me . She'd packed the Jeep with as many of her possessions as she could make fit and left everything else behind, including her career as a mental-health therapist and the name under which she'd built it. A legal name change, sealed by the court for confidentiality, had ensured that Faith Frye was no more. Faith Corcoran was a clean slate. She was starting fresh. No one she'd left behind in Miami--friend or foe--knew about this house. No one knew her grandmother had died, so no one could tell Peter Combs. He would never think to look for her here. She even had a new job--a sensible job in the HR department of a bank in downtown Cincinnati. She would have coworkers who wore conservative suits and stared at spreadsheets. She would make an actual living wage and receive benefits for the very first time. But the most valuable benefit would be the bank's security, just in case her efforts to lose Faith Frye hadn't been quite good enough. Lightly, she touched her throat. Although the wound had healed long ago, the scar remained, a permanent illustration of what the man who hunted her was capable of doing. But at least she'd lived. Gordon hadn't been so fortunate. Guilt and grief welled up in equal measures, choking her. I'm so sorry, Gordon. Her former boss had had the bad luck to be standing next to her when the bullets started to fly--bullets meant for her. Now his wife was a widow, his children fatherless. She couldn't bring Gordon back. But she could do everything in her power to make sure it never happened again. If Combs couldn't find her, he couldn't hurt her or anyone else. Her grandmother's passing had presented her with a place to run to when she'd needed it most. The house was a gift. That it was also her oldest nightmare couldn't stop her from accepting it. Forcing her feet to move, she marched up the remaining two steps to the front door, dug the key from her pocket, and went to open the door. But the key wouldn't open the lock. After the third try, it finally sank in that the key didn't fit. Her grandmother's attorney had given her the wrong key. She couldn't have gone inside if she'd wanted to. Not today, anyway. The relief that geysered up inside her made her a little ashamed. You're a coward, Faith . It was just a delay of one day, she reasoned. Tomorrow she would get the right key, but for the moment her inability to enter bolstered her courage. Peeking through the dirty glass on the front door, she saw a room full of furniture, draped in sheets. Her grandmother had taken only a few favorite pieces when she'd left the house for a townhouse in the city twenty-three years ago. The rest she'd left to Faith. The thought of unveiling the furnishings elicited the first spark of excitement Faith had felt in a long time. Many of the items were museum-quality, or so her mother had told her on many occasions. This will all be mine someday, Faith, and when I die it'll be yours, so pay attention. This is your legacy and it's high time you learned to appreciate it . The memory of her mother's voice doused her excitement. She could recall the fear that had filled her at her mother's words as if it were yesterday. But I don't want my legacy, she'd replied . Not if it makes you die, Mama . An affectionate tug on her pigtail. Silly girl, I'm not going anywhere for years and years. You'll be Gran's age before this place is yours. And in her eight-year-old eyes, Gran was already ancient. Then I have lots of time to learn about my legacy, don't I? She'd hidden her relief with a roll of her eyes, she remembered. She'd also remembered being far more interested in the golden retriever that belonged to the cook's son than in the silver teapot in her mother's hands. Can I go outside and play? Pleeeease? An exasperated sigh had escaped her mother's lips. Fine. Just don't get dirty. Your father will be back soon with the car and we'll head home. But next time we're here, young lady . . . Her mother had shaken her finger at her with a smile. We do teapots, 101. But the next time Faith had come to this house there had been no talk of teapots or anything else that was happy. Her mother was gone, leaving her life irrevocably changed. Faith ruthlessly shoved the memory from her mind. Dwelling on the past would make her crazy. She had enough problems in the present without dredging up old hurts. Except . . . this was a hurt that needed dredging. And then purging. She hadn't been back to this place since that last horrible day. Never told her mother how angry she was. She'd never told anyone. She'd covered up her rage and hurt and fear and moved forward. Or so she'd told herself, but here she was, twenty-three years later. Still hurting. Still angry. And still afraid. Time to deal, Faith. Do it now. Resolute, she walked around the house before she could change her mind, not realizing that she was holding her breath until it came rushing out. There it was, off in the corner of the backyard. A respectable distance from the house, as Gran had always said. Someone had kept it tidy all these years, pulling the weeds, cutting the grass around the wrought-iron fence, fashioned in the same style as the one bordering the front. The historical society, Faith remembered. Gran's attorney had told her that the local historical society paid for the upkeep because the O'Bannion cemetery was a historic landmark. Her family was buried here, all the way back to Zeke O'Bannion, who'd died at the Battle of Shiloh in 1862. She knew who rested here, remembered all of their stories, because, unlike silver teapots, she'd found their stories riveting. They'd been real people, lived real lives. Like a faithful dog, she'd followed her mother whenever she visited the graves, helping her pull weeds, hanging on her every word as she talked about their ancestors. Faith pushed at the gate, frowning when it refused to budge. A glance down revealed the issue--a padlock. Her grandmother's attorney hadn't given her any other keys, so she walked around the fence until she came to the most recent headstone, carved in black marble. It was a double stone, the inscription on the left weathered over twenty-three years. Tobias William O'Bannion. Faith remembered her grandfather as a stern, severe man who'd attended Mass every single day of his life. Probably to confess losing his temper, she thought wryly. He'd had a wicked one. The inscription on the other side of the black marble was crisp and new. Barbara Agnes Corcoran O'Bannion. Beloved wife, mother, grandmother. Philanthropist . Most of that was true. Gran had been a strong supporter of a number of charities. And Tobias had loved her in his own way. I loved her. Enough, in fact, to have taken her name. Most of her children had loved her. Faith's mother's younger brother Jordan had taken care of Gran uncomplainingly until she'd drawn her last breath. Faith's mother had been devoted to Gran, although Faith wasn't sure how much of her devotion had been love. And the jury was out on Jeremy, her grandmother's only other living child. He was . . . estranged. Faith's grandmother had been quietly laid to rest next to her grandfather in a very private service with only her priest and Faith's uncle Jordan in attendance, in accordance with her grandmother's wishes. Faith thought it was likely due to the fact that Tobias's funeral had become a bitter battleground that had shattered the O'Bannion family. And her own little family as well, she thought as she moved past the next five headstones, all children of Barbara and Tobias who had not survived into adulthood. She stopped at the sixth headstone. Its design was identical to that of her grandparents', the inscription as weathered as Tobias's. Not surprising since they'd been bought and carved at the same time. One side, her father's, was mercifully blank. The other bore a terrible lie. MARGARET O'BANNION SULLIVAN BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER "Hello, Mother," Faith murmured. "It's been a while." A high-pitched scream floated across the air as if in response. Startled, Faith did a three-sixty, looking for the source, but saw nothing. No one had followed her, of that she'd made certain. There was nothing like being stalked to teach a woman to be careful. No one was here. It was just Faith, the house, and the fifty acres of fallow farmland that was all that remained of the O'Bannion family holdings. She patted the pocket of her jacket, calmed by the presence of her gun. "It was a dog howling," she said firmly. "That's all." Or it could simply have been her mind playing tricks, echoing the scream from her nightmares. Twelve steps and a basement . Sometimes she woke from the nightmare to find herself screaming for real--which had scared the hell out of her ex-husband, a fact that gave Faith a level of satisfaction that was admittedly immature. Officer Charlie Frye deserved a hell of a lot more than a start in the night for what he'd done. Her mother had done so much worse to her dad. "Dad deserved a hell of a lot better than what you did to him. So did I. I still do." She hesitated, then spat the words out. "I have hated you for twenty-three years. I lied for you. I lied to Dad so that he'd never know what you did. So if you meant to hurt him, you failed. If you meant to hurt me, then congratulations. You hit the bull's-eye." It suddenly occurred to her that her best revenge might be to live as her mother had always expected to--as mistress of the manor. It was almost enough to make Faith smile, but the memory of her father's devastation made her angry all over again. The thought of her father brought to mind the promise she'd made. Reluctantly, she snapped a photo of Margaret's headstone with her phone and texted it to her dad. He'd made a pilgrimage to her grave every few years, but a recent stroke had him housebound. Faith had promised him the photo so he'd know for sure that her grave was okay. Got here safely, she typed. All is well. Mama's grave is-- Her finger paused as she searched for the right words, rejecting all the wrong ones that would be sure to hurt her father, who still believed the inscription to be true. "Well cared for" was honest, she decided, so she typed it. Will call from the hotel. She didn't dare call now. Standing here, looking at her mother's headstone . . . She wouldn't be able to keep the bitterness from her voice. Swallowing hard, she hit SEND, then she turned back to her Jeep with a sigh. If she couldn't get into the house, there was nothing more to be accomplished here today. She'd hit the Walmart near her hotel to buy some cleaning supplies and turn in early. She had a busy day tomorrow. * * * Mt. Carmel, Ohio Sunday, November 2, 6:05 p.m. His hand froze, midstrike, as the light in the ceiling began to flash. What the hell? The alarm. Someone was outside. "Fuck," he bit out. It couldn't be the caretaker. He'd mown the grass a few days before. It was a trespasser. Rage bubbled up, threatening to break free. Someone had the nerve to trespass here? To interrupt him now ? He glanced down at the young woman on his table. Her mouth was open, her breath sawing in and out of her lungs, her expression one of desperation. It had taken him two fucking days to get her to this point. After fighting him tooth and nail, she'd finally begun to scream. She had the most remarkable threshold for pain. He'd be able to play with her for a long, long time. But not right now. Someone had trespassed and needed to be dealt with. If he was lucky, it was someone who was lost, looking for directions. When they realized the house was abandoned, they'd leave. If not . . . He smiled. He'd have another playmate. He put the knife aside, several feet away. Just in case. The woman on his table had proven to be smart and strong. A little too smart and strong for his liking, but he'd soon fix that. The moment his captives' wills broke, the moment they realized that no one would come to save them, that he was their master for as long as he chose . . . He smiled. That was satisfaction. Closing the door behind him, he left the torture room and went to his office. Powering up his laptop, he brought up the cameras, expecting to see a salesman or someone stranded-- He stared at the monitor, shock rendering him motionless for several long seconds. It can't be. It simply can't be. But it was. It was her . She was here . Standing at the cemetery fence. Staring at the grave markers, her face as cold as ice. How can she be here? He'd seen the news reports, the pictures of her little blue Prius, twisted and smashed. She could not have walked away from that. I know I killed her. "Fuck," he whispered. Obviously, he had not. The girl had more lives than a damn cat. Go, finish the job. But first he had to make sure she was alone. He switched to the camera out front and got another jolt. A Jeep Cherokee, bright red. Filled with boxes. She'd already bought a new car, but at least there were no other passengers. Good. He'd take care of her once and for all. He'd have to catch her unaware because the bitch carried a gun. He couldn't allow her the opportunity to use it. She's all alone out there. Kill her now. He switched back to the cemetery camera, then cursed again. She had a cell phone out, taking a picture. He ran to the stairs, taking them two at a time. Skidded to a stop at the back door and peered through the gap between the boards that covered its window. His heart sank. She was typing into the phone, giving it a final tap. She'd sent a text. She'd texted a damn photo. Somebody would know she'd been here. He couldn't kill her now. Not here. Never here . Disappointment mixed with his panic. He couldn't risk it. Couldn't risk the law coming around, poking into his business. Or even worse, the press. Find her and kill her, but not here. He edged his way to the front room, peered out the window. His pulse pounding in his head, he watched her get in the Jeep and drive away. Part of him wanted to jump in his van and follow her. To kill her now. But he made himself slow down and think. He liked to plan. To know exactly what he'd do at every phase of a hunt. At the moment he was too rattled--and anyone would be, seeing her at the cemetery like that. He'd been so sure he'd killed her. But she was obviously quite alive. That would soon be remedied. He drew a deep breath. He was calming down now. More in control. This was better. A rattled man made mistakes. Mistakes drew attention, requiring even more drastic cleanup. This he had learned the hard way. He'd find her easily enough. He'd followed her long enough to know her preference in hotels--and Faith was even more of a creature of habit than he was. Although she'd surprised him with the Jeep. A red one, even. That didn't seem to be her style, but perhaps she'd been forced to be less choosy when her old car had become a pile of twisted metal. How she'd walked away from the wreck was a detail that she would divulge before he killed her. Because he would kill her. He'd find her and lure her someplace else and end her, once and for all. Nobody could come looking for her here, to this place. My place. Nobody could know. They'd spoil everything. Everything he'd built. Everything he treasured. They'll take my things. My things. That would not happen. Think carefully. Plan. Flinching at a sudden pain in his hand, he looked down to realize he was holding his keys in a white-knuckled fist. He was more rattled than he'd thought. Which was . . . normal, he supposed. But ultimately unnecessary. She's just a woman, just like all the others. Easily overpowered. When he found her, she'd be sorry she'd threatened him. Except . . . Faith wasn't easily overpowered. He'd tried to kill her too many times. She'd become careful, aloof. Now she never allowed herself to be unprotected. So he'd just have to work a little harder to lure her to a place of his choosing. And if you don't manage to lure her far enough away? If she comes back here? If she tries to come in? Then he'd have to kill her here, which might bring the cops. They'll take my things. He drew a deep breath, let it out. Refused to allow the panic to overwhelm him. He would not lose his things. If he had to, he'd move them. All of them. Nobody will ever take my things again. Not now. Not ever. * * * Mt. Carmel, Ohio Sunday, November 2, 6:20 p.m. Once Faith had reached the paved road, she began dictating a new to-do list into her phone. Her lists had helped her stay sane, enabling her to accomplish everything she'd needed to do to leave Miami as Faith Corcoran, leaving Faith Frye behind, in an insanely short period of time. She'd learned the magic of lists after her mother died and her father began turning to the bottle for comfort. She'd had to run their little household back then, and she'd been only nine years old. Lists were her salvation. Tomorrow, she'd contact her grandmother's attorney to get the correct house key and then call the utilities to have the power and water turned on. She'd need a landline, too, because cell service was spotty out-- Oh no. Her heart sank as she realized what she'd forgotten. Cell service. Dammit. She stared at the phone she held clutched in her hand. She'd changed her name, her address, her driver's license and credit cards, but she hadn't changed her cell phone number. Irritation swept through her. How the hell had she forgotten about her phone? Not only was it still in her old name, it was a damn homing signal. She stopped the Jeep in the middle of the road and pulled the chip from the phone. She'd get a new one tomorrow. An untraceable one, just like some of her former ex-con clients carried. Then, once she got all her ducks in a row, she'd return to the house to begin what was sure to be a massive cleanup job. Correction. It's not "the" house. It's "your" house. Get used to saying it and going inside next time will be a lot easier. Relax. You left Peter Combs in Miami. No one is stalking you. No one is trying to kill you. There's nothing to be afraid of here . * * * Mt. Carmel, Ohio Sunday, November 2, 10:15 pm. Arianna Escobar came to with a gasp, then held her breath, listening hard. She heard nothing. If he was in the room with her, he was holding his breath as well. She waited until she could hold her breath no longer. Air rushed out, and with it, a moan. She'd tried so hard to suppress the moans. He loved her moans, she'd learned. He loved her agonized screams even more. At the beginning she'd been determined to give him neither. To give him no satisfaction. But he'd hurt her. A whimper escaped her pursed lips. With knives and . . . Another whimper escaped. She'd gritted her teeth and bitten her tongue until she couldn't take the pain another second more. She'd screamed then, delighting him. She'd screamed and screamed until her throat was raw. And then he'd abruptly stopped, backing away with a muttered oath. He'd left. She'd heard the door close. When had that been? She didn't know. She could only see a bit of light through the edges of her blindfold. She thought she'd seen lights flashing overhead just before he stopped and swore. He'll be back . He always came back. At first she'd prayed that someone would save her. But no one had. Now she prayed for death to come quickly. It didn't seem like that was his plan. Whoever he was. He seemed intent on stretching this out. On making it "last." He'd said so several times. That he needed to "make it last." But worst of all, she didn't know if he had Corinne, too. The last thing she remembered was him shoving Corinne into the back of a van, but Arianna had heard no other screams since waking. Only her own. Please let Corinne have gotten away. But she didn't think her friend had escaped. Corinne had been limp when he'd thrown her in the back of that van. Like she was dead already. The door closed quietly and she tensed. Lemons. She smelled lemons. It was the girl. Again. "Help me," Arianna begged, her voice raspy and broken. "Please, help me." A damp towel patted her cheeks, cleaning up what was probably sweat and blood. And tears. Arianna had shed all three. "I'm sorry," the girl whispered. "I'm so sorry." Arianna tugged the rope again. "Untie me. Please. I'll get you out, too. I promise." The girl drew in a slow breath, still blotting Arianna's face. "I can't ever leave." "Who says? I'll take you with me. Please. You're my only hope." "I'm sorry." The girl's hands froze, and in the silence that followed, Arianna heard footsteps. The door opened. Arianna heard the girl's breathing accelerate. "I w-was only c-c-cleaning her," the girl stammered out. "Like you told me to." There was a loud crack, his hand slapping the girl's face. "You've been talking to her. I told you not to talk to her. I told you not to talk to any of them, but you dare disobey me. Get an empty box from the kitchen and pack my things. Yours, too." The girl didn't say anything. Arianna didn't breathe. He's leaving? Why? But that didn't matter. What mattered was that he'd have to cut her free from the table if he moved her. That'll be my chance to escape . The girl's footsteps shuffled across the floor, then the door closed quietly. Arianna could hear him approaching. She braced herself, expecting the slap, but it still hurt when it came. Her jaw ached, her cheek burned. But she didn't cry out. "Did you beg her for help?" he asked silkily. "Did you ask her to untie you? She won't help you, you know. She wouldn't know how. You are stuck here. Forever. Or until I kill you." Gritting her teeth, Arianna waited for the next assault, but he moved away. A moment later she heard the sound of metal clanking. Knives, she thought. He's packing up his knives, putting them into a box. There was a loud, flat clang. The lid of the box being slammed down? Yes. Like a toolbox. The door slammed and he was gone. Arianna let the air seep out of her lungs. She didn't know what had just happened, or why, but she knew she had a chance now. She'd survive, she vowed. She'd break free, find Corinne, and they'd get the hell out of this nightmare. * * * Mt. Carmel, Ohio Sunday, November 2, 10:25 p.m. He slammed the door to his torture room, pissed as hell. "Roza! Where the fuck are you?" The blanket that covered her doorway was pushed aside, and the girl came out into the hall. "I'm here," she said quietly. "I told you to pack my things. What're you doing back there?" She hesitated. Dropped her gaze. "You told me to pack my things, too." That he had, he had to admit. It wasn't like it would take her long. She owned maybe four things. "Okay. Fine. Get back to it." But she didn't move. "Well? What's the problem now?" She flinched. "Wh-wh-what about Mama?" He stared down at her. She was skinny, but she'd grown taller. Rounder in places she hadn't been round before. He'd noticed. "What about her?" She glanced down the dark hall that led to her little room. "I can't just . . . leave her here." He shook his head. He'd known she was stupid, but she'd really surprised him. "You can't take her with you. That's just disgusting. She's not prepared or anything. She's probably a pile of rotting goo by now." The kid's mother had died when he'd been away last year, and by the time he'd returned she'd buried the bitch all by herself. The body had already started to rot, so he'd left it alone. No matter. Time had not been kind to the woman. He wouldn't have wanted to preserve her face anyway. He knew that the kid was attached to her mother's grave. She talked to it, slept next to it. That he could understand. But taking the remains with her? The child was not right. "I left a take-out bag in the kitchen." It had grown cold as he'd driven around town, looking for Faith's red Jeep. "Warm it for me. If you eat even one bite, I'll know. I weighed it." "All right," she whispered. That was better. He'd let her have too much freedom. She'd been talking to his captives when he wasn't around. He'd been too easy on her since her mother's death. He'd have to clamp down, show her the meaning of respect. "When you're done with my dinner, I want everything washed down with bleach. Every wall, every inch of the floor. If I see one dry surface . . ." He'd beat the tar out of her. He was in the mood to do some major violence. God help the child if she got in his way. It was handy that he had Arianna Escobar. She would take the full brunt of his frustration tonight. Arianna thought she was so tough. She thought she'd had the worst of him. She hadn't seen anything yet. He hadn't been able to find Faith. He'd looked everywhere that she'd ever gone while visiting the old bag who'd left this place to her, but he hadn't seen her red Jeep in any of the places he'd looked. I should have followed her. I should have shot her tires out and stopped her from leaving. He was a damn good shot. If only he'd had his rifle loaded. But he hadn't. And had he stopped her, she might have called 911 before he could get to her. That was all he needed. As long as she was alive, that she'd enter the house was a given. She'd explore it and then she'd sell it. He'd have Realtors underfoot all day long, poking around. Touching my things . He had to find her before she got the opportunity to enter. He wanted her dead, but on his own terms, because once she was gone, he'd buy the house himself. He'd already set the plan in motion, goddammit, so she needed to be gone soon . He went to his office, closed the door, pulled the desk away from the wall, and pried off the cover to his hidey-hole. He had dozens of these hiding places. Some he'd built, but most had come with the house. These old Victorian houses had nooks and crannies galore, and he had made good use of them. He pulled a lockbox from the wall and set it carefully on his desk. It had grown heavy over the years. It held his most treasured collection. This would be the one thing he'd take if he had to make a quick escape. It was the one thing that could bury him were it found. He unlocked the box and lifted the lid. It was filled with memories--cell phones and wallets and driver's licenses. Hair bows and earrings, necklaces and rings. Photographs, car keys, and cans of pepper spray--never used by their owners because he'd been far too quick. He even had a deputy sheriff's badge. Deputy Susan Simpson had been her name. She'd been a feisty one. Tall and buxom and much stronger than she'd looked. But she'd bent to his will eventually, just like the rest. She'd been a real treat, had lasted weeks before she'd finally given up and died. He'd been able to work out an amazing amount of rage and stress on that one. He was under a far greater strain now than he'd been when he'd taken Deputy Simpson. It had been worse when he'd targeted Corinne Longstreet on Friday night. He'd been watching her for weeks, waiting for just the right time. Friday had been that time. All because of Faith. On Friday night, he'd been completely wound up. He'd driven straight to King's College. He'd been tired and hadn't been thinking properly and had nearly made a mistake that might have cost him everything. He'd waited for the two women to separate at the fork in the path. Arianna had gone off to her dorm, leaving Corinne alone and vulnerable. Nabbing her had been a piece of cake. But he hadn't been expecting Arianna to return, to leap to Corinne's defense. That he'd managed to take Arianna before she'd had a chance to call 911 had been a bit of cosmic good fortune. He didn't want to have to kill either of them now. He wasn't done with them, not by a long shot. He wanted to stay put. Wanted to have his fun. To work out his frustration. He needed to vent somehow. He was on edge. All because of Faith Frye. Why hadn't she died like a normal person any of the times he'd tried to kill her? He could feel the agitation growing inside him, spreading into his brain. If he let it go too far, he'd do something inadvisable. Spontaneous. And then he'd get caught. It was inevitable. So he never allowed the agitation to go too far. By the time he'd finished with Arianna, he'd be calm, cool, and collected once again. He'd find Faith Frye and he'd kill her. His troubles would be far from over, but at least they would be far less immediate. He picked a hotel key card from the lockbox and frowned. He couldn't remember who'd brought this key card, but it didn't really matter right now. What mattered was that Faith possessed one of these. She'd be in a hotel somewhere. It might take a while, but he'd find her, even if he had to call every hotel in the tristate area. On his cell phone, he searched for the hotel chain that Faith always used. Such a creature of habit. He dialed the first location. "I'd like Faith Frye's room, please." "Could you spell that, please?" the hotel clerk asked pleasantly. "Frye. F-R-Y-E." "Are you sure she's staying here? We don't have her in our computer." It would have been too easy for him to find her on the first try. "I could have sworn she said she was staying at this hotel. I'm sorry to have troubled you. Thank you." He repeated the call with every location in that hotel chain in the tri-state area with no luck. He was becoming frustrated again when the girl knocked softly. He flung open the door with a silent snarl to find her standing with a tray in her hands. His supper. He'd nearly forgotten. Her eyes were down, her arms trembling from the weight of the tray and probably fear. He grabbed the tray. "Do not spy on me, girl." She kept her eyes down. "I wasn't. I'm sorry." "Go to your room. You can wash my tray tomorrow. Go. Now . I'm busy." He slammed the door and ate his dinner while he looked up more hotels. He'd have to take a break soon. He was becoming too snippy with the desk clerks. He'd be too memorable if he called them the names that were hovering on the tip of his tongue. He pushed his empty plate away and went back to his torture room. He'd vent some of his rage on Arianna before his next set of calls. He'd keep at it all night if he had to, calling every hotel in town until her found her. * * * Cincinnati, Ohio Monday, November 3, 2:45 a.m. "No, no, no, don't make me! Please don't make me!" Faith screamed as she had a million times before, but no one ever heard. No one ever helped. She stood on the very edge, staring down into the blackness that filled her with dread. She knew what was down there. She wouldn't go there again. It was always her own treacherous feet that moved, hovering over the blackness . . . lowering until . . . they hit a step. One. She grabbed the banister, wrapped her arms around it, and held on for dear life, but still her feet moved, dragging her down another step. Two. Crazy. Three. I'm crazy. Four . I'm losing my mind. Five. Six. No, no, no. Please. She moaned now, but it never made any difference. Her feet kept going down. Seven, eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. That was all. Now run! But she was always frozen. Don't look. She clenched her eyes shut as her body pivoted against her will. Don't. Look. She knew what she'd see. Don't open your eyes. But her eyes always opened. One red Ked. Just one, swaying gently, bright white shoelaces lazily dragging through the dirt. Don't look up. Do. Not. Look. Up. But her chin lifted and-- Faith bolted upright in bed, the air sawing in and out of her lungs, her ears ringing with her own scream. One hand reached for the lamp on the nightstand, the other for the gun under her pillow. She squinted at the light, her mind desperately scrambling to establish her location. She was in a hotel. In Cincinnati. Surrounded by boxes and suitcases. She was all right. She was all alone. The breath shuddered out of her body, now violently trembling. The shrill ring of the hotel phone broke the silence and, numbly, she reached for it. "Yes?" she asked, her voice raspy and raw from the screaming. "Dr. Corcoran, are you all right? One of the guests on your floor reported hearing a scream." Her cheeks heated in humiliation. "I'm fine," she lied. "I had a bad dream. I'm sorry I bothered the other guests." Faith replaced the phone in the cradle, then got out of bed and turned on the television, keeping the sound low while she found the box containing her Xbox and unpacked its contents. A few minutes later she was settling on the floor, game controller in hand, picking up the game where she'd left off the last time she had the nightmare. "It's time to kill us some zombies," she murmured, because trying to sleep after the nightmare was an exercise in futility. This she'd learned twenty-three very long years ago. Chapter Two Cincinnati, Ohio Monday, November 3, 8:45 a.m. She'd wised up, he thought, watching Faith take a ticket at the entrance to a parking garage near Fountain Square. All the attempts he'd made on her life had made her careful. Good for her. Bad for me. He'd finally found her in a long-term-stay hotel with valet parking, which had kept her Jeep out of his sight. He'd waited all night until she reappeared. Once he caught her, she'd pay for the sleepless nights she'd caused. She'd finally come through the hotel's front door an hour ago, dressed to the nines in an emerald green suit and matching heels. At first he'd assumed she was going to see her attorney, but she hadn't. Instead, she'd driven into the heart of downtown. Where she was still being careful. The parking garage she'd chosen had cameras at the entrance. Probably on every floor. It was centrally located on one of the busiest blocks in the city, so she could walk to her destination, losing herself among the pedestrians. He was unlikely to catch her alone, but that was okay. He wasn't going to kill her here anyway--it would be insanity to even consider it. He was biding his time until he could lure her to an isolated spot. One that was not near his basement. He followed her into the garage, unconcerned with the camera that snapped his picture when he took a ticket from the machine. His face was disguised, and no one could link him to the Tennessee license plates on his van. The plates had been taken off a car driven by a drifter who'd decided that because the O'Bannions had abandoned their house, he could use it as his personal hotel. That had been a bad decision. The drifter hadn't lasted nearly as long as the woman currently tied to his table. He'd screamed like a little girl at the first slice of the knife. The memory made him eager to return to Arianna. Patience. He'd be able to enjoy his newest guests once he took care of Faith. Now that he'd located her, he wouldn't have to take the drastic step of evacuating the house. He slowly rounded a corner in the garage, pretending to look for a space when he was really looking for Faith's red Jeep. Instead, he saw Faith's red hair. There she was in her vivid green suit, a dark coat draped over one arm, crossing the garage right in front of him. She dropped her keys, then bent over to pick them up, and he had to stem the urge to gun his engine. She was the perfect target. End her. Now. But that would be beyond stupid. The garage was busy this time of the morning. He probably wouldn't make it to the street before the cops were on his tail. She couldn't just disappear like the others. The cops would search all the places she'd recently been. Which included the cemetery and the house. So stick to the plan. She wasn't worth risking everything. He parked the van and, getting out slowly, made a show of gripping his cane as he closed the door. Shuffling with his back hunched, he knew he looked every day of ninety. A full beard covered his face, spectacles covered his eyes, and a hat covered his head. And, as always, gloves covered his hands. He'd never left a fingerprint he hadn't meant to leave. When he got to the Jeep, he dropped a pen so that it rolled under her fender. He lowered himself to one knee, pressing a hand to his back for the benefit of anyone who might be watching, now or later. As he picked up the pen, he took the tracking device he'd brought from his coat pocket and slipped it under the fender. There. His phone would beep when she moved the Jeep. He didn't care where she went while in the city. He wanted to know when she left the city to head his way. Because he had to kill her before she came back to the house. * * * Miami, Florida Monday, November 3, 9:30 a.m. Detective Catalina Vega placed the cup of colada on her boss's desk and waited for the aroma to get his attention. The Cuban espresso was his weakness, and the shop in Cat's neighborhood made the very best. Lieutenant Neil Davies drew a deep, appreciative breath before looking up from his computer screen, his expression wary. "What do you want, Vega?" She flashed a grin as she put two smaller plastic cups on his desk and filled them with the thick, sweet brew. "What I always want. A promotion, a new ride, a swank office like yours." Davies leaned back in his chair, looking around his "swank" office. It was barely larger than a coat closet, one side of his desk piled high with folders, each one an unsolved homicide. "Then I'd say you're even crazier than I am," he said mildly. He tossed back the shot of espresso, then held the cup out for more. "What else do you want?" "This." She laid a photograph on his desk. "This is a wrecked car," he said slowly. "Why do you want a wrecked car?" "Because that's the Prius that caused that four-car pileup on I-75 yesterday morning." His gaze jerked up to meet hers. "I take it you're telling me that it wasn't an accident." "No, it was not. The garage techs found that both the steering and brakes had been tampered with. Either one would have resulted in an accident, but both together . . ." She lifted a shoulder. "The car crossed the median, plowed into ongoing traffic, hit three cars as it spun out, then got slammed by a semi. The driver of the Prius died at the scene, her son died later. Four of the injured are in serious condition, the other two are critical." Davies sighed. "It's a tragedy, Cat, but not our case. Traffic Homicide is handling this. Why are you even involved? Let them do their jobs. You have your own caseload." "Hear me out. Traffic already talked with the driver's family. She'd bought the car only the day before. The title hadn't been changed over yet. The previous owner was Faith Frye." "I know her name. Where did I read it?" "In my report on the Shue homicide." She ran her finger down the stack of folders on his desk, pulling out the one she wanted and handing it to him. "Gordon Shue was the director of a women's crisis center. They counseled victims of rape, incest, and various cases of domestic violence. Four weeks ago he was shot in the chest as he was leaving his office, then again in the head. The woman standing next to him was his employee, Dr. Faith Frye." He sat back again, his eyes narrowing. "You've got my attention now. Go on." "Frye gave me several leads on Shue's killer--initially all of them were husbands or partners of their clients. I remember her touching a wicked-looking scar on her throat when she said it, and so later I checked up on her. Four years ago she was attacked by one of her own clients--a sex offender on probation. He slit her throat. She almost died." "Social work can be a dangerous business," Davies said quietly. The lieutenant's wife was a social worker and he worried about her constantly, Cat knew. "I think your wife knows how to defend herself better than most." "I know she does, because I taught her how." Davies closed the Shue file. "So how did Frye go from being a homicide witness to having her old car tampered with?" "My search yielded more than the throat-slitting incident. Peter Combs, the guy who almost killed her? After he was paroled, he began stalking her. For a year." "Did she report it?" Vega nodded soberly. "Thirty times." Davies's brows shot up. "Holy shit. Did she think she was the target and not Shue?" "Not at first. Not until she claimed that Combs had tried again." "She claimed ? You didn't believe her?" "I did actually, but there was no evidence her stalker had made any attempts on her life other than the one he went to jail for four years ago. I couldn't even prove he still lives in Miami. There was nothing connecting Peter Combs to the murder of Gordon Shue. Not until now." "There's still nothing connecting Frye's stalker to Shue's killer, or the car for that matter," Davies pointed out. "Even if this tampering was targeted at her, you're assuming her stalker did it. And even if you're right, it doesn't mean that Shue's bullet had her name on it. But you are right that someone did something to that car for a reason. You've found a good place to start with that one. Go ahead." Cat took the photo back. "Thanks, sir." He gave her a small nod, then pointed at the cup on his desk. "What about the colada ?" "My gift to you. Salud ." * * * Mt. Carmel, Ohio Monday, November 3, 2:45 p.m. Arianna lay on the table, teeth gritted, every muscle tensed as she waited for the next slice of his knife. He'd come to her whistling. So damn happy. He'd been gone for hours, but now he was back and in high spirits. Whatever had rattled him enough to tell the girl to pack was no longer a threat. Apparently they weren't leaving. There would be no escape. He'd whistled all the time he'd unpacked his knives. Whistled all the time he'd used those knives. On her. Not a single slice deep enough to kill. All deep enough to hurt like hell. Each one slicing away a little bit more of her hope. I'm going to die here. Alone. And then, abruptly, he froze, snarling a curse. Through the blindfold Arianna saw the strobing light, just as she had before. And, just like he had before, he went ballistic. "Sonofa bitch ," he growled. "She can't be back. The phone didn't beep. It was supposed to goddamn beep. I should have stayed and watched her." She heard the pounding of his feet, then the tapping of computer keys, followed by another vicious curse. "Fuck. Fuck her ." Hope rose anew. Someone was coming. He ran to the door, threw it open. "Roza!" he bellowed. "Come here. Now!" Shuffling footsteps. "Yes?" "Bandage her. I don't want her bleeding everywhere. When you're done, get the bleach and spray down this room. Then put the box of your things at the bottom of the stairs." Yes! They're leaving after all! Arianna wanted to sing. Somebody had scared him again. He'll have to untie me when he moves me. That will be my only chance. She flexed her fingers, hoping he wasn't watching. She'd been tied for so long that her muscles were stiff. But she was stronger than she looked. I can take him. I have to. She heard the clinking of glass. "Give her this first," he ordered. "Fill the glass to this line. No more. No less. Make sure she swallows every drop. When you're done, give the other one the same amount. Don't fuck it up, girl, or I'll beat you till you can't see. I'll be back." Of course he would, Arianna thought as the door slammed. But I'll be ready . Whatever he'd told the girl to make her swallow, she'd spit out. She would not let this opportunity to escape slip through her fingers. * * * Mt. Carmel, Ohio Monday, November 3, 2:48 p.m. He ran up the stairs, his happy mood gone. The power company . Faith had called the goddamn power company. A fucking meter reader was standing at the back of the house. He burst out of the basement and slowed his pace, creeping out of sight of the windows until he got to the kitchen door. Carefully, he unlocked it and eased it open, gratified when he heard no hinges creak. He kept them well-oiled for a reason. He'd slipped from the house more than once to catch a trespasser unaware. The trespassers never knew what had hit them, and neither would the meter reader. Palming his pistol, he dropped into a crouch when he reached the back corner, leaning forward far enough to catch sight of the intruder. He could see the name "Ken Beatty" written clearly on the man's ID tag. Ken stood at the meter, studying it with an annoyed frown. Of course he's noticed. Ken would have to be blind not to note the discrepancy between the actual meter reading and what the power company had on file. He'd been stealing power for quite some time. Ken would report him if he wasn't stopped, so he pointed the pistol at the man's leg. Abruptly, Ken looked up, his eyes growing alarmed. Goddammit. Ken took off at a run, but along with a beer gut, he had a serious limp. Luckily, I have neither. Sprinting, he reached the man as he rounded the east corner. He fired once, and Ken went down, clutching his thigh with a shriek of pain. "Okay, okay," the man babbled. "So you're stealing power. No biggie. I won't tell, I promise. I'll pretend I was never here." "Too late," he said. "I saw you make a call on your cell when you arrived. I have to assume that was to inform your boss of your whereabouts." Ignoring Ken's pleas for mercy, he rapped the man's head with the butt of his pistol and then lowered his now-limp body to the ground. Now for the hard part . He shoved his pistol into his waistband, grabbed handfuls of the man's jacket, and gave a mighty tug. As soon as he'd hidden Ken in the basement, he'd use the guy's cell to text his boss that he'd finished connecting the power and was headed to his next appointment. Then he'd drive the power company's truck back into the city and abandon it near a bar. Everyone would believe Mr. Beer Gut had stopped for a brewski or two. Halfway across the back of the house he took a breather, releasing the man's jacket, letting the body slump to the ground. He straightened his back, his lungs working overtime. Damn, but this guy was heavy. Now I remember why I stick to women. They're half his weight. And there was the little bonus of the sex, he thought with a smirk. Stretching his arms to the sky, he turned his head until he felt his neck crack, providing a little relief. He'd bent down to grab the man's jacket again when he caught the movement from the corner of his eye. He turned to see Ken's hand emerging from his pocket, clutching a black aerosol can. Understanding dawned a split second too late. "No!" He reached to knock the can out of the man's hand, but pepper spray already filled the air, burning his eyes, mouth, and nose. "Fucking sonofabitch!" His voice was a high-pitched screech. He couldn't help it. The pain was excruciating. Hot pokers in my eyes . "You motherfucking sonofabitch!" He staggered back, tears streaming down his face. The pain . . . The bastard wasn't unconscious at all. He was playing possum, biding his time until he could hit me with that damn pepper spray. He panted, unable to get enough air. His lungs were swelling up, closing in. He gasped like a landed trout but couldn't draw a full breath. He needed to kill this meter-reading motherfucker so that he couldn't get away. He could barely make out the man's form through the rivers flowing out of his eyes. He's moving. On his knees. The bastard was on his knees, dragging himself . . . Toward me. The idiot doesn't even have the sense to run away. He took a few steps backward, pulling the gun from his waistband and blinking hard to try to clear his eyes. Without warning, Ken launched himself, throwing beefy arms around his legs, taking him down. His head hit the ground so hard he almost missed the jab in his leg. Like a bee sting, but worse. He slapped at his leg, dislodging something plastic. He brought it close to his burning eyes. Not a syringe, he thought. It's a dart . "You stuck me with a dart ?" he demanded. "What the hell is wrong with you? Who the hell carries darts ?" "What the hell is wrong with me ?" Ken cried. "What the hell is wrong with you ? Are you insane?" He rolled away, scrabbling to his hands and knees. Now he had the sense to crawl away, trying to escape. That could not be allowed to happen. He came to his feet, stumbling after the blurry blob that was moving alarmingly fast. He aimed for the blob and fired. Ken screamed, but kept moving--so he kept firing. Finally, the blob stopped, inches from the corner of the house. * * * Mt. Carmel, Ohio Monday, November 3, 2:55 p.m. Please, God, Arianna prayed. Please let him help us, whoever he is. She could hear the girl, who she now knew was named Roza, shuffling across the floor, but she passed the table, stopping on the other side of the room. "What is 'Earl P and L'?" Roza asked. Under her blindfold Arianna blinked in surprise. "The power company. Why?" "Because there's a sign on a truck outside that says that. There's a man up there, with tools. And he's afraid." Something was different. A hardness in her tone that hadn't been there before. Arianna felt the girl's hand, cold and bony against her arm. Then . . . tugging. Tugging and the rough sound of the rope being cut. Arianna was afraid to breathe, afraid she was imagining this, but she wasn't. Roza was cutting her free. Holding her breath, Arianna said nothing, afraid of making Roza change her mind. But she didn't, and soon Arianna's other hand was free. Tearing the blindfold from her face, she gritted her teeth and struggled to sit up while the girl cut the ropes at her ankles. Arianna blinked hard, squinting against the bright overhead lights to get her first glimpse of the girl, who looked as young as she sounded. Maybe twelve years old. Her dark hair was tangled, her skin almost white. Like she'd never seen the sun. Then she noticed that in the corner there was a laptop whose screen was divided into six areas, like in the security office of a department store. He had cameras, Arianna realized. One of the six partitions held the video of a man wearing a jacket that read EARL POWER AND LIGHT across the back. That picture was from a camera to the outside. Arianna's heart sank. He'd come to read the meter. He hadn't come to help them. He doesn't know we're here. She had to get his attention. Shoving back the panic, she scanned the room, looking for something to use to make some noise. Instead, she saw walls lined with shelves, and on the shelves were jars filled with liquid. The countertop was also covered with the jars. All contained dark brown liquid. Some had . . . things floating in them. Arianna gagged. "Don't throw up," Roza snapped, briskly rubbing Arianna's feet, forcing circulation. "There are some stairs that go up. There's a door at the top. That's all I can do for you. Go." "Thank you." Arianna reached out her hand. "Let's go." A beat of silence passed, then the girl shook her head. "No," she whispered. "I can't go." "Why not?" Arianna whispered back desperately. "Who does he have that you love?" Saying nothing, Roza grabbed Arianna's arms and slid her off the table. The moment Arianna's feet hit the floor, they felt as if they were being stung by a thousand bees. "Who?" she repeated through clenched teeth. "Who does he have that you love?" "My mother. You need to go. Get help. Get Faith Frye." "Why? Who is she?" "I don't know, but he's trying to find her. He hates her." "What about my friend? Is she here?" "Yes. But she's chained and I don't have the key. I can't get it. I'm sorry." "But I can't leave her here. He'll kill her." "If he catches you trying to free her, he'll kill you both. Now go." Arianna got to the door of the room where she'd been held and took a look back to find Roza holding a bottle made of dark brown glass. "Where is my friend?" "You have to go," Roza said urgently. She twisted the lid off the bottle, brought it to her mouth, and drank it all. "What are you doing?" Arianna cried, horrified. "I can't leave. You can. I'll tell him you escaped, but he'll know I cut your ropes. If you don't kill him, he'll beat me. I don't want to be awake for it. Now go. I have to finish cleaning so he thinks I obeyed him. Go. " Arianna stumbled out of the room, the smell of bleach burning her nose. There were the stairs. And three other doors. Where was Corinne? Arianna was heading for the first door when the sound of a gunshot made her stop in her tracks. He'd had a gun the night he'd taken her and Corinne. He shot me with it. Now he's killed the meter reader. There wouldn't be anyone else to come and help them. Run. Get help. Before he kills us all. She started up the stairs, tears rising in her throat. I'm sorry, Corinne. I'll be back for you. I promise. * * * Mt. Carmel, Ohio Monday, November 3, 2:59 p.m. He knelt beside the well in the back, pumping water to keep flushing his eyes until he could blink without screaming. He sagged against the cold iron of the pump, breathing hard. Goddamn asshole meter reader. Goddamn asshole Faith Frye for calling the power company to start with. Where was she? All he needed was for her to show up right now when he was incapacitated. His hands trembled as he took his cell phone from his pocket. He was tired. So damn tired . His arms felt like they weighed six hundred pounds. Each. And his vision was still blurry. Squinting at his phone's screen, he brought up the app that monitored the tracking device he'd put on Faith's Jeep. It hadn't moved. At least one thing was going as he'd planned. He pushed himself to his feet, forced himself to walk over to Ken's body. He looked dead enough. But I'm taking no chances, he thought. Fool me twice, shame on me . He grabbed a handful of the meter reader's hair with one hand and shoved his gun to the base of the man's skull with the other. He pulled the trigger, putting a final bullet in Ken's brain. Then he found Ken's cell phone and figured out which contact was his boss. Finished with the last house. Feeling sick. Going home early. He hit SEND. There. It was done. Now he had to get this sonofabitch into the basement and clean up the mess. He tried to stand, but his head spun. His knees wobbled. There was a roaring in his head. No. That was an engine. "Whatza fuck?" His words were coming out slowly. Slurred. He'd felt like this only once before, when he was being anesthetized for surgery. Shit. The dart. Ken had tranqued him. He heard the sound of the engine roaring again and forced himself to crawl around the back corner of the house so that he could see the road. The power company truck was driving away. Someone had escaped his basement. He could see a vague shape in the driver's seat. Too tall for Roza, too dark for Corinne Longstreet. Arianna Escobar had gotten away. Get her. Stop her. But his body would no longer cooperate. So tired. Dammit . His arms gave out. His chest hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of him. Fuuuck, he thought bitterly as his eyelids lowered and everything went dark. Chapter Three Mt. Carmel, Ohio Monday, November 3, 4:45 p.m. Faith's fingers tightened on her steering wheel as she exited the interstate, the blaring noise of traffic giving way to a restless kind of quiet. The bumper-to-bumper traffic and miles of golden arches were suddenly gone, and now there were only trees. As far as the eye could see. After a day of constant activity--introductions, paperwork, greetings from new coworkers, calls to utilities and locksmiths, and, importantly, the lunchtime purchase of a new untraceable cell phone--the respite should have been welcome. But it wasn't. Because now, in the quiet, she could finally hear what her mind had been muttering all day. Twelve steps and a basement. The feeling of impending doom had hovered over her since she'd woken from the nightmare, but it was growing exponentially with every mile she drove, until it was all she could do to maintain her direction. Everything within her screamed for her to turn around and run . Which was both ludicrous and humiliating. Twelve steps and an empty basement should not have the power to control her actions. She wouldn't let it. Besides, she had an appointment with the locksmith, and it would be rude to stand him up. The lawyer had told her that the key he'd given her was the only one he'd had, so she'd called a locksmith to come open the door and make her a new one. Soon she'd have a key. She'd go into that house and march straight down those basement stairs. Or . . . Maybe I'll save the basement for later. There was certainly more than enough to do on the first floor to make it livable. Or maybe she'd wait until the contractor came to check the foundations, pipes, and wiring and let him go down there first. I like that idea much better . Because she had self-delusion and denial down to art forms. And self-distraction, she thought, switching on the radio. Country music poured from the speaker, the Jeep's stereo still connected to her iPod from the trip up from Miami. Her playlist had kept her awake on the long drive, giving her something to focus on besides what she was running from--and what she was running to. She sighed when a new song started to play, a Tim McGraw tune she recognized from its intro, about all the things a man accomplished once he found out he was dying. The words hit far too close to home. She started to skip it, but made herself stop and listen. Had her boss not been standing next to her that day, she'd have taken those bullets to her chest and head. And I'd be dead . Had Combs been successful any of the other times he'd tried to kill her, she'd be dead. If he managed to find her, she still might die. She hadn't told her father she loved him in too many weeks. She hadn't called him from the hotel the night before as she'd promised in her text. She'd put off dialing until it was too late to call, resorting to e-mail instead. Just as she had every night for several weeks. Not because she didn't want to talk to him, but because she did. Too much. She needed the comfort of his voice but was afraid he'd hear the fear in hers and know she was hiding something. Which, of course, she was. She'd been hiding all kinds of things from him, the least of which was that she'd quit her old job, found a new one, changed her name, sold her Prius, and driven fifteen hundred miles with her belongings in the back of her new Jeep. She'd e-mailed him that she was going to Cincinnati as she'd packed up the Jeep. He'd assumed that her trip was to prepare the house for sale, not to get it ready to live in. She'd let him believe what he wanted, but now he needed to know the truth. At least as much of it as she could share without scaring him, quite literally, to death. His heart was not strong enough to know everything. Steeling her spine, Faith instructed the Jeep's voice-activated system to dial her father's home, the song pausing itself mid-chorus as the phone started to dial. She slipped the hands-free earpiece over her ear, as was her habit. She'd survived one bad car accident because she'd been religious about keeping both hands on the wheel. Plus, the earpiece allowed her to keep her phone in her pocket, so that she always knew where it was. At the moment, her new cell was in her right pocket, her gun in the left. She kept both on her person at all times, in the event she needed either quickly. The precious seconds it would take to find them in her purse could mean the difference between life and death. This she'd learned the hard way, her boss paying the price. "Which we will not think about right now," she muttered as her dad's phone began to ring. "Hello?" Her stepmother answered warily, which was to be expected. The number on the caller ID would be a strange one. "Ya wanna buy some encyclopedias, lady?" Faith teased, hoping to break any ice that had formed because she hadn't called in so long. "Faith?" Lily shuddered out a breath that sounded like a sob. "Oh God. Oh God. I'm so glad you finally called. I've been trying to call you for hours. What number is this?" Panic grabbed Faith by the throat. "What's wrong with Dad?" she demanded. "Nothing. But only because I got to the phone before he could, every time it's rung today." Her stepmother drew a deep breath. "First, are you all right?" "Yes. What's happened, Lily?" "That's what I want to know," Lily whispered fiercely. "What number are you calling from? Why haven't you answered your cell phone all afternoon? Why is a detective trying to find you? I've been trying to reach you. For hours ." Guilt swamped her. "I got a new phone on my lunch break. I was calling to give you my number. Who was asking for me?" A beat of silence. "What happened to the old number, Faith?" Lily asked, quietly now. "It didn't transfer over." Because Faith hadn't wanted it to. "Who's been calling for me?" "A detective from Miami PD. I tried calling your home phone, but all I got was a recording saying the number was no longer in service. Your old cell kept going straight to voice mail. I must have left ten messages. I tried your hotel, and the phone in your room just rang. Where are you? Why are the police looking for you? What the hell is going on here?" "I don't know," Faith said truthfully. "What was the name of the detective?" "I have it written down. . . . Vega. Detective Catalina Vega." "Okay. I know her. Did she leave a message?" "Yeah, that you should call her. What is going on?" That was a good question. Best case, Vega had called to make sure she was okay. Worst case, to tell her that the man who'd made her life a living hell was headed north. That Vega had found it urgent enough to call her stepmother did not bode well. "I'm still in Ohio. Didn't Dad get the photo I texted? The one of my mother's grave?" "Yes, he did, and don't you try to distract me, Faith. Who is Detective Vega and why is she--" A pause, then a whispered oath. "Your dad's coming. We'll finish this later." "Lily?" Faith could hear her father in the background, sounding slightly slurred and short of breath. "Is that Faith on the phone?" "Yes, it sure is," Lily said brightly. "I'll put her on the speaker." "Faith? How are you, darlin'?" Her father's voice had been shaky ever since his stroke, but his love came through as strong as ever. Relief washed over her in a warm wave, and her shoulders sagged in relief. She hadn't realized just how much she'd needed to hear his voice. "I'm fine, Dad. How are you?" "Better now. I got your picture of your mama's grave. Thank you, sweetheart." He cleared his throat. "Did you talk to the Realtor?" "Well, not exactly. I changed my mind, Dad. I don't know if I'll sell the house after all." There was a long pause, and Faith visualized her father and Lily frowning at each other. "Why not, honey?" her father asked carefully. "Because I'm thinking of living in it." There. She'd said it. "If it's livable." Another pause, even longer. "But . . . I don't understand," her father said. "Neither do I," Lily added, a tad more sharply. "What about your job, Faith?" "I quit. Wait, hear me out," she said over their startled protests. "The crisis center lost most of its funding." After its director was shot to death outside the center's front door. "I'd been thinking of moving on anyway and, well, it seemed time, so I resigned." She'd quit because she hadn't wanted anyone else at the women's crisis center to be hit by a bullet meant for her, but her dad didn't need to know that. "I didn't have any real ties to Miami." "Because that snake of a husband of yours turned all your friends against you," her father growled. "If I could, I'd kick his ass up his throat and through his teeth." The thought nearly made her smile. But though her ex had committed a multitude of sins, that hadn't been one of them. "They weren't really my friends, Dad. They were Charlie's friends from the force, from before we got married. He didn't turn them against me. If they'd been my friends, they would have stuck with me." "Well, I'd still like to kick his ass," her father grumbled. "For the things I know he did do." Like divorcing her to marry his pregnant girlfriend. But that was done and over now. Faith had moved on, mostly. Her father, not so much. "So, about this move to Ohio," Lily said, changing the subject before Faith's father started in on a well-worn anti-Charlie rant. "What do you plan to do with yourself?" "I've got a new job, a really great one with HR at one of the banks up here. And I'll fix up the house. Make some friends. What normal people do." "Do you need any money, Faith?" her father asked. "We can spare a little." Faith swallowed hard. He and Lily were living on his GI pension. They had nothing to spare. But that he'd offer was no surprise. That was the kind of man he'd always been and just one of the reasons why she loved him. "No, Dad. I'm okay. My new job pays great. And I'll probably sell most of the land. I don't need fifty acres. Once that money comes in, I'll be sittin' pretty." She'd even be able to send some home to them, but she'd never say that to her father. Richard Sullivan had a huge heart--and a sense of pride to match. Faith would quietly address the checks to Lily, who'd bank them just as quietly. Her father would never know. "But . . ." Her father's voice trailed off. "You worked so hard to become a psychologist. And now you're going to count money ?" "No, Dad, I'm not a teller. I'm working in the HR department. That's Human Resources." "Doing what?" Lily asked. "Evaluating the employees, especially those who are on the list for advancement to management. The bank wants to identify employees with sociopathic tendencies." Identifying sociopaths was one of Faith's specialties. It was vaguely ironic that she'd be searching for them at the same time she was hiding from them. Or at least from one in particular. "It's a new approach to preventing embezzlement." "But, honey . . ." He sounded disappointed. "For as long as I can remember, you wanted to help people. Make a difference." She'd prepared for his concern, not his disapproval, and it stung. She had made a difference. For years she'd made a difference, and it had almost gotten her killed. It had gotten Gordon killed. Which he totally did not need to know. Faith opened her mouth, then closed it. Lily intervened in a soft murmur. "Richard. She's helped so many victims already." "But--" "Richard," Lily said more firmly. "It's her life. Let her live it." "But a bank , Lily?" he whispered, as though he'd forgotten Faith could hear them. "Since when has she been concerned with money ?" Ah. It was the money that bothered him the most. Her father had once studied for the priesthood and had been prepared to take a vow of poverty. Money had been one of the few things she could remember her parents arguing about. The O'Bannions had had wealth and Margaret O'Bannion Sullivan had wanted her share of it, but Faith's father would have walked over hot coals before taking a dime. Her father wasn't upset that she'd moved to Ohio. He was upset that she was working for a bank . She wondered how he'd feel if he knew the truth--that the armed security guards in the lobby had made her feel safer going to work than she'd felt in the entire ten years she'd counseled victims of sexual assault. "The job at the bank's not forever, Dad," she said gently. "It's just until I can figure out what to do with my life. I'm kind of at a crossroads. Looking for a change. But I need to pay the bills while I figure things out." "Of course you do," he said firmly, his disapproval, if not gone, at least hidden for the time being. "But, honey, if you're at a crossroads, you should come home. You could live here, with me and Lily." His voice became wheedling. "We have a new neighbor who would be perfect for you. He's handsome, and I've told him all about you." Faith's response was a strangled groan. "Dad." "Richard!" Lily exclaimed. "Leave her be. She's got to find her own way." "Her own way is too damn far away," he grumbled. "What if she meets some guy? How will I grill him? On Skype? Hell, I don't look half as threatening on Skype." Faith smiled, the first time she'd done so in more than four weeks. "I'm not meeting any men, but if I do and it's serious, I'll bring him home so that you can give him the full treatment." "Promise?" Her smile faltered, her eyes stinging, and she was suddenly, fiercely glad they weren't on Skype. She injected a bright note into her voice and hoped she'd pulled it off. "I promise." The long pause told her she had not. "You'll call me if you need me?" he asked. "I just did," she said softly. "I love you, Dad." "I love you, too, baby," he whispered. He cleared his throat. "Call me again, please. Soon. The sound of your voice is so much nicer than all those texts and e-mails." Faith swallowed hard. "I will, Dad. I promise. I have to hang up now. I'm at the curvy part of the road. I need to concentrate on driving." "I don't like you being all alone in that big house," he said, making one last-ditch effort to keep her on the line. "It's in the middle of nowhere, and anybody could break in and hurt you." "Maybe," Lily interjected quietly, "you'd feel better if Faith had an alarm system installed." "It would cost too much," her father said. "She doesn't have money to spend on an alarm." "Actually, it already has one. Gran's attorney said they put one in years ago because they'd had some squatters." Faith didn't mention her gun. Her father didn't like guns. "I'd feel better if you got a dog," he said. "A big dog. With big teeth." "I'll think about it," Faith said, surprised to realize how appealing the idea was. A dog would make coming home to an empty house a lot less lonely. "I really have to go now. I love you both." She tapped her earpiece to hang up before he could offer any new worries or before Lily could finish the interrogation she'd started. Tim McGraw's voice took over her speakers once again, but she turned the volume down a little so that she could think. Calling Detective Vega would have to wait until she got to the house. She didn't have the number for Miami PD programmed into her new phone, so she'd have to Google it. A glance at the clock on her dash had her grimacing. Traffic had made her a few minutes late. The locksmith was probably there already, but she wasn't about to speed on these curves. She hoped the man wouldn't leave without-- The animal came out of nowhere, hurling itself into her path. A big animal. Faith slammed on the brakes and wrenched the wheel to the left to avoid it--just as the road curved again. Before she could adjust, her tires slipped off the edge of the road, propelling her down the embankment. Panic gripped her as trees flew by and she desperately pumped the brake. And then what she'd glimpsed sank in. Long, dark hair. An outstretched arm. Fingers. Flesh, covered with blood. Oh my God. Not an animal. It had been a girl. Naked. In the middle of the road. * * * Mt. Carmel, Ohio Monday, November 3, 5:02 p.m. There was a buzzing in his ears. "Hey. Hey, buddy. Are you okay?" He blinked, growling when someone shook his shoulder. His head hurt and he was woozy. He was also lying on the ground outside. What the hell? Memory returned in a rush. The trespasser, the guy from the power company. Ken. The bastard who'd tranqued him. The dead bastard whose body was still lying out in plain view around back. And the girl. Arianna. She was gone. Shit. She was gone. I have to find her. I have to get her back. She'll tell. She'll ruin everything. He tried to sit up, but someone pushed him back down. "Don't move." A man. Older, by the sound of his voice. "You've been in an accident. I saw your truck crashed up the road. How'd you get all the way down here? Well, you're lucky I came by. Nobody lives here yet. Name's Tommy Dilman, by the way. I'll call 911." The hell you will. Forcing his eyes open, he saw Dilman kneeling beside him, pulling a cell phone from the pocket of his coveralls. Fury poured through him, giving him the strength to grab the phone from Dilman's hand and throw it as hard as he could. "Hey!" Dilman protested. "What the hell is wrong with you, buddy?" He waited until Dilman had turned to retrieve the phone, then lunged to his feet and leaped, bringing the older man down in a tangle of limbs. Stunned, Dilman lay on his back staring up. He didn't know what the old man was doing here. All he knew was that he was not calling 911, nor was he leaving here alive. He drew his switchblade from his pocket and plunged it into Dilman's throat. Warm blood spurted all over his hands as the old man struggled like a fish on a hook. A minute later, the guy wasn't moving at all. He rolled off Dilman's body and looked up at the sky. It was getting dark. He'd been out for a couple of hours at least. Plenty long enough for Arianna to get away, goddammit. She'd escaped in the power company's truck. But how had she escaped the basement? She never could have untied her ropes. And yet she was free. He thought of Roza, bending over Arianna, talking to her, and his fists clenched. The ungrateful little bitch. She cut Arianna loose. I'll beat her half to death, and if she sasses me, I'll beat her the rest of the way . At least Roza hadn't freed Corinne Longstreet. He had the only key to the shackles. Arianna was the real threat. She could be in the next town by now. Getting help . Wait. The tranq-induced fog in his mind was beginning to clear. What had the old man said? I saw your truck crashed up the road. Dilman had thought he worked for the power company, that he'd wrecked the truck. At least Arianna hadn't gotten far. Pushing to his feet, he staggered for a few steps, finally getting his balance. Damn, he had a mess on his hands. Dilman was lying in a pool of his own blood, and Ken's hand was visible at the back corner of the house. It was good that Dilman hadn't seen the hand and investigated. He would have known the real meter reader was dead. But now I have two bodies to hide. Sonofabitch. He made his way behind the house to the old carriage house where he hid his van. He backed it out, keeping to the gravel road. Gravel was a wonderful material. It showed little evidence that it had been driven over and could be raked so that it looked perfectly undisturbed. None of the caretakers who'd come to cut the grass had ever suspected he'd been there. Parked in front of the house was the old man's car. On the door was a magnetic sign. DILMAN'S LOCK AND KEY. The guy was a locksmith. He ground his teeth in rage. Faith had been a busy girl today. First calling the power company and then a locksmith. That bitch would have locked him out. Kept him from what he'd claimed as his own. What he'd created. What he'd collected. He drew a breath, calming himself. First order of business was to retrieve Arianna. Then he'd dispose of the two bodies. Then he'd find Faith and finish what he'd started. And when he was all done? He'd punish Roza severely and pick up where he'd left off with Arianna. * * * Mt. Carmel, Ohio Monday, November 3, 5:05 p.m. Faith lifted her head when the Jeep stopped moving. Tim McGraw was singing the closing strains of his song, the sound surreal in the absolute quiet. She touched her brow bone, her fingers coming away sticky. I'm bleeding . And something smelled bad. The airbag, she realized. The passenger-side airbag had deployed. She'd managed to turn the steering wheel as she'd gone down the embankment, so that she'd hit the first line of trees broadside rather than head-on. The Jeep must have bounced and slid the rest of the way a lot more gently, because she now rested hood-first against a tree and the driver's airbag was still intact. She turned off the ignition and sat motionless for a moment, just breathing. Her memory reengaged with a jolt. " Oh my God. The girl." There'd been a girl. She'd been . . . naked. Naked? How could she have been naked? Did I hit her? Oh God, please let her be okay. Please. Panicked, Faith groped at the Jeep's door, needing a minute to remember how it opened. You're in shock. It didn't matter. All that mattered was finding the girl. What if I killed her? The door made a horrible sound as she shoved at it with her shoulder, but it finally opened and Faith stumbled out, falling to her knees. 911. Call them . She needed her phone. Where is it? She had one. She'd just been on it, talking to her father. But with the hands-free. She tapped her ear. The earpiece was still there. Good. She'd put the phone in her coat pocket when she'd left the office. She patted her pockets, finding her gun in the left, and her phone in the right. Hands shaking, she tried to dial, but smeared blood all over the phone's screen. She wiped her hand on her skirt and tried again, finally dialing the three numbers. "This is 911. What is your emergency?" Faith tried to stand, but fell back to her knees. Stifling what would have been a shrill scream of pain, she dropped her phone back into her pocket and started to crawl. "There was a girl in the road. I swerved. Hit a tree." "Are you injured?" "Yeah." She blinked when her eyes burned, then realized it was blood in her eyes. She swiped at her forehead with her sleeve. "Cut my head." "I need you to stay still, ma'am. You could have other injuries. What is your name?" "Faith. Faith F--" Frye, she'd almost said. But that wasn't true anymore, was it? She blinked hard, making herself think. "Faith Corcoran." She started crawling again, up the steep embankment, whimpering when she slid back a few feet. If she wasn't careful, she could tumble all the way down. She wasn't going to look. She already knew it was steep. "Stay put, Faith. I've sent help. They'll be there in a few minutes." "I can't. There was a girl. In the road." She dug her fingers into the dirt and kept climbing. "She was hurt. I didn't hit her. I swear I didn't." Her fingers touched asphalt, and she dragged herself up the final foot of embankment and on to the road. There she was. The girl. "I see her." "The girl?" the operator asked carefully, as if Faith were delusional. "No," Faith snarled. "Frosty the damn snowman. Of course the girl. But . . . she's not moving." She dragged herself to where the girl lay. She'd been right. The girl had no clothes. Which allowed Faith to see every oozing wound on her body. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. "Dear God. Who did this to you, honey?" she whispered. "Faith?" the operator asked. "Are you still there?" "I'm here. With the girl. She's all bloody. Her face is bruised. And cut. She's . . . naked. Someone's cut her, all over." Wiping her bloody hand on her skirt, Faith pressed her fingers to the girl's neck, relieved when she felt a pulse, though it was faint. "She's alive, but barely. I can hardly get a pulse. She's nonresponsive." "Can you describe her?" "Young. High school, maybe. Long, dark hair, past her shoulders. She appears Hispanic. Tall. Five-nine or so." The setting sun had cast the road in shadow, but the gash in the girl's thigh was big and bad enough to be easily visible. "She may have been shot in the leg. Maybe in the arm, too, but there's too much blood to tell." Faith struggled out of her coat and spread it over the girl, her own body sagging from the exertion. Pushing the edge of her coat to the middle of the girl's leg, she exposed the wound, then leaned closer, frowning. "Looks like somebody did a patch job on the bullet hole, but it busted open." She took off her scarf, balled it up, and pressed it to the girl's wound. "I'm putting pressure on the wound in her leg. She's lost a lot of blood. Tell whoever's coming to hurry." "They'll be there in a few minutes. What about you? How's your head?" "It hurts," she said tersely. "And I'm tired." "Don't sleep yet. Stay on the phone with me." "I've had a concussion before. I know the drill." Squinting into the growing darkness, Faith searched for any sign of whoever might have dumped the girl there, but she saw nothing but trees. Whoever had left her was gone. Or hiding. That they might come back to finish what they'd started was not impossible. "They won't get at you again," she whispered to the girl, who made no sign that she was aware of anything that was happening. Her loss of consciousness might be a mercy in this situation. "They'll have to go through me first." Taking her gun from the pocket of her coat, Faith staggered to her feet. Standing in place, she turned a slow circle, watching for any threat. All the while she prayed that the Mount Carmel cops responded faster than the Miami cops she'd known. * * * Mt. Carmel, Ohio Monday, November 3, 5:20 p.m. Arianna couldn't have gotten far. It was getting dark, so he switched on the van's high beams, driving slowly, scanning the trees along the roadway. Within minutes the wrecked power company truck came into view. Arianna had crashed into a tree. The hood was a crushed mess. Even better. If she was hurt, she might still be in the truck. Leaving the van on the road, he jogged to the wreck. She's there. She's got to be there . But she wasn't. The truck's cab was empty. He clenched his teeth so hard that a sharp pain streaked up his neck into his skull. She'd escaped. Again. Relax. There's blood all over the seat. This isn't so bad. Bleeding like she was, she had to be around here somewhere. He looked around the truck, careful not to touch it. His fingerprints weren't in anyone's system, and he planned to keep it that way. He walked slowly through the trees, following the trail she'd left in the dirt as she'd dragged herself forward. He had to give her some credit. She had guts and spirit. He so looked forward to breaking her. He'd rounded a curve in the road when he heard sirens, and his heart simply stopped. No. No, no, no. He crept closer and silently cursed when he saw the flashing blue lights up ahead. It was a squad car. A fucking squad car. There was a body in the road, covered by a black wool coat. The body had long black hair. Arianna Escobar. Maybe she was dead. Please let her be dead. The siren belonged to an ambulance, which came to a screeching halt next to the cruiser. A paramedic raced to her side and was waving his partner to hurry with a stretcher. When they rolled her away, her face was uncovered, an oxygen mask pressed to it. Dammit. She's alive . A second ambulance drove up as the first was driving away. Why two ambulances? This paramedic went to the squad car, leaned into the open rear passenger door, and helped someone out. Someone with dark red hair wearing a green suit. His eyes narrowed. Faith . She'd called the power company. She'd called a locksmith. She'd been on her way to his house. She'd found Arianna. Panic tried to choke him, but ruthlessly he pushed it back. He couldn't panic now. He needed to get back to the house. Get rid of the evidence . He backed away, careful not to disturb a single leaf, and when he was out of sight, he ran to his van. He barely pressed his foot to the accelerator, wanting to draw no attention to himself. That the cops would connect the girl to the power company's truck and the truck to the O'Bannion house was a given. There were no other houses around. How much time did he have to get away? Unknown. He had to hurry and hope they'd knock, find no one home, and go away. But he knew that wouldn't be the case. Not with Faith there. Fury simmered in his gut. He was going to lose everything. Because she had come back. I should have killed her when I had the chance. And he'd tried, but the bitch simply wouldn't die. Arianna was a setback, but not a complete disaster. Even if she lived, she couldn't identify him. She'd been blindfolded the entire time, except for when she was running to the meter reader's truck. There were a few seconds when he'd begun to chase her. If she'd looked in the rearview mirror . . . Unlikely, he told himself harshly. It was only a few seconds and she'd been distraught. He turned into the gravel drive and pulled the van around to the back. He had two dead bodies outside and two live ones inside. The two live ones would be dead soon enough. Corinne Longstreet was now excess baggage. A liability. Once Arianna was identified, people would start looking here for Corinne. He needed to get her out of here and dead and buried ASAP. And the child? She'd better be very, very contrite. Showing even an iota of spirit meant that she was too dangerous to be retrained. Which meant he'd have to kill her, too. * * * Mt. Carmel, Ohio Monday, November 3, 5:30 p.m. You will not throw up. Sitting in the back of the ambulance with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, Faith had been repeating the same phrase for twenty minutes. She didn't know if it was helping, but at least it wasn't hurting. She hadn't been sick all over the crime scene. Yet. She'd held it together until the cops had arrived, but the moment they'd taken over, her adrenaline crashed. Nausea and uncontrollable shaking had commenced, accompanied by the playback loop in her mind. Gunshots, screams. Blood on her hands. Gordon's sightless eyes staring up at her. She kept telling herself that this was different. That the girl she'd found would live. The first ambulance had rushed the teenager to one of the hospitals downtown. Faith would soon follow, but at a much more sedate pace. The EMT had advised her to have her head checked out by the ER, but Faith wasn't sure she could ride in a moving vehicle just yet. Besides, the detectives investigating the girl's assault would be arriving soon. She knew they'd want a full report. The thought of which made her want to turn tail and run. They'll ask questions about you, too. They'll find out who you really are. Or were. If they asked, she'd answer honestly. Although she might get lucky. The detectives might keep their questions focused on the girl she'd found in the road and leave her alone. And if they do find out who you were? Well, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. She knew not all cops were like Charlie and his friends. Some were like Catalina Vega, who'd believed her when she'd reported being stalked and terrorized by Peter Combs. Unfortunately, Vega was in the minority. Most of the cops who'd taken her reports had treated her like she'd deserved what she'd gotten from Combs. When he'd escalated from stalking to attempted murder, they'd thought she was making it up, that she was desperate for attention. Unstable, even. The latter had likely been encouraged by her ex-husband's trash talk, though she'd never been able to prove it. Even if that had been true, they still should've done their jobs, but they hadn't. And so here I am. Forced to flee and start all over again. So while not all cops were like Charlie and his friends, she really wasn't in the mood to take the chance. She didn't need their "help" and didn't trust their motives. The EMT came around the back of the ambulance to check on her. "How are you feeling?" "Okay." Her head still throbbed, but the nausea was abating. "How's my Jeep?" "I'm no mechanic, but it doesn't look good, ma'am. I'm sure the detectives can give you a better idea. This is probably them now." Faith peered around the ambulance's open door to see a black SUV rolling to a stop. The driver's-side door opened and-- Holy hell. Faith's eyes widened, her headache momentarily forgotten. It was a man. A really big man. Over six feet tall and broad-shouldered, he seemed to dwarf his vehicle. But it wasn't his size that had her staring. He was . . . different. She blinked hard, thinking she must have hit her head harder than she'd thought. But when she opened her eyes, he was still there, standing next to his SUV, doing a visual scan of the scene from behind the darkest wraparound sunglasses she'd ever seen. His hair appeared to be white. Not the white-blond that came from the sun, but the snow-white that came with age, even though he looked no older than she was. It was cut short, the ends kicking up haphazardly all over his head, like a churned-up frozen sea. In stark contrast, his face was a warm bronze, broken only by the white goatee that framed an unsmiling mouth. And the pièce de résistance, the unbuttoned black leather trenchcoat that hugged his shoulders like a glove, the tails whipping in the wind. He looked like he'd stepped out of an action movie. If she hadn't been in pain, she might have thought she was dreaming. Of course, she had hit her head, so hallucinations were still a possibility. "I think I might get that CAT scan after all," she murmured. The EMT huffed a strained chuckle. "Maybe I'll join you." "He's . . . real, then?" "Yes, ma'am. He is most definitely real." Chapter Four Mt. Carmel, Ohio Monday, November 3, 5:32 p.m. Special Agent Deacon Novak got out of his SUV, blinking rapidly against the sudden blast of cold air. They'd have a hard frost tonight. The victim had been discovered just in time. A few more hours and she would have succumbed to exposure--if she hadn't bled to death first. The young woman had been beaten, stabbed, shot, and then dumped in the middle of nowhere on the side of a road that did not appear to have been used in years. Deacon had almost forgotten that places this isolated still existed so close to the city. The crowded Cincinnati suburb where he'd grown up was less than fifteen miles from here, but it felt more like a hundred. Here the houses were few and far between, where those in his neighborhood were so close together that he'd needed only to open a window to talk to the cousin who'd lived right next door. Here, there was no one to witness a young girl being dumped like garbage. In his neighborhood there'd always been self-appointed sentries watching from lace-curtained windows, making sure that all the kids' mothers knew every move they made. They still did, in fact. The sentries had grown old, but they still watched the neighborhood with eagle eyes, still reporting misbehaviors. Deacon knew this because he and his sister, Dani, were now on the receiving end of their reports. Their younger brother had fallen in with a very bad crowd, and Aunt Tammy, who'd raised Greg from an infant after their mother died, was at the end of her rope. Which was why Deacon had come home--not just for a vacation or a holiday, but permanently. There were details to work out, but it was nothing he and Dani hadn't been able to handle. Until this afternoon. God . Greg had gotten into trouble at school again, and what had started as a conversation nearly escalated into a brawl. The angry, ugly words that Deacon and his brother had shouted at each other still echoed in his mind. Deacon didn't often lose his temper, but somehow Greg managed to push every single one of his buttons with a simple smirk. Deacon didn't think he'd yelled so much in years, maybe ever. Not that it had done any good. Greg had simply turned down his hearing aid, which had made Deacon see red. He was glad the victim had been discovered for her sake, of course, but also for his own, because the call to the crime scene had forced him to walk away from his brother before he'd done something unforgivable. He'd seriously wanted to slap the smirk off the kid's face. He didn't think he'd have done it, but the very idea that he'd been tempted left him rattled. He couldn't afford to be rattled. He had a job to do. He pushed his guilt and worry aside. His focus had to be on the young woman who'd been assaulted and left to die. Out here no one watched through lace curtains. Whoever had left the victim had counted on that. Had counted on the fact that there were trees as far as the eye could see on either side of the pitted and potholed road. That beyond the trees to the south ran a lonely stretch of the Ohio River, miles away from the bars and restaurants of the Cincinnati riverfront. That the victim had been discovered at all seemed like a miracle. Deacon found miracles suspicious. The initial report stated that the victim had been found by a woman who'd swerved to avoid her, wrecking her vehicle. But there didn't seem to be any good reason for anyone to be on this road. It was too cold for most hikers and campers, and deer season hadn't started yet. He hoped the first responders hadn't let the woman leave. He had a few questions for her. One of the local cops had strung yellow crime-scene tape across the road. Ducking under it, Deacon started toward the flashing lights of the two sheriff's department cruisers, parked on either side of an ambulance whose back doors stood open, revealing the woman sitting inside. Red was his first impression. Dark red hair the color of Bordeaux framed a pale but pretty face. Her cheek was smudged with blood, her forehead bandaged. Not the victim. He knew she was already on her way to the trauma unit in Cincinnati. This, then, had to be the Good Samaritan. About thirty years old, she sat huddled under a brown blanket. Her green skirt stopped an inch above the bandages that covered her knees. She wore thick white socks on her feet, leaving her lower legs bare. Very nice legs, in fact. Shapely calves that he would have had to be blind not to notice. Deacon had issues with his eyes, but impaired vision had never been one of them. The woman's deer-in-the-headlights expression might have simply been leftover shock, but as her gaze was focused on him, Deacon doubted it. He got that reaction a lot. "Hold it right there, buster." Deacon stopped abruptly when a uniformed officer blocked his path. The officer eyed him with a mixture of incredulity, fascination, and contempt. Another reaction that Deacon got a lot. "You can't come through here, buddy," the officer said. "Please get back in your vehicle and go back the way you came." I'm not your buddy, friend, leapt to the tip of Deacon's tongue, but he bit it back. Going for his badge with one hand, he took off his wraparound glasses with the other and fought not to squint at the intense glare of the setting sun. Leveling the officer an unamused stare, he gave the guy a few seconds to react. Wait for it, wait for it. . . . The officer didn't disappoint, flinching when his eyes met Deacon's. "What the f--" "Special Agent Novak, FBI," Deacon interrupted, showing his badge. "Update, please." The officer's eyes narrowed as he scanned Deacon from head to toe. "Nice contacts, asshole, but Halloween's over. Now move along and take your fake ID with you." Dammit. I really hate Halloween. Deacon had come to depend on that flinch. Had spent years honing the image he projected, maximizing the window of distraction his slightly-less-than-normal irises offered. But Halloween ruined his rhythm, totally axing his advantage. Now all he had left was his bubbling personality. Shit. "Officer," he said, lowering his voice to a menacing growl. "I do not have time for this. Who's lead here?" "I am." The dry reply came from an older uniform. "Deputy, get back to your post." When the younger officer was gone, the older man leaned forward to study Deacon's badge, then straightened to meet his eyes. No flinch. Just a disbelieving blink from which the sheriff recovered quickly. "Sorry about that, Agent Novak. I'm Sheriff Palmer. We, uh, don't get many FBI agents around here." And none that look like you, went loudly unsaid. "I have to admit that I'm surprised to see you. I called CPD, not the FBI." "I work a joint task force with CPD--MCES, the Major Case Enforcement Squad. We cover homicide, abduction, and assault." Deacon had joined the newly formed squad the month before. CPD wanted an FBI member with joint-task-force experience, and Deacon had needed to come home, so his transfer from the Baltimore field office to Cincinnati had been a mutually beneficial one. "What's the status here?" "We responded to the 911 at five fourteen p.m., eight minutes after it was called in. The victim was lying in the road, bleeding. Her face was bruised, and she had a bullet hole in one thigh and stab wounds all over her torso. Deep enough to hurt, but not enough to kill." "Her abductor was playing with her," Deacon murmured, stowing his anger. "Yeah. We haven't found any ID around the scene. No clothes either, or personal effects." "Did she at any point regain consciousness?" "No. When we got here, she was unresponsive. She was nude, but the woman who found her covered her with her own coat. She was also standing guard over the girl." Palmer lifted one eyebrow. "With a fully loaded .380." Surprised, Deacon turned to check the woman out more thoroughly. She was watching him, the stunned look gone from her eyes. Now he saw only intelligence. And a guarded calculation that put him on alert. "Was it her gun?" he asked Palmer. "She said it was, and based on her grip and stance, I'd say she knows exactly how to use it. When I bagged it, she didn't argue." "Had she seen anyone around the girl? Anyone coming or going?" "She said she hadn't, but she might have been in shock. When I asked for her weapon, she handed it over--then collapsed. Not a faint, but like her legs wouldn't hold her up anymore." "Is she hurt?" "Cuts and bruises on her hands and knees and a nasty gash on her head. She said she swerved to keep from hitting the victim, went down that embankment. This way." Feeling the woman's watchful gaze as he walked away, Deacon followed the sheriff to the edge of the road. For a moment he stood there and gaped. He'd expected a small wreck. He hadn't expected this. A red Jeep rested on some trees halfway down the embankment, looking like it had been hit in the side with a wrecking ball. The embankment was not only treacherously steep, but rocky as well. He looked back in disbelief at the Good Sam. "She climbed up here from down there ?" The sheriff shrugged. "Unless she has wings or stashed a helicopter, she climbed." "Was anyone with her?" "She says no. I checked it out myself once we'd secured the scene up here. I didn't see any other footprints, and there's no one else in the vehicle. I have to admit that the climb back up was a challenge. I asked her about it, and she said she used to wall-climb at the gym." "Interesting." Deacon noted the tire tracks and broken trees that showed the Jeep's path down the embankment. The tracks were pointed head-on to the trees at first, but a wide swath of disturbed dirt indicated that she'd turned a tight circle at the last moment, slamming into the trees from the side. It wasn't a move that many people could have accomplished, especially under stress. The Good Sam had serious driving skills. He pulled a pair of binoculars from his pocket. The fading light made it hard to focus, but he was able to make out the Jeep's Florida plates, making him doubly suspicious as to why she'd been here to begin with, on a road that didn't even show up on the map as having a name. He turned to study the skid marks. "She tried to stop." "She claims she wasn't speeding," Palmer said. "Skid marks appear consistent with that." The thick marks started about twenty feet from where an evidence marker sat in the middle of the road. "That's where you found the victim?" "Yes." Palmer pulled a small digital camera from his pocket. "I took pictures before the medics transported her." Deacon clicked through the photos, grimacing at the girl's wounds. He'd seen worse, but not by much. "I'll need copies of these, please," he said. "I've already uploaded them to our server. I can e-mail them to you." "That'd be great, thanks." Sweeping the tail of his leather trenchcoat to one side, Deacon crouched beside the marker. It was a move that had become second nature over the years. He and his coat had been together a long time. The asphalt had dark, wet patches. "She bled a lot," Deacon murmured. "Woulda bled more, but the Good Sam did some decent first aid. Applied pressure to the wound with her scarf." It seemed their Good Sam had all kinds of skills. "What's the Sam's name?" "Faith Corcoran. Says her ID is in her handbag, still in the Jeep. We don't get many out-of-towners this far out. Seemed a little odd that she'd be here at the same time as the girl." "And toting a .380, no less," Deacon said dryly. A slight nod. "The thought crossed my mind," was the sheriff's equally dry reply. Deacon came to his feet and carefully walked to the other side of the road, his eyes on the pavement. There was a smeared path, dark and wet, that stretched from the marker to the shoulder opposite the side the Jeep had gone down. "The victim came this way." "Crawled from the shoulder where they dumped her. She had dirt on her hands and knees." Deacon dug his Maglite from his coat pocket and, aiming the beam at the shoulder, started walking away from the scene into the setting sun. "We didn't see any signs of tire treads on the shoulder or in the grass," the sheriff said. "Whoever dumped her stayed on the road." "They might have, but she didn't," Deacon said, focusing his light on the grass at the shoulder's edge. "There's blood here." "Where?" the sheriff demanded, then propped his fists on his hips as he looked at the illuminated grass. "I'll be damned. Those eyes of yours function just fine, Agent Novak." "They do, indeed," Deacon murmured. People sometimes wondered if his unique eyes had impaired--or enhanced--vision, but they didn't. He had a sensitivity to bright light, but other than that his eyesight was only average, though he'd taught himself to notice changes in color and texture. "I think the victim came from the woods." He paused at the sound of approaching vehicles. A few seconds later, the CSU van came around the bend, followed by a sedan that looked like his partner's. But Detective Scarlett Bishop was supposed to be at the hospital with the victim. Unless the victim could no longer give a statement. Shit. Please don't let that girl be dead. "Now that CSU is here, they can set up lights. Excuse me, Sheriff." Briskly, Deacon walked toward the sedan, slowing as he passed the Good Sam in the ambulance. She'd been leaning forward so that she could see around the ambulance doors, watching him. Now she sat back so that her face was in the shadows. She appeared to be worried. That wasn't good. His attention swung back to the sedan, his eyes narrowing in confusion. The person who emerged was not Bishop. * * * Cincinnati, Ohio Monday, November 3, 5:45 p.m. Detective Scarlett Bishop stood against the wall of the ER cubicle, watching the trauma team prepare the victim for surgery. The rape kit had been positive, which hadn't really surprised anyone, since she'd been found nude. Locking her gaze on the victim's face, Scarlett looked for any sign of consciousness, but there was nothing. She'd tried to talk to the girl three times already, with no success. The nurse standing at the victim's head stepped away, and Scarlett slipped into the vacated space to try again, leaning close to the young woman's battered face. "Sweetheart," she said, quietly but urgently, "I need you to wake up, just for a minute." "We're moving her in less than a minute, Detective," the doctor warned. "Okay, okay." It would be easier if she knew the girl's name. "Honey, please, wake up." Scarlett let her desperation come through her voice. "I need to know your name." The victim's eyelids fluttered, and Scarlett sucked in a breath. "Faith," the girl whispered. "Detective, we're moving her." Scarlett shot the doctor a silent plea for a few more seconds. "Your name is Faith?" The young woman shook her head weakly. "No. Need faith." Oh no. Scarlett's voice softened. "You want me to call a priest?" The girl's jaw clenched infinitesimally. "No. Faith. Fry." "All right," Scarlett soothed, although she had no idea what the young woman meant. Or even if she spoke English. It sounded almost like she was saying fith fry . Fish fry? No, that couldn't be right. "Who did this to you?" Tears filled her dark brown eyes. "Krin. Krin." One of the monitors started to beep, and the team flew into action. "BP's dropping," a nurse said. "She's going into V-fib." "That's it, Detective!" the doctor snapped, issuing a string of orders to the team as they pulled the stretcher out of the bay and rushed it to the elevator. Scarlett pulled out her phone, dialing her lieutenant's info man as she walked to the ER's exit. "Crandall, this is Bishop. Can you check the missing-persons list for anyone named Faith? She's five-ten, dark hair to her shoulders, possibly Hispanic." "Just a second," Crandall said, his keyboard clacking in the background. "No. We have a Fawn and a Fiona. No Faith." "I knew that was too good to be true," she muttered. "I ran a check based on the medics' description before I came over here and came up empty. I was hoping for something new." "How long ago was that?" "Twenty-five minutes or so. Why?" "Because there is a new report, uploaded fifteen minutes ago. Arianna Escobar, seventeen years old. She fits your description and was last seen on her campus at King's College, where she's a freshman. I have a photo. Hold on. I'll send it to your phone." Scarlett ran to her car and was buckling herself in when the photo came through. It took her a moment to find any similarity between the girl in the photo and the victim she'd just seen. "Man, the bastard did a number on her face. It's hard to tell if it's the same girl. I think it is. Who filed the report?" "Her roommate, Lauren Goodwin. She's in Harrison dorm. I'll send her cell number to your phone." "Thanks, Crandall. Let Isenberg know I'm headed to the college, if you don't mind." "She'll want to know the girl's status." "They were charging the paddles when they rushed her into surgery," she said, trying to ignore the twinge of guilt. If she hadn't kept the girl talking . . . And she hadn't even gotten anything useful for having risked the girl's life. "Cross your fingers." "I'll pray." "Yeah," Scarlett said flatly. "You do that, too. I'll call when I have something." She hung up, annoyed with herself for having snapped at Crandall, but the whole prayer thing rubbed her wrong. It didn't seem fair that some people's prayers were answered and others' weren't. Let it go, Scar. Her phone buzzed, a text from Crandall with a phone number for Arianna's roommate. Thx, she texted back and then dialed Lauren's number. * * * Mt. Carmel, Ohio Monday, November 3, 6:10 p.m. When his partner didn't emerge from the vehicle, Deacon was surprised, but he was shocked when he saw Adam Kimble get out instead. Adam had been part of Isenberg's Homicide Unit prior to the formation of MCES, when he'd moved to Personal Crimes--CPD's euphemism for sex crimes. The more delicate term didn't diminish the ugliness that the PC squad dealt with on a daily basis. It seemed to have taken its toll on Adam. The man who now scanned the crime scene with a hardened expression was a far cry from the boy who'd grown up in the house next door to Deacon's. Their mothers had been sisters who'd given birth to their sons only two months apart. Best friends from the time they could crawl, Adam had been Deacon's partner in their childhood adventures--the ones that had had the neighborhood sentries reporting to their mothers. In school Adam had defended Deacon and his sister from the bullies who had hassled them for their unusual appearance. Deacon had been too scrawny to fight back then. When his growth spurt had finally hit, it was Adam who'd taught him how to use his new muscle to defend himself. His cousin had been there for him during the most traumatic events of his life. Even the fact that Deacon was with MCES was Adam's doing. When Greg's behavior had become so serious that Deacon needed to come home, Adam had not only made sure his cousin got the heads-up on the new task force, but had personally and enthusiastically recommended him to MCES leader, Lieutenant Lynda Isenberg, who was now Deacon's boss. But then something had changed--and whatever it was, it was epic and sudden. Adam had completely avoided him since he'd arrived from Baltimore. Deacon didn't take it personally, though. Instead, he worried, because Adam was completely avoiding everyone, including his mother, Deacon's aunt Tammy. Based on Adam's current scowl, whatever was bothering him had taken a turn for the worse. Oh no. Deacon remembered his aunt's pale face as he'd fought with Greg. Not again. Aunt Tammy's heart attack had been the catalyst for Deacon coming home. "Is your mom okay?" Adam's body seemed to still, an oddly menacing sight. "Why wouldn't she be?" "Because we upset her. Greg and I. We were arguing and it got kind of . . . intense." Adam shook his head. His shoulders relaxed, but his expression remained dark and closed. "She's okay, as far as I know. Why were you arguing?" "Greg's getting suspended again for fighting. Same old," Deacon said with a shrug. "Goddamn idiot kid," Adam spat. "He's gonna kill her, Deacon. One of these days--" Deacon held up a hand to stop Adam's tirade. "I have two more rooms to paint, and then Dani can move in." The house he and his sister had bought together had been a fixer-upper, because it was all they could afford. Deacon had spent much of his free time doing repairs, but he was almost finished now, and pretty proud of his work, actually. "Dani and I are coordinating our shifts so that one of us is always home with him. We'll have him out of Aunt Tammy's by the end of the week." He hesitated. "If your mom's okay, then why are you here?" Adam's lip curled. "Our boss sent me." Our boss? Deacon's eyes widened. "You're in MCES? Since when?" "Since an hour ago." The words were spat out in a show of temper that had Deacon backing away. "I take it that this wasn't your idea," Deacon said cautiously. Adam's jaw clenched so tightly that Deacon was surprised his teeth didn't crack. "Still the boy genius, I see. No. It wasn't my idea, but I'm here and I'm all yours. Lucky you." O-kay. "What about Bishop?" "Don't worry. She's still your partner. Think of me as the water boy." "The water boy," Deacon repeated, feeling as if he'd been sideswiped. Isenberg had some explaining to do. "Tanaka," he called to the leader of CSU, who was getting his gear from the van. "Come here and I'll bring you both up to speed. We need to hurry. The light's nearly gone." "I have spotlights," Vince Tanaka said when he'd joined them. A veteran crime-scene analyst, he was very good at his job. "My tech's setting them up by the marker in the road." "Not yet." Deacon pointed to the shoulder where he'd seen the blood. "Over there first. I think she came from those trees." "I thought she was dumped," Adam said with a frown. "She may have been, but I found blood on the grass." Deacon quickly filled them in. "I want her path traced. Mark every blade of grass that she dragged herself across. The sheriff took photos when he got here. He said he'd e-mail them to us. He also bagged and tagged the Good Sam's coat and gun." Tanaka blinked. "The Good Sam was armed?" "Apparently so. Make sure she gets a receipt for her things." "Will do." Tanaka headed toward the shoulder, leaving Deacon and his cousin alone. Deacon searched Adam's angry face, wanting to dig deeper, to find out what the hell was wrong, but this wasn't the time. "Look," he whispered, "I don't know what your issue is or what happened to land you on my team, but you need to deal with it on your own time. The girl is the priority. Can you do that?" Adam flinched, then nodded. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I can handle that." "Handle" wasn't the word Deacon had used. That Adam had used it . . . Isenberg has a lot of explaining to do. "Thank you," Deacon said. "I'll get a statement from the Good Sam. I want you to see what's down there." He pointed in the direction from which the girl had come. The direction in which the Good Sam had been headed. "Do it on foot. Take one of Tanaka's techs with you to sweep for evidence." Adam gave him a terse nod. "I'll be back soon." Deacon turned his attention to the woman sitting in the back of the ambulance. Faith Corcoran. She'd been watching him the entire time he'd been talking with Adam and Tanaka. Now she swallowed hard, fear flickering across her face, troubling him. He wanted her off guard, not afraid. He'd taken two steps toward the ambulance when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. A glance at the caller ID had him backing up, out of Corcoran's earshot. It was Lieutenant Lynda Isenberg, his boss. Oh, wait. Excuse me. "Our" boss. "When did you plan to tell me about Adam?" he demanded, forgoing the pleasantries. Isenberg's voice was level, as usual. "Twenty minutes ago, but I had to take two other calls. Kimble's officially part of your team." A slight hesitation. "Keep an eye on him." "You'll tell me why later?" "No," she said in a way that brooked no argument. "I'm calling now because I have new information regarding your case. Bishop's ID'd your vic. Her name is Arianna Escobar, and she's a seventeen-year-old freshman at King's College. Her roommate reported her missing yesterday, but the cop who took the report figured Arianna was off partying. Lauren Goodwin, the roommate, kept pushing and finally got campus security to view the tapes this afternoon. They show that Arianna left the library at eleven on Friday night with another student, Corinne Longstreet, who also appears to be missing. I've added her to the missing-persons database." Deacon muttered a curse. "Can you send me the profiles on both girls?" "They've already been sent to your phone. Corinne's a sophomore, but she's older than her classmates. She's twenty-six years old, five-six, about a hundred and thirty pounds, blond hair." "Thanks. Does Bishop have a feel for whether Corinne's a victim or if she's involved in the abduction?" "She's not sure. Arianna tried to say Corinne's name when Bishop asked her who'd taken her. But she was crying, too, so she might have been trying to tell Bishop that Corinne was in trouble." "Did Arianna say anything else?" "Bishop thinks she was saying 'fish fry,'" Isenberg said flatly. "She has no idea what that means. The victim's roommate was equally puzzled." "Okay. We'll assume that Corinne Longstreet is a victim until we learn differently. Adam's tracing Arianna's path. I'll have him search for signs of Corinne also. The local sheriff seems sharp, and he knows the area. I'll ask him to organize a search party." "I'll send you as much manpower as I can spare," Isenberg said. "If the sheriff doesn't have access to search dogs, let me know. I'll get some out there." "Good, thanks." Deacon eyed the woman in the ambulance, whose gaze had followed every move he'd made. She was biting her lip, her face shadowed with concern. "Do me a favor, Boss. Run a check on a woman named Faith Corcoran. She has Florida plates." He recited the plate number, which he'd committed to memory earlier. Good thing, too. It was now too dark to see the Jeep, much less its plate. "Okay. Why am I running a check on her?" "She's the Good Sam who discovered Arianna, but this road is way off the beaten path and she's acting twitchy. I want to know why she's here at the same time Arianna turned up." "Did she hit the girl?" "No. The skid marks show she swerved off the road about twenty feet from where the girl was found, so that's not it." "Maybe she's in shock." "She might have been, but she's not anymore. My gut says she's nervous about something." "I have to admit that your gut's proven pretty reliable so far," Isenberg said grudgingly. "I'll put Crandall on it. He'll text you with whatever he can dig up." If it was accessible online, Crandall would find it. "Thank you. I'll keep you--" "I'm not finished yet. The ER did a rape kit on the Escobar girl and it came up positive." "Shit," Deacon whispered. He wasn't surprised, but he always hoped it wouldn't be the case. "I know. Doctor found evidence of previous abuse, too. Arianna's been in the foster system for years. Because of this, and because she's under eighteen, we've called in social services and they've recommended a kid shrink. Dr. Meredith Fallon. Bishop's still at the college, but she'll head back to the hospital when the girl gets out of surgery. That's all I have for you right now. Keep me up to speed with what you find." "I will." Deacon hung up, his gaze zeroing in on Faith Corcoran, who'd bent her head wearily when he'd whispered his oath over Arianna's rape as if she'd understood, even though she couldn't have heard a word that Isenberg had said. What did she know? Where had she come from? Why was she here, and why was she carrying a gun? Faith Corcoran, I think it's time we were formally introduced. Chapter Five Mt. Carmel, Ohio Monday, November 3, 6:20 p.m. The white-haired cop had been all over the crime scene, talking to everyone on the ground. Except for me, Faith thought, although she'd had his attention off and on the entire time. He'd studied her as if she were a bug in a jar. Which was ironic, actually. Of the two of us, he is totally the not-normal one. What with his white hair, that leather coat, and those ultra-dark wraparound sunglasses. He was definitely in charge here. Everyone he talked to followed his orders. Although that one other agent had looked really angry. And that first deputy's initial reaction to him still had her puzzled. And a little nervous. More than nervous, actually. She was trembling. She hadn't been able to hear much of what he'd said, but she'd watched his mouth as he'd said it. He had a nice mouth, and the thin white goatee that surrounded it set it off, making it even easier to see. She'd been staring at him when she'd realized his lips were carefully enunciating a familiar set of letters and numbers. He'd called in the Jeep's license plates. He suspects. Suspects what? You haven't done anything wrong. Besides, he wasn't going to find anything. She'd changed her name on all of her documents. And if he digs deeper? Finds Dr. Faith Frye? Places a few calls to Miami? Her relocation effort would end up being a big waste of time. Once one Miami PD cop knew, they'd all know. Cops were the biggest gossips she knew. Once Miami PD knew, it wouldn't be long before her new address "leaked out." And then the nightmare would start up all over again. She'd know soon enough, she thought, her pulse racing even faster as he closed the distance between them. When he stopped, he was close to where she sat. Too close. Far too close. "Ms. Corcoran? I'm Special Agent Novak with the FBI." In a moment of panic, she fell back into old habits, dropping her gaze to the inch of asphalt that was all that separated her thick wool socks from his shiny black wingtips. He was so close that she could feel the heat of him. Hear the flapping of his leather trenchcoat in the wind as he towered over her, looking down. He's trying to intimidate me. It was working. Stop this. You are better than this. You have done nothing wrong. Look him in the eye and tell him to move the hell back. She lifted her chin to speak, but the movement reminded her all too quickly why she was still sitting in the back of an ambulance. She slammed her eyes shut as a wave of nausea smacked her hard. She heard a soft moan and realized that it had come from her mouth. You will not throw up on his shiny shoes. You will not. "You're the EMT?" he asked, startling her. She had nearly forgotten about the medic. "Yes. I'm Jefferies, Mount Carmel Fire and Rescue." "How is she?" " She is fine," Faith said, keeping her head down and her eyes closed. "And perfectly able to speak for herself." "Glad to hear it," Novak said levelly. "Jefferies, I'd like to speak to Ms. Corcoran before she's transported. Can you give us a few minutes?" "Sure," Jefferies said. "I got reports to do. But Ms. Corcoran should be seen in the ER. The contusion on her forehead needs to be sutured. Her hands may also need attention." "May? You mean you don't know?" "She wouldn't let me touch them," Jefferies said, sounding slightly defensive. A slight pause. "And . . . why not?" "I was afraid I might have picked up evidence from the girl's skin when I touched her," Faith answered. "The sheriff already bagged my coat because I covered her up with it, but I thought your forensics guys might want to swab my hands." "I see," Novak said. "Anything else, Jefferies?" "Not that I know of. Just tell me when you're done." Faith winced as the ambulance shuddered at the impact of the driver's-side door closing, even though the EMT had shut it softly. "Any word on the girl's condition?" she asked. "She's still in surgery. Do you have any other injuries that you wouldn't let the EMT see?" Novak's voice had subtly shifted. Now low and deep, it had a hypnotic quality that made her feel calm at first--and then annoyed at the realization that she'd been affected so easily by a vocal technique that she herself had used on countless clients over the years. Someone had obviously trained him well. It made her wonder how he sounded when he was being himself. "My head's a little sore," she said. "My hands and knees are scraped. I'm really quite fine." "You don't look really quite fine," Novak said in that same soothing voice. "You look a little green around the gills." "I've had better days," she allowed. I've also had much worse. "But I haven't thrown up on your shoes. Not yet, anyway. But I'd hurry if I were you. Those shoes look new." He chuckled, surprising her. "Not new. Just well cared for. Can you look at me?" "Why?" "Because I like to see the eyes of the witnesses I interview. Please." She remembered the deputy's flinch and wondered if Novak had a scar she hadn't been close enough to see. She knew how it felt when people stared, then looked away. That had happened often when the scar on her throat had been raw. "It would help if you weren't quite so tall," she said. "Looking that far up makes me sick." She heard the muted squeak of soft leather. "Better?" he asked. Opening her eyes, she found that not only had he leaned down, knees slightly bent, but he'd also leaned in, taking up even more of her personal space. Or maybe it was simply that he was a big man. His thighs were the size of tree trunks and looked just as solid. His shoulders completely blocked her view. "Ms. Corcoran?" he prompted. Dr. Corcoran, she wanted to correct, but did not, focusing instead on her rapidly escalating pulse. Don't flinch if he has a scar. She lifted her chin. "Please back up. You're--" Her mouth stopped working as her gaze focused on his eyes. Oh my God . His eyes. They were . . . mesmerizing. She'd met individuals with different-color eyes. She'd met individuals with one bicolored iris. But she'd never seen eyes like Special Agent Novak's. Deep brown and bright blue they were, but both of them. Each iris half-brown, half-blue, the vivid colors pixelating, then blending where they met in the middle. "Oh," she breathed, unable to break her stare. "How . . . beautiful." He went perfectly still, and for a long moment they stared at each other. He broke away first, straightening to his full height. From where she sat, she found herself staring at his midsection, his eyes no longer in her view. For a moment she felt strangely bereft. Until she realized what she'd said. Out loud, even . Her face flaming, she cleared her throat. "I'm sorry. I was just . . . I mean, I wasn't . . ." She sighed. "What would you like to know?" "Tell me what happened." His voice had gone flat. Expressionless. Excerpted from Closer Than You Think by Karen Rose All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.