Race Against Time
CAUGHT IN A KILLER’S CROSSHAIRS Were it not for her cop neighbor, widowed mother Madison Jacobs would be dead. Thankfully, Detective Brody Philips interrupts an attempt on her life in the nick of time. But the would-be killer hasn’t given up, and each tick of the clock brings the madman closer to finishing what he started.Brady vows to catch the serial killer plaguing the sleepy Virginia town…especially when he realizes the danger has followed him from the big city. With everyone around him at risk, it’ll take everything Brody’s got to do his duty and keep keep Madison and her son safe.
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CAUGHT IN A KILLERâS CROSSHAIRS
Were it not for her cop neighbor, widowed mother Madison Jacobs would be dead. Thankfully, Detective Brody Philips interrupts an attempt on her life in the nick of time. But the would-be killer hasnât given up, and each tick of the clock brings the madman closer to finishing what he started. Brady vows to catch the serial killer plaguing the sleepy Virginia townâ¦especially when he realizes the danger has followed him from the big city. With everyone around him at risk, itâll take everything Brodyâs got to do his duty and keep Madison and her son safe.
âIâm going to keep an eye on you, Madison. Make sure you stay safe,â Brody said. âItâs going to be okay.â
âI wish I felt so certain.â What about Lincoln? What if the man who attacked her came back and tried to harm her son? She couldnât bear the thought of it. Perhaps she should simply take Lincoln and go somewhere, anywhere.
âWeâll catch him, Madison.â Brodyâs voice sounded confident, reassuring. It was as if he could read her mind.
Just then, they pulled up to her house.
With each step she took toward her back door, nausea rumbled in her gut. Could she face this nightmare again? She swallowed as they stepped inside, trying to stay strong. Brody led her to the foyer.
âIâve got you,â he said, a reassuring hand on her arm.
CHRISTY BARRITT
loves stories and has been writing them for as long as she can remember. She gets her best ideas when sheâs supposed to be paying attention to something elseâlike in a workshop or while driving down the road.
The second book in her Squeaky Clean Mystery series, Suspicious Minds, won the inspiration category of the 2009 Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Suspense and Mystery. Sheâs also the co-author of Changed: True Stories of Finding God in Christian Music.
When sheâs not working on books, Christy writes articles for various publications. Sheâs also a weekly feature writer for the Virginian-Pilot newspaper, the worship leader at her church and a frequent speaker at various writers groups, womenâs luncheons and church events.
Sheâs married to Scott, a teacher and funny man extraordinaire. They have two sons, two dogs and a houseplant named Martha.
To learn more about her, visit her website, www.christybarritt.com.
My God is my rock, in whom I take refuge,
my shield and the horn of my salvation. He is my stronghold, my refuge and my saviorâfrom violent men You save me.
â2 Samuel 22:3
This book is dedicated to my mom, Louise Mohorn, a beautiful soul inside and out,
and someone I aspire to be like. I love you!
Contents
ONE
As soon as Madison Jacobs stepped into her house, the sound of ticking crept from an unknown crevice and reverberated in her ears. She froze at the front door, car keys still in hand, and listened. She usually came home to the solitude of a quiet house.
So what in the world was that noise?
Sheâd only been gone twenty minutesâlong enough to drop her son off at preschool and return home. Each tick tightened her nerves, winding them with more tension than a spring.
Lincoln must have left the timer going on one of his toys, she realized. Didnât that windup dragon make a similar sound? Yes, it did.
Madison let out an airy laugh, shook her head and closed the door, shutting out the bright rays of sunshine from outside. Of course, one of her sonâs toys was to blame. What else did she think it was? A bomb? She chastised herself again for her out-of-control imagination.
Out of habit she clicked the lock on the front door into place. Being a single mom for the past three years, she tried to err on the side of caution. After depositing her purse and keys on the marble-topped table in the foyer, she glanced at her watch and saw she only had one hour before she had to meet with her next client. She had to get showered and changed out of her yoga pants and T-shirtâand fast.
As she started down the hallway toward the bedroom in her ranch house, the ticking intensified. She paused at the bathroom door. Was that where the sound came from? Reaching inside the bathroom, she flipped on the lights. Her blue-and-yellow lighthouse-themed room came into view. On the bathroom counter between the faucet and the soap dispenser sat her sonâs old-fashioned egg timer. Had Lincoln actually taken her advice to brush his teeth for two minutes this morning? Perhaps heâd accidentally set the clock for longer.
She picked the plastic device up, noting it was set to chime in twenty minutes, and twisted the handle until the bells jangled. Her nerves seemed to stretch tighter at the sound.
But if her son had set the timer before theyâd left this morning, why hadnât she heard anything? She remembered their rushed departure. The TV had been on, Lincoln had been singing his favorite preschool song, and she had been frantically trying to urge him out the door.
