She remembered every excruciating moment of the days and nights sheâd lain tied in that dark cabin. The burn of the ropes against her wrists. The incredible thirst. The emptiness like a chasm inside her. She couldnât push it out of her mind. Sheâd been worried about Reed then, too. The helplessness was the worst. It ate into her soul until there was nothing left but bitter darkness. She couldnât sit here in the dark waiting for Reed. Or wait for the killer to find her.
Oh, God, please, donât let this happen again.
Just then, Reed stepped around the corner and rushed to her side, holding her on her feet. Her body dissolved, as if the muscle holding her upright had turned to quivering goo. The way she was shaking she didnât know if her legs would carry her.
Worse, she didnât want to leave the protection of Reedâs armsâ¦.
To my father, Gil Voss, who is nothing like Dryden Kane.
Ever since she was a little girl making her own books out of construction paper, Ann Voss Peterson wanted to write. So when it came time to choose a major at the University of Wisconsin, creative writing was her only choice. Of course, writing wasnât a practical choiceâone needs to earn a living. So Ann found jobs ranging from proofreading legal transcripts, to working with quarter horses, to washing windows. But no matter how she earned her paycheck, she continued to write the type of stories that captured her heart and imaginationâromantic suspense. Ann lives near Madison, Wisconsin, with her husband, her two young sons, her Border collie and her quarter horse mare. Ann loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at [email protected] or visit her Web site at annvosspeterson.com.
Diana GaleâA victim most of her life, Diana has vowed to stand on her own two feet. Even if that means turning her back on the only man sheâs ever loved and taking on her fatherâserial killer Dryden Kane.
Detective Reed McCaskeyâOverprotective to a fault, Reed takes his vow to protect and serve seriously. Especially when it concerns Diana Gale. But when she takes on Dryden Kane, even he might not be able to protect the woman he loved and lost.
Dryden KaneâThereâs a copycat killer loose on the streets, and notorious serial killer Dryden Kane is pulling the strings.
Detective Nikki ValducciâThis cop might look like a cover girl, but sheâs tough as nails. Will she be tough enough to help McCaskey get his man?
Detective Stan PerrethâThe disagreeable detective is good at his job. But what are his priorities? Stopping a serial killer? Or stopping Reed McCaskey?
Louis IngersollâDianaâs neighbor wants only whatâs best for her. And in his opinion, that would be him.
Meredith UngerâDryden Kaneâs attorney will go to great lengths to give her clients the representation they deserve. But does that include breaking the law?
Cordell âCordâ TurnerâThe ex-convict has a chip on his shoulder as complex as his tattoos. And as Dryden Kaneâs son, is he also a chip off the old block?
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Laundromats made good hunting grounds.
Alone, for now, he sat back to wait, listening to the empty rumble of the drier and the tinny radio tuned to the blues. He liked a little blues on a hunting trip. The music was gritty and real and full of pain. Like the sweetness of a dying scream.
Heâd never guessed how invincible killing could make him feel. The godlike power of holding life and death in his hands. It had taken a mentor to teach him. To guide him. Until heâd become brave. Until heâd become strong. Stronger than heâd ever imagined he could be.
But it had been too long since heâd tasted that strength. Eight months of fantasizing. Eight months of lying low, waiting for warm weather, waiting for the police and press to grow bored, waiting for word.
Now he was hungry to feel his power.
The glass door swung open and for a moment the rush of traffic outside eclipsed the low thunk of the bass guitar. The door closed, and a blonde shouldering a duffel trudged past the vending machines and between rows of whirring washers.
He took a deep breath. The air smelled sweet with detergent and fabric softener. Not as sweet as her hair would smell. Not as sweet as the scent of her blood. Heâd never understand why women who would never walk down a dark street alone would brave a night like this to wash their laundry. Clean clothes were damn important to some people. He smiled as she came closer.
He could see she was older than the three heâd done last fall. Delicate crowâs-feet touched the outer corners of her eyes. Her mouth held the pinched look of a woman who had to work hard to make ends meet. She was probably in her mid-thirties, maybe close to forty. He didnât like older women. They were smarter, not as easily misled.