THE PERFECT CRIME

No one but reporter Jack Brooks believes three seemingly unrelated deaths are the work of a clever serial killer. Not even the woman he’s convinced is the next victim—beautiful wedding planner Meg Duff. Even when he tracks her to her remote Canadian island home in time to save her life, Meg can’t—and won’t—help the maverick reporter. But time is running out, and as a record storm threatens the island, a killer grows desperate. Only Jack can stop him from getting away with murder. And he must, because now not only is Meg’s life at stake, but so is his heart….

The claustrophobic space gave her the creeps.

Meg walked slowly through the bowels of the ferry’s empty parking deck, as dark and silent as catacombs. The sight of it tightened the knot of nerves in her chest. And reminded her just how terrified she’d been above deck not a couple of hours ago.

She got in her car, eager to meet Jack and head over to the police station. As jittery as she was, she locked the doors.

She refused to believe that the attack on the ferry had been anything other than random—brutal, terrifying, life-shaking—and yet not the slightest bit personal. She wouldn’t let a killer steal away the peace in her soul.

As she eased the car down the ramp, something rustled behind her seat. Shopping bags fell over, spilling their contents. A dark shadow rose to fill the rearview mirror.

She looked up, and into the deep, menacing hood of an orange raincoat. Could it be? The Raincoat Killer was real…and here for her.…

MAGGIE K. BLACK

is an award-winning journalist and romantic suspense author. Her writing career has taken her around the globe, and into the lives of countless grassroots heroes and heroines, who are faithfully changing lives and serving others in their own communities. Whether flying in an ultralight over the plains of Africa, riding a camel past the pyramids in Egypt or walking along the Seine in Paris, Maggie finds herself drawn time and again to the everyday people behind her adventures, and seeing how we are all touched by the same issues of faith, family and community.

She has lived in the American South and Midwest, as well as overseas. She currently makes her home in Canada, where her husband teaches history at a local high school. After walking her two beautiful princesses to school, she either curls up on the couch to write, with the help of her small but mighty dog, or heads to her local coffee shop. She is thankful to her readers for allowing her to turn the adventures, and people who have inspired her, into fresh stories that made her pulse race and her heart soar.

Deadline

Maggie K. Black

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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There is no fear in love.

But perfect love drives out fear.

—1 John 4:18

With thanks to Keren.

My life is less stormy because of you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

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

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

DEAR READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

EXTRACT

Copyright

ONE

Deep gray fog rolled over the surface of Lake Huron, slipping through the open door to the ferry deck, and blocking out the afternoon sun. Meg Duff braced her palm against the doorframe and took in a long, cleansing breath. The smell of impending rain filled the air. She stood with her feet just inside the threshold of the crowded passenger lounge. Pale blue eyes stared out into the void. Wind brushed against her face, tossing her dark, chin-length hair. A shiver ran down her spine. The deck was deserted.

Just two more days until the wedding, Meg. All you’ve got to do is hold it together until then. Somewhere on this boat were a young bride and groom headed to Manitoulin Island for their dream wedding. The last thing they needed was to find out their wedding planner was having a panic attack.

She glanced at her cell phone. Twenty minutes until they reached shore. Her palm pressed against her chest. She focused on its rhythmic rise and fall. As the only professional wedding planner on a beautiful and remote island, she’d organized more than her fair share of weddings for big-city couples, who’d parachute into her community just long enough say “I do” and cut the cake. But this wedding had quickly become the most expensive and demanding of her career. The young couple were college students in Toronto, who’d agreed to get married on the island to butter up the bride’s elderly grandmother who lived there, and who was paying the bills. The wedding had been organized solely with the high-strung bride, and almost entirely by phone and email. Within five minutes of joining the wedding party at the mainland ferry docks, the bride had launched into a string of ridiculously detailed questions about decorations at the reception venue, while the imposing best man had made an unwanted romantic advance that left Meg feeling both flustered and insulted.

But that was nothing compared to the panic that had coursed through her when she looked into the young groom’s eyes and was struck by flashbacks of a tragic night so many years ago.

Why hadn’t she realized she was actually planning a wedding for the cousin of someone whose senseless death still haunted her nightmares?

It had been fourteen years since a truck had collided with two teenaged boys on snowmobiles—the groom’s cousin Chris, and Meg’s younger brother, Benji. She’d been seventeen. But the young groom, Wesley, had only been seven at the time. His family had moved off the island shortly afterward. She hadn’t even recognized his name until she’d seen his face. He’d given no sign that he recognized hers. Did the groom and his bride even know how that night also tore her life in two? Should she tell them? Surely if she didn’t, someone else on the island would. But how could she damper the happiest day of their lives by bringing up memories like that?

A bag knocked hard against her back, almost forcing her out into the fog. She glanced over her shoulder, but the culprit had already disappeared into the crowd without so much as an apology. She turned back to the gloom, shoved her phone into her pocket and wrapped her scarf twice around her neck. Crocheted strands tumbled down her slender frame, all the way to her knees, but did little to protect against the damp. Silhouettes of the shoreline swirled into focus for a moment, before being swallowed back up by the never-ending gray. She should really close the door.

“Excuse me, miss?”

There was a man behind her. Tall, with the broad shoulders and the tapered build of an athlete. His brown leather jacket was faded and worn, while his tousled, sun-kissed hair would’ve made her presume he was just another thrill-seeking tourist if it wasn’t for how very intently his dark eyes were now searching her face.

A flush of heat rose to her cheeks. “Can I help you?”

His mouth turned up ever so slightly into a casual, laid-back grin. But the intensity of his gaze never faltered for a second. The warmth spread down her neck and through her shoulders. It looked like the smile of a man who’d seen more than his fair share of danger.

It was the kind of smile that made her feel anything but safe.

“My name is Jack Brooks. I’m a reporter with Torchlight News, Toronto.” Too late she saw the voice recorder in his outstretched hand. He raised the microphone toward her. “Would it be all right if I asked you a few questions?”

Her blood ran cold. A reporter? Was the press actually going to cover this wedding? As if it wasn’t bad enough she’d had to watch those scandal-seeking newshounds trampling all over her lawn as a teenager, while her brother lay in the hospital fighting for his life. They’d kept coming back, every few years, to revisit the story. Now it seemed she had to face them again, just because she hadn’t been quick enough to realize a connection between that tragedy and this groom. Was the shadow of that night going to follow her for the rest of her life?

All this and it was still only Thursday. How was she ever going to make it through this weekend without falling apart?

Jack Brooks could waste all the handsome grins on her that he wanted. She knew the look of a man who was after something. He wasn’t going to get it from her. “No. I’m sorry. I don’t talk to reporters.”

Then before he could say anything more, she pushed through the open doorway and out into the cool, damp air, barely even noticing something clatter behind her. He didn’t follow. A thick blanket of gray enveloped her body. She strode down the deck. The babble of voices faded completely. Then the light of the lounge disappeared in the fog.

There was muffled sound to her right. A rustling, like footsteps shuffling. Hang on, had someone else actually wandered out on deck in this weather?

Meg turned. “Hello?” No one there. Silence filled her ears, except for the thrum of the engines beneath her. A jittery feeling brushed along the back of her neck. She slid her hands onto the railing.

Enough of this. She was stressed. Rattled. Nothing more. She just needed to pray. A deep breath filled her lungs. She let it out slowly. Her eyes closed as the words of her favorite hymn moved through her mind like a prayer, “Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say, It is well. It is well with my—”

The full-body blow was hard and without warning as her attacker pushed her into the railing. The air was knocked from her chest. A scream barely escaped from her lungs before a leather-gloved hand clamped over her mouth, forcing her silent.

Ice-cold panic gripped her chest so tightly her body felt paralyzed. The attacker’s other hand grabbed the scarf at her throat and twisted it like a noose. Slowly he squeezed the air from her windpipe. The desperate need to breathe burst through her body. She shoved back against her attacker with every ounce of energy she had. Her head thrashed. The gloved hand slipped just enough to let her glance back. But all she could see was the orange hood of a raincoat.

He shoved her forward again, pinning her body against the railing, her small frame no match for his strength. Then he let go of her mouth. She opened her lips, but could barely make a sound as she gasped to fill her lungs with air. He grabbed hold of the bottom ends of her scarf and twisted them around her wrists, tying her hands together. Then he lifted her off the deck. She kicked out hard, her feet desperately searching for grip while she wrenched her bound hands, trying to get them free. But even as she struggled, he forced her over the railing toward the unforgiving water below.

* * *

Jack leaned back against the door and pulled a page of crime pictures from his jacket. His eyes scanned the images: a ransacked college dorm room, a garbage-strewn alley and a trashed apartment. Places where three different young women were killed. The only connection anyone had been able to find was security camera footage and witness statements that described someone in an orange raincoat at each of the crime scenes.

Oh, Lord, why am I the only one who believes this is the work of a serial killer? He was risking his entire professional career on a hunch. Monday afternoon, he’d finally talked his editor at Torchlight News into running the article he’d cobbled together laying out his investigation thus far on the “Raincoat Killer.” The story ran on the front cover of Tuesday’s paper, and on Wednesday morning the chief of police himself had called a press conference to announce the murders were unrelated and that Jack’s article was nothing but the product of an amateur sleuth jumping to ridiculous conclusions. His editor had suggested Jack take the rest of the week off while the publisher figured out whether or not to fire him.

Jack had decided instead to chase one final lead all the way up to Manitoulin Island. Either he’d find the proof his story was solid or face the fact that when he walked back into the office it would be to kiss his job goodbye. Every well-honed instinct in his journalistic gut was convinced these three murders were somehow connected. Especially now that he’d looked across a ferry and locked eyes on her.

His eyes zeroed in on a picture of the final crime scene. There, amid the broken glass and chaos, two flyers lay on the floor, next to where a young woman had been stabbed. One was an island ferry schedule, with this afternoon circled. The other read Meg Duff, Island Weddings above the picture of a beautiful woman with troubled blue eyes. The very same woman who’d just disappeared off into the fog.

A heavyset man jostled past him, his coffee slopping over the rim of his cup and onto the page. Jack leapt back and tripped over something. A cell phone. Was it Meg’s? Had she dropped it in her hurry to get away from him? He slipped the phone and the wet pages into his bag. Well, she might not want to talk to him as a journalist, but he wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if he didn’t at least try to return her phone.

Jack shoved the door back open and walked outside. Wow. It’s like soup out here. He strode down the deck, choosing a direction at random.

A scream split the air. Female. Terrified. He started running. Then he saw them. A figure in a raincoat had wrestled Meg over the railing. Her hands were tied. Her feet kicked frantically. Adrenaline surged through Jack’s body, pushing his legs into a flat-out sprint.

Meg’s attacker threw her overboard.

TWO

Screams filled Jack’s ears as Meg’s body disappeared. The man in the raincoat turned. Was he face-to-face with the Raincoat Killer? The thought hit Jack like a punch to the gut. His eyes searched the hooded form for some clue to his identity. But he barely had seconds to look before the killer took off running.

Jack gritted his teeth. How long would it take him to find a member of the crew and tell him to sound the overboard alarm? Minutes. He’d learned that from covering too many drownings. Then even more precious minutes would pass as they stopped the ferry, lowered the lifeboat and went back to search the foggy water for the woman now fighting for her life. How long would it take them to find her? Could she even hold on that long? Was he willing to risk it?

No.

His bag hit the deck. Jack tossed off his leather jacket, grabbed a life ring from the railing and clutched it to his chest. Dear Lord, please give me the strength to save her. He leapt overboard. Air rushed past him. Choppy water hit Jack’s body like a tidal wave, knocking the ring from his hands and throwing his sense of direction into chaos. The ring’s towrope unraveled in the water around him. Identical walls of gray filled his vision on all sides. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up swimming in circles until both he and Meg drowned. “Hey! Hello! Shout if you can hear me!”

No answer but the rumble of the ferry departing in the distance. For a fraction of a second he closed his eyes and focused on the fading sound of the engine. Then he tied the end of the towrope to his belt and took off swimming in the opposite direction, dragging the ring behind him. “Hang on! I’m coming!”

Oh, Lord, please let her still be alive. Help me reach her in time.

“Help!” Her frightened voice pierced the gloom. “I’m—” The sound was swallowed up by the gurgle of water filling her throat.

“Hold on! I’m here!” Please, Lord, please, help her hold on. “I’m coming for you.” His long limbs tore through the water. The fog parted and he saw her, breaking through the surface, thrashing against her bonds. Her eyes met his. Terrified. Exhausted. Water swept over her head again. She disappeared under the surface.

He dove for her. His eyes peered blind through the cold, dark depths. He found her, churning the water as she kicked frantically toward the surface. Her foot made contact with his knee. His leg went numb. He gasped and nearly swallowed a mouthful of water. If she didn’t calm down enough to let him save her, neither of them would make it out alive.

His left arm slid around her waist. He pulled her against him. His right hand grabbed her bound wrists and slid them over his head. To his relief, her body fell still against his chest. Now he just had to be strong enough to swim for both of them.

His lungs burned with the urge to breathe. His heart pounded through his skull. The cold seeped through his clothes as his legs battled against the weight of his boots. But the rope tied to his waist kept him tethered to the life ring above. They burst through to the surface. He spluttered, then gasped for breath. She coughed hard; her body shuddered against his. Her head fell onto his shoulder, and he impulsively turned his face toward it, feeling her forehead brush against his chin. Her legs started treading water. Thank God. Just. Thank. You. God.

He pulled the life ring over. “I need you to let go of me so I can untie your hands. Okay?”

She nodded as shallow gasps slipped between her lips. Carefully he slid her arms off his neck, pushed the life ring between them, and helped her lean her weight on it. They floated there for a moment, panting for breath, resting on opposite sides of the ring, their hands linked over the center. Tendrils of dark hair framed her face. Blue eyes looked up into his. Fragile and brave.

Questions poured through his brain. Was this some sick coincidence, or had he actually just saved this woman from the very serial killer that the Toronto police said didn’t exist? Was there a personal connection between her and either the killer or the most recent victim, as he’d theorized from the crime photos? Did she even know about the murder of three young women, miles away in Toronto?

But even as the thoughts filled his mind, he could feel the hard-bitten journalist inside him battling against the unexpected desire to simply to reach up and cup her cheek in his hand, to comfort and reassure her.

Instead he reached for the twisted and torn fabric that still tied her wrists together. Judging by the state of it, she hadn’t been about to give in without a fight.

“Thank you. You saved my life.”

A grin of relief broke over his face. “No problem. I’m just thankful you were able to keep afloat long enough for me to reach you.”

“I don’t...” She shivered. “I don’t know what just happened...or who that was...or why he’d... One moment I was standing on the deck. The next...” Her voice trailed off as her bound hands rose back toward the bruises now forming in the curve of her neck.

A seemingly random attack. By a man in an orange raincoat. This one right before his very eyes. And here he was, floating in the water, miles away from any way to make notes or to contact the police and his editor.

“It’s okay. You’re safe now. I promise.” He gently pulled her hands back toward him.

She glanced toward the sound of the departing ferry. He could read the question in her eyes. But what about everyone else still on the boat? He wished he had an answer.

“My name is Meg Duff, by the way. But I’m guessing you already knew that.”

So she’d suspected earlier that he’d sought her out specifically and that his questions for her weren’t going to be just a random survey of public opinion. Again, questions about the Raincoat Killer filled his mind, but the last thing he wanted to do was frighten her any more than she already was. “You’re a wedding planner, right? I saw a flyer of yours back in Toronto.”

“I gave out hundreds at a bridal show there just a few months ago. I’m guessing you already know all about the wedding this weekend.”

He kept his face carefully blank. No, he didn’t know. Weddings, parties and frilly dresses weren’t the kinds of thing he’d ever covered. Not unless they were covered in blood and surrounded by crime tape.

“I’d gone to the mainland today to meet the bride for a dress fitting,” she went on. “Then the rest of the wedding party arrived from Toronto. I was on the boat to escort them all to the island. But then I decided to step away onto the deck for a while to find some peace. They’re a bit much.”

He gently worked his fingers in between the strings and her wrists.

“It stretched,” she added.

“What?”

“The fabric. Cotton does that.” She breathed in deeply. “I thank God it was yarn, not silk, or I’d be dead by now.”

Huh. She’d been attacked, nearly drowned, was now floating in a lake and yet she still had the ability to find something to be thankful for. He separated the loosest loop and yanked with all his might. It snapped. Gently he eased the fabric away from her wrists. His heart ached to see the deep red welts standing out on her pale skin. Then he unbound her neck. “Are you going to be okay to swim for shore?”

“Shouldn’t we wait for the ferry to find us?”

He shook his head. “It’s not coming back, unless someone else saw something and notified the captain. I didn’t time have to alert the crew. It was either find help or save you. Last summer, a college kid jumped off a ferry like this and it took them almost fifteen minutes to reach him with a lifeboat, and that was with fifty witnesses pointing their phones at him.” He’d covered the story. The kid had very nearly drowned. “Average ferry rescue time on a good day is twelve minutes. I saw that your hands were tied, and knew you’d need help faster than that.”

Was that more information than she’d needed? He was overexplaining. A telltale sign he was nervous. How many years had it been since that had happened? But something about sharing a life ring in the cold gray water with this beautiful, frightened creature was setting his nerves on edge, and it wasn’t only the hunch he’d just confronted a serial killer.

Keep your emotions out of it, Jack. You know you can’t afford to get emotionally connected to anyone you intend to interview. Now even more than ever.

“Do you think anyone from the wedding party will come looking for you?”

“Not until after they land. I told them I’d meet up with them when we docked on the island. Were you traveling with anyone?”

He shook his head. “I’m up here alone. So chances are no one even knows we’ve gone overboard.”

“Except...” Her voice faltered.

“Except the criminal who did this to you.”

A light rain began to fall, cooling the air and lightening the fog. “I’m ready to start swimming if you are,” she said. “I have a pretty good guess of where we are, and it shouldn’t take too long.”

She swam with one hand, keeping the other braced on the life ring. He did likewise.

“Do you cover a lot of weddings?”

“No. Never. I’m a crime reporter.”

She frowned. The same uncertainty he’d seen in her face, when she’d brushed him off before, filled her eyes. She’d probably run from him again if she had anywhere to go.

“I’m sorry if I seemed rude earlier,” she said, “I thought you wanted to interview me about the wedding I’m organizing this weekend. But now I’m realizing that probably wasn’t it.”

He nearly laughed. “Is the couple rich or famous?”

Another pause, filled with nothing but the sound of their bodies cutting through the water.

“Not really,” she said. “Just young and immature. The bride’s grandmother owns a big chunk of the island, so the wedding is pretty lavish. The bride lost her parents when she was young and was raised by her grandmother. The bride and groom have both seen far more than their fair share of tragedy actually, which might be why they decided to get married so young. The groom’s parents died just last year, and his cousin was in a bad snowmobile accident years ago.” She glanced at him sideways. “In my experience, reporters like poking around in human misery.”

There was a bitter edge to her voice, as though she’d been hurt before and was still cradling the wound.

“Trust me, I’m not that kind of reporter.”

“So, what did you want to ask me about?”

The distant shoreline appeared and disappeared in a haze of rolling fog. The rain grew heavier. Lord, help me find the right words. It was hard to imagine a worse time for this conversation. But he also had no idea what was going to happen when they got to shore, and she deserved to hear it from him first, before they reported the attack to the police. He took a deep breath. “Have you ever heard of Krista Hooper, Eliza Penn or Shelly Day?”

“No. Are they brides?”

“They’re murder victims.”

Her face paled. “I don’t understand.”

He kept his voice steady, focusing on the facts, not theories. “All three died recently in Toronto. In each case, there is evidence suggesting that the killer was wearing an orange raincoat.”

She stopped swimming so abruptly he accidentally yanked the life ring from her hands. “You’re saying there’s a serial killer on the loose? Is he the one who tried to drown me?”

He pushed the floatation device toward her. She didn’t grab it. “I’m saying I honestly don’t know. A couple of days ago, my paper, Torchlight News, ran a full, front-page article by me that argued we were dealing with a serial killer. I thought it was solid. But the chief of police held a press conference yesterday and announced investigators are still confident they’re just three unrelated attacks.” Not to mention the chief had then denounced his article as fear mongering, almost destroying Jack’s career and reputation in a fatal blow.

Meg treaded water. “But three young women were murdered?”

“In a city of millions.” He could feel a bite slipping into his voice. Oh yes, he knew the arguments against his story far too well. “Three young women dying within the space of a three months is rare, but not unheard of.”

“But what about the orange raincoat?”

“It could have come from any hardware store. It could just be a coincidence that there happened to be a bystander wearing a similar raincoat in each case. Even if the killer really was wearing a raincoat, some are suggesting whoever killed Eliza Penn and Shelly Day might have seen my first news story on Krista Hooper, so he grabbed his own coat as a copycat disguise.” Yeah, as if it wasn’t bad enough he’d been called a shoddy journalist, he was actually being accused of giving criminals ideas on how to get away with murder. “Also, all three victims died in different ways. The first was hit over the head during a burglary gone bad. The second was struck by a car. And the third was stabbed. The final victim, Shelly, had a flyer for your wedding services in her apartment, and island ferry schedules turned up somewhere near each crime scene. So I’d just wanted to ask if you knew them.”

“Not as far as I know.” Meg reached for the life ring. “I’ll look up their names when I get home. One might have emailed about booking a wedding. But I give out thousands of flyers each year. You could have just called me.”

Right, except his editor wanted him out of the office until the storm died down, and every instinct in his gut was convinced the fact that the last island ferry schedule had this afternoon clearly circled was no coincidence.

“What do you call him?” she asked. “This killer?”

“In my article, I called him the Raincoat Killer. But again, the police will probably tell you something very different.”

“What if you’re right, though?” Her lips quivered. “What if we just left a serial killer on a ferry full of people? What if someone else was killed because you saved my life?”

He took her hands. “Listen. Don’t do this. I’ve met way too many victims who drive themselves crazy thinking that somehow their survival came at the expense of someone else’s. I was praying pretty hard when that monster threw you overboard—”

“Me too.”

He smiled. “Then trust God that this was how our prayers got answered, and don’t try to do the guesswork yourself.” That’s what he had to believe. Otherwise the lack of justice in the world would have destroyed him long ago.

They swam in silence for a few moments. He glanced at her face. Okay, he had to tell her something. Just enough to let her sleep at night. “If this even is the work of a serial killer, you should know that most serial killers have a type. In this case, he only goes after young, very beautiful, female targets and only when they are completely alone and isolated. He’s been very smart when it comes to avoiding any potential witnesses.”

Considering how close he himself had come to not venturing out on deck, the killer had almost pulled off the perfect crime yet again. Jack was stunned by the strength and determination it must have taken Meg to fight for her life long enough for him to reach her.

“Now,” he said, “there are over six hundred people on that ferry right now. All of whom are probably crammed into the interior cabins like sardines waiting for the ferry to dock any minute now. So, even if I am right, the chance of him finding another attractive, solitary, female victim in that crowd, and then killing her without anyone seeing anything, is so close to unlikely that it’s borderline impossible. And why would he be looking for anyone else? If he came on the ferry to commit a murder, then he probably thinks he succeeded. For all he knows, we’re both dead.”

It was likely the killer had slipped his disguise back into his bag and was now mingling with an unsuspecting public. Was the killer now standing, sullen in a corner, watching the crowd? Lurking in a hallway? Blending in with the crew? Or was he still on deck, staring back toward where he’d just thrown Meg’s bound and helpless body?

It didn’t matter what the chief of police, Jack’s boss or the naysayers believed. Everything in his gut told him the gentle fingers now brushing against his had just fought back against a ruthless, relentless serial killer.

If only he’d been wrong.

THREE

Meg’s bare feet brushed against a sheet of rock. Slippery but comforting nonetheless. She stumbled up shore, half walking and half climbing, until rock gave way to dirt. Thank You, God. When her body had first hit the water, she thought she’d never feel solid ground again. Nausea swept over her at the memory of the attacker’s hand around her throat. Her head swung down between her knees. Jack’s fingers brushed against the inside of her arm, pressing lightly against her skin. “You okay?”

She stared down at long legs, ending in sturdy brown boots with double-knotted laces. No wonder he hadn’t kicked them off. She didn’t even know when in the struggle she’d lost her shoes. His hand reached for hers. A strong hand, without any sign of a wedding band. She let him help her up onto the shore. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

She turned toward him, coming face-to-face with the wet black T-shirt stretched tightly across his chest. His dark, unflinching eyes seemed to stare right into hers as if she were a mystery he was intent on solving. There was something about him that made her feel both small and protected at the same time. It was unnerving.

And for some reason she was still holding his hand. “Thank you. Again. For everything.” She let go and started walking quickly up the bank toward the harbor, hoping he wouldn’t notice the flush that had risen to her cheeks.

The rain had stopped and the fog had cleared, but a general damp still hung in the air. They’d drifted into the woods not far from where the ferry docked. Yet another reason to be thankful.

Her keys were still in her pocket and thankfully she’d left her purse locked safely in her car. “We have to contact the police. But I think I lost my phone in the lake.”

“Your phone’s in my bag on the boat. Sorry, I forgot to mention it. You’d dropped it so I picked it up. But I left all my stuff on the deck when I jumped in after you.”

“You didn’t bring your car on the ferry?”

“I don’t have a car and I left my motorcycle back in Toronto because I heard you were expecting storms up here all weekend.”

Motorcycle? It was all she could do not to imagine his dark eyes peering through a helmet visor. “Then how were you planning on getting around the island?”

“Taxis. Transit.” He shrugged. “It was a very spontaneous trip. But I’m good at finding my way around, and I don’t tend to plan things too tightly. Spontaneous works pretty well for me.”

Well, that made one of them. Typical city dweller. With a permanent population of just a few thousand, Manitoulin Island was actually one of the few places left where hitchhiking was still many people’s transit of choice. But good luck thumbing a ride if you were a stranger from Toronto. A very tall, very attractive stranger at that.

Stop right there, Meg. Before you get all swoony over him, keep in mind that he’s also the kind of reckless man who rides a motorcycle and leaps off moving ferries. Not to mention his life’s work is writing about criminals. He’s absolutely perfect for that one moment when your life’s in mind-numbing danger. But not the kind of man you’d count on to be there the morning after. Let alone the kind that a sensible woman could consider building a life with.

No, a man like that might get her pulse racing. But she already had one man in her life whose risk-taking and adventurous spirit left her pacing the floors at night wondering if he was going to come home safely—her brother, Benji. The last thing she needed was another one.

“So, I’m guessing you’re heading back to the mainland tomorrow? The island is hardly a hotbed of criminal activity.”

He shrugged. “My boss doesn’t expect me back until Monday. So I’ll probably try to find a hotel room somewhere, then chase a few hunches before I head back home. Maybe spend some time boating or fishing too.”

Well, if he’d come all this way to find a connection between the island and a serial killer, he could expect to go home empty-handed. The island rumor mill was so well oiled it was impossible to so much as ding a mailbox without the whole island knowing. It was hard to believe someone could be hiding a big, dark secret on Manitoulin Island. And she still wasn’t about to let him interview her for the newspaper, not even about her ferry attack, even if he had just saved her life. If what had happened to her family after her brother’s accident had taught her anything, it was that small-town gossip could be insidious, unfair and so packed full of lies that even the most innocent person didn’t have a shovel big enough to dig his way out from under it.

She didn’t even want to guess what would happen if prospective brides searched her name online and discovered she was linked with something as gruesome as an investigation into a potential serial killer. Obviously she’d cooperate with the police and do whatever she could to help make sure her attacker was brought to justice. But she could also count on the police—especially the island cops—not to release her name to the public. She could hardly say the same for the press.

Her attacker might not have taken her life, but the resulting story could still kill her business.

“Well, good luck finding a hotel room on such short notice. My brother has a pretty decent sport’s shop, though, if you want to rent a boat. It’s on the other side of the island. Something tells me the two of you are cut from the same cloth.” The kind that came with far too many warning labels.

He grinned, then ran a hand ran through his tousled wet hair.

Oh Lord, why are the good-looking ones always the most dangerous?

She started picking her way along the shoreline. “Now, come on. Civilization, such as it is, is this way.”

He picked up the life ring and slung it over one shoulder. “Would you like my boots?”

“No, thanks. They’re way too big for me and there’s no point us both getting sore feet. Besides, my little brother and I grew up here. We practically spent our childhood running around barefoot.” At least he hadn’t offered to carry her. She wasn’t sure she could handle the embarrassment, or the rush it would bring to her already exhausted chest.

“The good news is that we’re not that far from town,” she went on. “We’ll pick up my car at the ferry and then drive to the police station in the middle of the island. It’s about half an hour away. I’ll need to check in with the wedding party too. But under the circumstances, a quick phone call to the bride will just have to do, until we’ve talked to the police. I wish we’d been able to let the police know before everyone disembarked.” The serial killer had probably just walked off the boat into the general population.

Jack frowned. “Why would we have to drive halfway across the island to get to a police station?”

“The closest town doesn’t have a police station. You’re in Northern Ontario now. Most towns up here are barely more than a few stores and handful of streets.” She slid over a fallen tree. “But there’s a very popular diner just on the edge of town. There’s a good chance we’ll find a cop in there. We’ll try that first. Even if there isn’t a cop there, we can at least call the station and ask if they want us to come in or if they’ll send someone to us.”

Although the last thing she was going do was incite island-wide panic by walking into the diner and announcing a possible serial killer had just arrived on the ferry. The gossip mill would be abuzz before she’d even manage to get creamer in her coffee. No, there was a way to handle things in a place like this. Go to the police. Have a quiet word. Trust them to handle it. Jack had said the Raincoat Killer liked his victims isolated. Well, this whole island was full of isolated places. But it was also full of people who understood hunters.

“What can you tell me about the victims?” she asked. “Were any of them connected to the island?”

“Not that I know of. Kristy Hooper was studying musical theater and the performing arts. The killer appeared to have broken into her dorm room through the fire escape, possibly looking to rob her. The police think she came home and interrupted him, so he hit her over the head with a lamp. Two different witnesses saw someone in a raincoat on the fire escape that night.

“About a month later, a florist, Eliza Penn, was run over in a back alley leaving work. The car was stolen. Security footage showed the killer wore gloves and a raincoat.

“Then just two weeks ago, another student, Shelly Day, was stabbed. Her landlord found her. I went on a walk-through of the crime scene. It was pretty violent. This one had the clearest security footage too. The killer actually walked right into the lobby of her apartment building, in a raincoat, waited until someone was leaving and grabbed the door to let himself in. Of course, there’s no footage of the actual murder, but the timing matches up with the time of death, and everyone else shown entering the building has been accounted for. Someone let a potential serial killer into their building and didn’t even notice.

“That’s when I stormed into the police station and urged my contacts it was time to go public, and warn people this killer was out there. They said the evidence was circumstantial and they didn’t want to create a panic. So I went to my editor, Vince, and talked him into running the story. I thought I was saving lives.”

His words were flat, matter-of-fact, like a newsman reading off a press release. Was there something more to this than he was telling her? She caught a depth of emotion in the recesses of his eyes. Sadness. Frustration. Along with the unspoken question How are you connected to all this?

She wished she knew.

The trees gave way to an unpaved road. A dilapidated convenience store came into view. Its windows were covered in posters for unsavory movies and advertisements for pornography, live bait and lottery tickets. Two teenaged boys sat on the front step, a mass of badly done body piercings and haphazard tattoos, passing a bottle in a brown paper bag back and forth. Kenny and Stuart Smythe. Kenny was eighteen and had been expelled from the island’s only high school for fighting and selling drugs. His brother, Stuart, was three years younger and rapidly heading in the same direction. A lot of people were looking forward to the day the young men hopped a bus off the island to find trouble in a big city, somewhere else and far away.

She wasn’t. As long as they were here, in the fishbowl of a small community, there was a chance someone would get through to them. At least, that’s what she prayed.

Meg smiled politely at the boys and kept walking.

Jack touched her elbow. “Shouldn’t we use their phone?”

She shook her head. “Trust me, we’re better off heading to the diner.”

“Hey, Meg!” Kenny hollered behind her. “You look like dirt! You and your boyfriend fall off a boat?”

Right, Jack was still carrying the life ring. Stuart snickered. Meg kept walking.

“Hey, dude!” Kenny’s voice was slurred, either from alcohol or his infected lip piercing. “Who are you? Why are you covered with mud?” More laughter. When stupid kids were that drunk and high, they thought everything was funny. “You sure you want to be seen in public with a girl that messed up? You do know her little brother killed a guy?”

White-hot anger shot like an arrow up Meg’s spine. No, she was not going to give them the satisfaction of a response. They were just stupid, drunk, drugged-up teenagers who didn’t know what they were talking about and were just trying to get a reaction. Her fingers clenched into fists. Angry tears filled her eyes. No wonder she still felt trapped by the past. Kenny and Stuart had practically been babies when Benji nearly died in that accident, fourteen years ago, and yet here they were, catcalling her about the terrifying moment that had filled her nightmares ever since.

She kept walking. Jack didn’t.

“Come on. Trust me, it’s not worth it.”

Jack’s boots planted themselves firmly. “Gentlemen, I think you should apologize to Ms. Duff.”

Stuart glanced uncertainly at his older brother. Kenny laughed. “Oh yeah? And what if we don’t?”

Jack’s stare grew harder. A grin that was anything but cheerful crossed his lips. Here was a man who’d probably seen more than his fair share of rude, drunk teenagers and wasn’t the slightest bit bothered by seeing two more—or, apparently, by the prospect of putting them in their place. For a second it seemed as if Kenny was actually going to try and stare him down. But Stuart scrambled backward up the steps and pulled his brother by the hood until he followed him.

“Whatever.” Kenny shrugged. “Sorry if you can’t take a joke. But just so you know, Meg, your brother just got arrested for stealing McCarthy’s dog.”

The door clanged shut behind them.

“Poor idiots.” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t listen to them, please. I just hope they get the help they need before they end up in serious trouble.” She kept walking. Jack matched her pace. “Thank you for standing up for me. I just didn’t have it in me for another fight. Their father owns the store and he’s just as bad, which is why I wasn’t about to use his phone. I guarantee that if you called the police on them for underage drinking, by the time the cops got here the boys would be gone and their dad would swear he hadn’t seen them all day.”

The dirt road turned to pavement beneath their feet. Small stores and businesses lined the street ahead of them. She couldn’t see the docks, but judging by how busy the street was up ahead, the ferry must have arrived on schedule. They passed a couple of people, strangers. She smiled, nodded, but didn’t make eye contact. Two muddy people walking down the street, one of them carrying a life ring, were sure to set tongues wagging. The smartest move right now was to get to the police and file a report. The diner was only steps away, just across the street. It was a main hangout for cops, but even if there were none there, she was sure the owner would let her use the phone discreetly. Not to mention probably pouring her some coffee.

“Meg. About your brother. Does he actually have a criminal record?”

She stopped so suddenly he nearly fell on top of her. Her eyes darted down the street in both directions. Was anyone close enough to overhear him? Not that she could tell. “You’re not seriously going to listen to those two, are you?”

He sighed, and for a moment she could almost see an imaginary microphone appearing in his hand. “Look, I promise I won’t include it in my article unless it’s relevant to the story. But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t at least research the possibility your brother could be connected to what just happened to you.”

No. This couldn’t wait. It had to be said, and it had to be said now.

“Come here.” She stepped backward into an empty lot, and behind a Dumpster. “We’d better get this out before we go into the diner. Because I’m not about to say this twice.” Her hands snapped to her hips. His eyebrow arched, but she didn’t dare let herself back down.

“Now, you listen here, Jack Brooks, crime reporter from Toronto. I’m still not entirely sure why you’re up here on the island, or what you’re trying to accomplish. But I do know one thing for certain—I have more than enough to deal with in my life right now. So if you start going around stirring up trouble for me and my brother, please believe me when I say I won’t have anything to do with you.”

FOUR

Fire flashed in her eyes. Jack felt his chest tighten, as the depth of her emotion tugged at something deep inside him. Compassion? Concern? For the first time in his career, the journalist found himself struggling to find the right words to fit his thoughts. All he knew was he could feel the urge to wrap his arms around her surging through his veins, making him want things he could never have. Like the feel of her head tucked safely into the curve of his throat as he promised her he’d never do anything that would ever hurt her.

Don’t let yourself get emotionally compromised, Jack. You still have a job to do and your future depends on your ability to stay objective. Even if you did just save this woman’s life.

His career was hanging by a thread; he’d just witnessed an attack he believed to be by the very serial killer whom he’d risked everything to expose. Plus, he’d promised the Lord, years ago, he’d never again let his feelings compromise the truth of a story. No matter how strong those feelings might be.

“My little brother is one of the kindest, most generous, most bighearted men you’ll ever meet.” She was practically hissing. “Benji loves God and other people more than anyone I know. He’d practically treat our home like a free hotel to every sports nut coming through the island if I let him.”

Oh, if he had a nickel for every woman he’d heard arguing that her brother, son or husband was really a good guy, while the man was being dragged off by the police for committing some violent crime for the umpteenth time.

He took a step back and crossed his arms. “I’ll ask you again, does your brother have a criminal record?”

“No!” Her voice rose. “Years and years ago, when Benji was only fifteen, he and a friend named Chris Quay were in a terrible snowmobile accident. Chris died. Benji just barely managed to pull through. Yeah, the police questioned him, because that’s what happens when a kid dies. The fact that they followed procedure doesn’t make it anything other than what it was—a horrible, tragic accident. But in the minds of some people, that was enough to taint his reputation for the rest of his life.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t! You’re from the big city, where nobody knows their neighbors’ business, let alone cares if the person filling up their gas tank ever got questioned by police for reckless driving.” She ran both hands through her hair and let it fall back around her heart-shaped face. “But it’s a whole other world on the island. Do you know how many people live in most of these towns? Hundreds. That’s all. And most of the families have been here for several generations. Reputations run deep, because families tend to know each other through work, or school, or because their grandparents built some important building.” She pressed her hand against her chest and took in a deep breath.

“So, you’re saying your brother wasn’t arrested for stealing a dog?”

Both her hands shot up in the air, as if she were fighting the urge to punch an imaginary enemy. “No! My brother’s a bit scatterbrained sometimes. But he’s never been arrested for anything. Including stealing.”

“But the young man just said—”

“I don’t know what Benji did today. I haven’t seen him since breakfast. But I guarantee he did not steal anyone’s dog. Especially not Bert McCarthy’s! The man’s in his eighties and probably made it through his whole life without once giving anyone the benefit of the doubt. Three years ago, we had this really heavy, unexpected snowfall in October. Benji was coming home from the shop and didn’t have his snow tires on. He got halfway down the hill by McCarthy’s, hit black ice, and spun out. Took out a huge chunk of the fence. Benji apologized several times. He felt absolutely terrible. He paid for all the repairs and then some. But still, McCarthy wanted the police to charge him. The police wouldn’t. So McCarthy took it through civil court. When the civil court determined Benji had more than paid what he owed, McCarthy took it up through the court of public opinion.”

Jack frowned. If she was being honest, then this would be on public record. All it would take was a quick background check. “Well, I’m sure your brother will tell me his side of the story when I interview him.”

She barked out a laugh. “No. I’m sorry, Jack. But you will never interview Benji. I already told you, I don’t want you writing about us. Not because I’m not grateful for the way you helped me, but because I’m not about to open myself up to gossip any further than I already have. I just want to put this whole thing behind me. Not have every nervous bride who searches my name online, for the rest of my life, wondering if she really wants someone linked to a murderer as her wedding planner.

“If you want to incite mass panic by announcing there’s now a serial killer on the island, I can’t stop you. But you’re just a reporter, not the police, and as far as I’m concerned, what I need right now is a cop.” She started past him, then stopped again. “And while you’re at it, please leave the life ring here. I appreciate that you didn’t want to leave it in the woods. But it’s bad enough that we’re walking through town wet and muddy, without having to look like the survivors of a shipwreck.”

* * *

Jack watched her walk away, across the street toward the striped awning of the diner. Frustration boiled in his veins. Who was she to doubt his professional ethics? Or to tell him what he could and could not write? He sighed. This whole mess was so much more complicated than she realized. The fact of the matter was he didn’t need her permission to write about what had happened on the ferry. He’d been there. He’d seen it. He’d come face-to-face with her would-be killer.

And he’d already risked his career to see this killer exposed.

No, her reluctance to see her name in print wasn’t actually going to stop him from writing this article. It didn’t matter, couldn’t matter, how beautiful her face was, or what kind of heartstrings it tugged in him when she looked up into his eyes. He had a responsibility to report the truth, and that’s what he was going to do. Besides, it wasn’t as if he needed quotes from her. Once they both filed their police reports, all he had to do was report whatever the police said, and then he had a story.

Dear Lord, please help her to understand it isn’t personal. I’m just a man with a job to do.

He checked the life ring for damage and found a crack as long as his palm. The ferry wouldn’t want it back. He tossed it into the Dumpster. Then he followed her across the street.

She was standing in front of the diner window. When he noticed that her shoulders were shaking, his heart dropped. Was she crying? Had he really upset her that deeply? He stepped closer, his heart lifting unexpectedly as the bubbly sound of laughter filled his ears. Her eyes were alight with joy at a joke whose source he couldn’t begin to guess.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “You know how Kenny said my brother was arrested for stealing a dog?” She tapped her fingers on the glass. “Look.”

Two men were sitting in a booth by the window. One was a middle-aged, uniformed cop with a bushy red mustache. The other was built like a lumberjack with a short brown beard and blue eyes that twinkled as he glanced up and saw Meg. Her brother? Probably. A Siberian-husky puppy sat on the seat beside him. The men took turns feeding it bits of donut.

“Come on. Come meet my brother.” She ran through the doorway, sending the bells chiming and crashing as she went, and Jack had to grab the door with his fingertips to keep it from closing on him.

Benji pushed the dog onto the floor, where it slid under the table. Meg dropped into the booth beside her brother.

“Sis!” Her brother’s voice boomed through the room. “You look half-drowned. What happened? Why didn’t I see you get off the ferry? And where on earth are your shoes?”

Meg glanced around the crowded diner. The light dimmed from her eyes, replaced by a look so serious the smiles instantly faded from the men’s faces. “How about you settle up the tab, and then I’ll fill you in somewhere quieter than this?” She turned to the cop and lowered her voice even further. “I have to file a police report. I’m afraid something happened on the ferry.”

The cop sat back. Benji nodded slowly, then raised his hand and waved at a gray-haired waitress, who in turn nodded and headed for the cash register. Benji wrapped one large arm around his tiny sister’s shoulders. A totally unconvincing smile slid across her face.

“Sorry, I should be doing introductions. Jack Brooks, I’d like you to meet Officer Stephen Burne and my brother, Benjamin Duff, the dastardly dog thief. Watch out, Benji—Jack’s a reporter from Torchlight News in Toronto.”

Was she actually making fun of him? No, she was probably just frightened and trying to break the tension. The least he could not was not make things harder for her.

“Nice to meet you.” Jack shook hands around the table.

Benji smiled widely. He pumped Jack’s hand. “I didn’t steal Harry. He just showed up at the sports store this morning and wanted to hang out. I hopped in the truck to come meet the ferry and see if you wanted to grab some food, Meg, and Harry jumped in for the ride. After I parked the car, Officer Burne came over and told me Bert McCarthy called the police accusing me of dognapping.”

Burne rolled his eyes. “Your brother’s agreed to return the dog to McCarthy tonight. Old coot is lucky we don’t charge him for letting his dog run around town without a collar on.”

The waitress raised a bill in their direction. The officer opened his wallet, but Benji waved him off. “No, this one’s on me. Harry ate most of the donuts anyway.”

The reporter watched as Benji went over to the counter and settled the bill. Normally Jack could get a lot out of watching someone do the simplest things, which was what made meeting Benji so perplexing. There was just something so easygoing, cheerful and transparent about the large, bearded man. Most people, including Officer Burne, tended to flinch a little when he said he was a reporter. But Benji had just grabbed his hand like a man who had nothing to hide.

Jack’s every instinct had flared when that drunken kid blurted out that Meg’s little brother might have a history with the law. But now? No, he couldn’t believe it was true. While he’d still do a criminal background check on Benji, just to be thorough, somehow he already knew it would come up empty.

“You remember my son, Malcolm?” Burne said. “He and my daughter-in-law, Alyssa, came in on the ferry. He’s a rookie cop in Toronto, but he’s thinking of moving up here to join his old man. Alyssa’s hoping to start her own wedding business. Might give you some competition.”

Benji returned to the table with a pair of bright pink flip-flops for Meg, which Jack could only assume he’d managed to borrow from someone while sorting the bill. The four of them headed out of the diner for the relative privacy of Burne’s police car. They’d barely gone five steps along the sidewalk before Meg bumped into a young couple, whom she introduced as the bride and groom she’d been escorting on the ferry.

Jack’s inner reporter sized them up. The young bride, Rachel, was stunning but in a rather generic way—blond, with a slender, athletic frame and a plastic beauty-pageant smile, which she’d plastered onto her face in an apparent attempt to hide the obvious irritation in her eyes. The groom, Wesley, was skinny and twitchy, with a mop of chestnut curls and small horn-rimmed glasses. Nervous because Meg introduced Jack as a reporter? Because Burne was a cop in uniform? Or simply because he was getting married in two days? It was impossible to tell. But Jack couldn’t help noticing how Rachel’s fingers clutched her fiancé’s arm, and that while everyone smiled politely, a thin tremor of tension ran through the small talk they exchanged. The bride was preoccupied with the reception details and seemed oblivious of Meg’s state. No wonder Meg had wanted to get away from them on the ferry. Just five seconds in the company of these two and already he was eager to go.

He also noticed that when the bride asked why Meg hadn’t met them at the docks, Meg didn’t say a word about being attacked, let alone thrown overboard. She’d only smiled professionally, apologized and promised yet again to call them later.

For some reason that bothered him. Could he really expect her to just spill the story out to this young couple, sharing her troubles and fears two days before what was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives? Even if she was willing to burden them like that, would it really be professionally appropriate? No. Not quite. Yet his whole career was based on knowing that keeping the wrong things to yourself only put other people at risk. At risk of what, though? Did he really think the Raincoat Killer was about to infiltrate their wedding? The bride was young and rather beautiful, after all.

He didn’t know. That was the problem. It wasn’t as if he’d expected the killer to attack Meg on the ferry either. How could anyone possibly defend herself against an unknown, unseen threat?

Ten minutes later, they were sitting in Burne’s police cruiser with the windows up. Not quite the private room Jack would have hoped for, but with the closest police station half an island away, it would have to do. Meg and the officer sat in the front seat. Jack, Benji and Harry the dog were crowded in the back. Burne had called his supervisor into the conversation and was taking copious, conscientious notes as first Meg and then Jack relayed what had happened on the ferry.

“We’re going to be calling an emergency meeting in with the various island police services.” Burne turned to Jack. “The island actually has more than one police service, including both Aboriginal and provincial forces. It’s important that everyone get up to speed. We’ll have you two tell your stories and then strategize a response. If there is a serial killer on our island, we’ll take every precaution to make sure that people are aware, alert and safe.” Then the cop turned back to Meg. “In the meantime, why don’t we head back to the ferry and get your car and belongings?”

Jack glanced up through the window toward the overcast sky. Thunder rumbled in the dark and distant clouds. Thank You, Lord! After everything he’d gone through in Toronto, the police here looked as though they were taking the threat seriously.

* * *

Meg walked slowly through the bowels of the ferry’s parking deck. The slap of borrowed flip-flops echoed loudly in an empty room, as dark and silent as catacombs. Something about the claustrophobic space always gave her the creeps. The sight of it now, totally bare except for her car sitting alone in the back row, didn’t help matters. Officer Burne walked silently beside her. Everything about the cop radiated how seriously he was taking matters—which somehow didn’t help the tight knots of nerves in her chest. What she needed right now was someone to help lighten the mood, not to remind her with every concerned glance of just how terrified she’d been above-deck, not that much more than a couple of hours earlier. But her brother would have been the one most likely to cheer her up, and she’d insisted that Benji return Harry the dog to McCarthy’s farm before the cranky old man had a heart attack. Meanwhile, Jack had gone above-deck with a member of the ferry’s crew to get his bag.

The backseat of her small blue hatchback was down, and crammed with bags from her shopping trip to the mainland. Burne opened the door for her. “Drive down the ramp and wait for me in the parking lot. I will go check with Mr. Brooks, and then we’ll head over to the police station in tandem. Okay?”

“Absolutely. No problem.”

He closed the door for her, then patted the roof of her car, as if giving it his stamp of approval. She hid a smile. As jittery as she was, she was sure she could handle driving down a ramp and parking her car just fine. She locked the doors anyway.

Meg started the engine and began inching the car slowly through the ferry. She glanced up to the rearview mirror. Burne was watching. She refused to believe that what had happened on the ferry had been anything other than a random attack. Brutal, terrifying, life-shaking—and yet not the slightest bit personal. Now she would have to focus on healing her frightened heart and trusting it to God so that the killer didn’t steal away the peace in her soul. And it would be in the hands of the authorities to protect all of the women on the island by making sure he never struck again. Dear Lord, help them. Help me.

She reached the end of the deck and gently pressed the brakes as she eased her car down the ramp. Something rustled behind her seat. Shopping bags fell over, spilling their contents around the car. A dark shadow rose to fill the rearview mirror.

She looked up, and into the deep, menacing hood of an orange raincoat.

FIVE

Jack was halfway down to the car deck when he heard Meg scream. He leapt down the stairs and burst through the door, just in time to see Meg’s car lurch forward. The hatchback shot down the ramp and clipped the railing. Dear Lord, protect her from... From whatever was making her screams shake the air and tear holes through his heart.

The car hit the bottom of the ramp, spun sideways on the wet pier and plowed into the deck’s guardrail. Jack ran toward it. The unmistakable silhouette of a hooded raincoat filled the window. His fear spurred him faster, even as he heard Officer Burne pounding through the ferry behind him. The car door fell open and Meg tumbled out onto the ground.

Her eyes met his, wild with panic. “He’s in the car!”

The hooded form disappeared from the back window. Was he crouching? Hiding? Searching for something? Had he hoped she’d drive somewhere secluded where he could secretly and cruelly end her life?

Meg was running toward Jack now. But his eyes were focused on the car.

“Jack!” Meg grabbed his arm.

He pulled away and brushed past her.

“Jack! Stop! What are you doing?”

But he’d already reached the car. No movement from the mess of fallen bags in the back. He lunged into the open driver door. “Get out! Now!”

Nothing. Jack yanked the trunk release lever. The hatchback popped open, spilling packages over the ground.

“Get away from the car, Mr. Brooks!” Officer Burne had arrived behind him now, and Jack was just about to turn when something inside the car caught his eye, sending his pulse pounding in frustration.

“Please,” the cop said, “step back and let me do my job!” There was the click of a gun’s safety pulling back. “Please, do not make me arrest you.”

“There’s no one here! There never was.” Jack yanked something out from between the seats. Then he turned around, holding it and both hands above his head. It was an empty orange raincoat.

* * *

Forty minutes later Jack was sitting at a round table in a small room crowded with a handful of representatives of the various police services. Meg sat across the table. Her eyes bored holes in the surface in front of her. The damage to her car had been nothing more than surface dents. Jack had offered to drive it to the station for her, while Meg went on ahead with Burne.

She hadn’t looked his way once since he arrived. Was she upset with him for running past her to the car like that? Surely she realized the danger had been minimal and the potential break in the case had been huge. It wasn’t as if he’d put her life in danger. Especially as it turned out there hadn’t actually been anyone in the back of her car.

“The raincoat was looped through a worn piece of molding on the sunroof, with a paper clip and a piece of clear fishing line,” Jack said. “All things the killer could have found in the back of the car. He then ran the wire under the seat and attached it to the brake so that whenever Ms. Duff hit the brake hard enough the coat would pop up.” Terribly simple, but probably terrifying to witness. “It’s a cruel trick, which marks a distinct change of behavior from what we already know about the so-called Raincoat Killer.”

Heads nodded around the table. These cops weren’t just listening; they were taking him seriously. Big change from how his journalistic research had been treated by law enforcement in Toronto. A very nice change. Then again, the cops in Toronto had been investigating the deaths of three seemingly unconnected women in a city of millions. Considering everything even he’d seen and heard in his years as a reporter, it was no surprise the Toronto police got a bit jaded sometimes.

Thankfully, life in a small town was a whole world away from that.

“Mr. Brooks, do you know why a serial killer from Toronto would possibly come all the way up here?” Burne asked.

The island police had apparently contacted investigators in Toronto, who’d promised to send up their records tomorrow. Until then, Jack found himself in the unlikely position of being the closest thing police services had to an expert on the deadly killer now stalking their remote, idyllic island.

“No, sir.” Jack leaned his forearms on the table. “I don’t know for certain. I can tell you there were Manitoulin Island ferry schedules in all three of the crime scenes. One had today’s afternoon ferry circled.” He glanced toward Meg, willing her to meet his eyes. She didn’t. “That same crime scene also had a flyer for Ms. Duff’s business.”

Big blue eyes looked up and met his, winsome and fringed with dark lashes. His arms ached to give her the hug he’d neglected to give her after she crashed her car. She’d reached out for him. She’d wanted his support. But then there’d been the police, and questions to be answered, and he’d wanted to figure out exactly what the killer had done to her car....

“So you decided to hop on that specific ferry and come all the way up here, just in case there was a connection?” The question came from a female officer in the corner, whose name he hadn’t quite caught. He couldn’t tell whether she was impressed or amused. “Your editor must have a lot of faith in you.”

There was an unsettled feeling in his stomach. “Actually, Officer, my boss gave me a few days off and told me to let him know how the hunch panned out.” The cop was still staring at him. “I’ve already had it pointed out to me that I could have just phoned around, instead of making the trip. But it’s one thing to see a picture of an island on a flyer or to hear a stranger’s voice on the phone. It’s a whole different thing to walk around a place, see it for yourself and get a feel for it.”

Meg rubbed her eyes. Officer Burne said something to her that Jack couldn’t quite hear.

Then the officer held up his hand. “Sorry to interject, but Ms. Duff’s had quite the ordeal today, and it seems like everyone’s done questioning her for now. So if no one has any objections, maybe we can thank her for her time and let her go home?”

There was a general nod and murmur around the table. Then Burne walked Meg out.

“Excuse me.” Jack glanced around the table. “I need a moment.” There was an interminable pause, some hushed conferring and then somebody called a fifteen-minute break. Jack forced himself not to run after her.

He found Meg standing outside. Her face was lit in the faint glow of the sun setting behind dark orange clouds. Her arms were wrapped around herself. Her eyes were turned toward the dying light and filled with a look so haunted that Jack’s every impulse was to sweep her up into his arms.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “You leaving?”

She nodded. “Officer Burne is just checking on something and then he’s going to follow me home.” She let out a long breath. “I’m still in the clothes I was wearing when I fell overboard. While they were dry enough to give a statement in, they hardly feel clean. And anyway, I need to check in with Rachel, and she’s hardly an easy bride to deal with.” Her shoulders fell. “Plus, I’m starving. I haven’t had anything to eat since lunch, which now feels like a day ago.”

Jack glanced at his watch. It was after seven. He still needed to call his editor, Vince, fill him in on what had happened and tell him that he was about to deliver one hefty knockout of a story, which had the potential to change everything.

Even though the beautiful, extraordinary woman standing next to him now was probably going to hate him for it.

His chest ached. Everything he knew about her, everything he’d seen since meeting her, told him that Meg was a strong, confident woman who was more than capable of rising above any fallout or negative attention, which might possibly come from being named as the sole survivor of a serial killer. Sure, his story might raise a few uncomfortable questions from her prospective clients or send some press headed her way for a while. But it wasn’t as if it would ruin her. Why couldn’t she see that the story of what had happened today needed to be made public?

Besides, it wasn’t as if he had much of a choice.

“Meg?” She turned toward him, standing so close the tips of her flip-flops nearly brushed against his toes. “What would you say if, when I was done here, we met up for dinner somewhere? To talk through everything that’s happened.”

Her forehead wrinkled. “As two people? Or as a reporter and the person he’s trying to interview?”

“Can’t it be both?”

Meg’s eyes searched his face for a long moment. She shook her head. “No.”

“No to dinner or no to the interview?”

“No to both.” Her voice was firm. “Like I told you before, I will be extremely thankful every day of my life that you were there and jumped overboard to save me. But I will not help you wreck my life by writing about it.”

He could feel the tension rising in the back of his neck. She had to know how the press worked. She couldn’t be that naive. “You do realize that I have to tell my editor what happened here today, and he will expect me to write about it. I don’t need your permission. I saw a madman in an orange raincoat throw you off that ferry with my very own eyes.”

Her arms crossed. “Trust me, I know all about what reporters can and can’t do. Like too many people, I guess, I learned the hard way. But it means I know that any editor worth his ink is going to want to make sure that someone is willing to back up your story. I’ve already asked the police not to leak my name to the press, which leaves me as your only corroborating source. If I make it clear that I will not confirm the facts of your story, would your editor still run it?”

Seriously? His jaw dropped. Did she have any idea just how much that would further undermine his already shaky position with the paper?

The door opened and Officer Burne came outside. He nodded to Jack.

Meg managed a smile. “Goodbye, Jack. If I don’t see you again before you leave the island, I’ll email your paper about whether or not I have any record of those three women ever contacting me. Thanks again for everything.” She turned and headed for her car so quickly he couldn’t shake the feeling she was actually running away from him.

“Don’t mention it. See you around.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and tried not to watch her go.

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