A serial killer is on the loose...in the first book in Shirlee McCoy’s FBI: Special Crimes Unit series

After Special Agent Adam Whitfield’s ex-wife is nearly killed when she stops an abduction, the serial killer that Adam’s been hunting turns his focus on Charlotte Murray for getting in his way. Now, as the Night Stalker closes in, Adam has two missions: bring the murderer to justice and save Charlotte—because failure isn’t an option.

Aside from her faith and her family, there’s not much SHIRLEE MCCOY enjoys more than a good book! When she’s not teaching or chauffeuring her five kids, she can usually be found plotting her next Love Inspired Suspense story or wandering around the beautiful Inland Northwest in search of inspiration. Shirlee loves to hear from readers. If you have time, drop her a line at shirlee@shirleemccoy.com.

Also By Shirlee McCoy

Special Crimes Unit

Night Stalker

Mission: Rescue

Protective Instincts

Her Christmas Guardian

Exit Strategy

Deadly Christmas Secrets

Mystery Child

The Christmas Target

Mistaken Identity

Christmas on the Run

Classified K-9 Unit

Bodyguard

Rookie K-9 Unit

Secrets and Lies

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Night Stalker

Shirlee McCoy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08259-4

NIGHT STALKER

© 2018 Shirlee McCoy

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Something darted out from the trees.

Adam had his gun in hand in an instant, his arm pressing Charlotte down and out of the line of fire.

He knew how quickly safety could turn to danger, and he knew how desperate the Night Stalker must be. The local papers had run the story.

Guardian Angel Saves Tenth Victim of Notorious Night Stalker.

The reporters might not have Charlotte’s name, but they were speculating that she was someone local to Whisper Lake.

How long would it take the Night Stalker to figure out who she was and where she lived?

Leaves rustled. A twig snapped. A dog appeared.

“Clover!” Charlotte shouted, and then she was scrambling out of the car and onto the road.

He grabbed her, hauling her up and into the SUV. Not caring about her injury. All he cared about was keeping her alive.

If the dog loping toward them was hers, someone had let it out. Someone who might be waiting for her to return, waiting for her to go looking for the dog she obviously loved. Waiting on the road with a gun in hand, ready to finish what he’d begun.

Dear Reader,

Last year, my ten-year-old niece was diagnosed with a very aggressive form of sarcoma. As you can imagine, this was devastating for our family. I have watched my sister travel this very difficult road, and I have been reminded of how short life is. More than that, I have been reminded that bad things often happen to good people. None of us are exempt from heartache and none of us are immune to doubts and struggles. He is here, though. In the darkest times and in the brightest ones. If you doubt it, look at the moonlight dancing on an ocean wave, watch the goldfinches flit from branch to branch and listen for the sound of His love whispering through the leaves of the tallest oak tree. You will find Him there.

In the FBI: Special Crimes Unit series, I explore the darker side of human nature. The men and women who work for this elite team each have unique backstories and traumas that have made them determined to protect the most vulnerable citizens. Like us, they sometimes wonder if God dwells in the toughest places. I hope you’ll journey with them as they find their answers and learn the truth of His extraordinary grace and love.

Blessings to you, my friend.

Shirlee McCoy

When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.

—Isaiah 43:2

To you: the reader who has followed me from Lakeview, Virginia, to Whisper Lake, Maine. May you find joy in every sunrise and peace in every circumstance, and may the fullness of His love and mercy sustain you through every heartache.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Dear Reader

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

Extract

ONE

Charlotte Murray hated the lake.

She hated the blue-green water that gleamed like black ink in the moonlight, the quiet lap of waves against the shore, the whisper of damp air rustling through the tall reeds that bordered her yard. She hated it, but she couldn’t make herself leave.

Six years after her four-year-old son, Daniel, had wandered outside and drowned, five and a half years after her husband, Adam, left, five years after the divorce was finalized, and here she sat, the old swing creaking as she rocked in the early-morning darkness. How many sleepless nights had she spent staring out at Whisper Lake, wondering what she could have done to change things?

Too many.

Her friends said she needed to move on. Her therapist had encouraged her to rent out the cottage, move into town and create a new life for herself. One not defined by the tragedy of losing her son. It’s time to join the living again, he’d said as if there were some limit to grief and some timeline for recovery that she should be following.

She hadn’t been back to see him since.

Grief eased. It didn’t go away. Not even as time passed or environments changed.

“Besides,” she murmured, “I’ve got a job, friends, volunteer work. It’s not like I spend all of my time staring at the lake and dwelling on what I can’t change.”

Clover whined and dropped his boxy head on her knee, the added weight stopping the swaying motion of the swing. At seventy pounds, the poodle mix was double the size the county animal shelter had said he would be. Charlotte didn’t mind. He filled up more of the house, took up a little of the extra space that had been left when Daniel died and Adam walked out.

She scratched behind Clover’s floppy ears, kissed his velvety muzzle. “Ready to go inside?”

He was on his feet before she finished speaking, trotting to the back door, doing his goofy little poodle prance. She’d chosen him out of desperation, wanting something to keep the silence from smothering her. Before Daniel’s death, she and Adam had talked about getting a therapy dog, one that would bond with their son and maybe enter his solitary world. They’d planned it as a Christmas surprise.

Daniel had died in the summer. She didn’t remember the Christmas following his death. She only remembered the emptiness of the house after Adam packed his bags and walked out. She remembered the heaviness of the air and of her sorrow. She remembered the anger that had simmered beneath the surface of that.

She had thought their relationship was strong enough to weather anything.

But anything had not included the death of their son.

She stepped into the mudroom, old linoleum crackling beneath her feet. A wide doorway led into the 1920s-style kitchen, the farmhouse sink and yellow subway tile just quaint enough to be chic. She and Adam had painted the walls ivory and the old pine cabinets bright white. Adam’s job as deputy sheriff of Whisper Lake, Maine, hadn’t paid much, but they’d managed to make the cottage their home. They’d been a team back then. Daniel’s autism diagnosis had tossed them into the deep water of parenting, and they’d clung to each other to keep from going under.

That had changed after Daniel’s death. Somehow, rather than mourning together, they’d mourned apart, their grief a raw wound between them, a deep chasm that neither had been able to cross.

Even after so many years, Charlotte sometimes wondered if she could have changed things. A word spoken into the silence. A hug offered at just the right time. Tears shared rather than hidden. Maybe they’d still be together.

But maybe not.

Probably not.

They’d been middle school kids when they’d met. Best friends. Allies. High school sweethearts. Too young to understand how challenging and heartbreaking life could be.

Floorboards creaked as she stepped into the small living room. Cozy was the word her grandmother had always used. Tiny was a more accurate description. When Daniel died, Charlotte and Adam had been saving money to build an addition. Instead, they’d purchased a burial plot and a casket.

Charlotte frowned. It had been years since she’d thought about that. So many dreams had died with Daniel. She’d created new dreams, crafted a new life, imagined herself leaving Whisper Lake dozens of times. Stayed through summers and autumns and long winters. Into springs and back through summers again. Seasons passing—life passing—while she sat on the swing on the back porch.

Would she still be there five years from now? Ten? Twenty-five? That was the question she’d been asking herself recently. The cottage had been standing in this spot for nearly a hundred years, the Sears Roebuck bungalow built by her great-grandfather and passed down from one family member to another. Her grandmother had deeded it to her a year before Daniel’s death—a twenty-first birthday gift and a celebration of the fact that Charlotte had made it through high school and college despite the challenges of teen pregnancy and a special-needs child.

Pregnant at seventeen. Married at eighteen. Grieving parent at twenty-two. Divorced at twenty-three. And now, at twenty-eight, alone and mostly happy about it. It was hard to be hurt when there was no one around to hurt you. The cottage held memories and sorrows, but being there was solitary and safe, and she craved that as much as she craved anything.

Clover loped through the living room, stopping near the front window, his head cocked to the side, his attention on the floor-length curtains. The lights were off, but she could see him there, a dark shadow in the gloom, his body stiff, his tail high and still. He growled, the sound making the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

Clover didn’t growl.

He rarely barked.

His happy-go-lucky, calm personality made him the perfect therapy dog.

“What’s wrong, boy?” she asked, creeping to the window and easing the curtains back.

It was still dark, the first rays of sun hours away. The motion-sensor porch lights hadn’t been tripped, and the yard looked empty, the old maple tree a hulking shadow against the blue-black sky.

Clover growled again, pressing his nose against the windowpane.

Beyond the yard, a narrow dirt road separated her property from state land. Out here, there were more animals than people, more trees than houses and more hiking trails than roads. The only other house on Charlotte’s street belonged to Bubbles, her elderly neighbor. The octogenarian wandered the lake shore and the woods at all times of the day and night, collecting leaves and flowers, mushrooms and wild herbs. Charlotte had cautioned her to be careful. She wasn’t as young as she used to be, and it was very easy to get lost and hurt in the Maine wilderness. People died there. People disappeared. But Bubbles had grown up on the lake. She’d learned the land before she’d learned to read.

At least, that was what she’d told Charlotte.

Still, Charlotte worried, and Clover’s behavior made her worry more.

“Stay,” Charlotte commanded as she walked to the front door and opened it. Clover whined but dropped down onto his belly.

Good. The last thing she wanted was her dog getting in a tussle with a bear or a bobcat. More than likely, that was what he’d been growling at. On the off chance that Bubbles was outside, hurt or in trouble, Charlotte would take a quick walk to her property and make certain the old house was locked up tight. She grabbed her cell phone and tucked it into her pocket but didn’t bother grabbing the bowie knife she carried when she hiked. Whatever had been outside was probably long gone by now.

She stepped onto the porch, the security light turning on immediately. Somewhere in the distance an engine was rumbling. Surprised, Charlotte stood still and listened. The nearest paved road was a quarter mile away and stretched from the small town of Whisper Lake to its closest neighbor twenty miles away. During the day, the road got some traffic, but at night it was usually quiet.

A soft cry drifted through the darkness.

An animal?

She told herself it was, but her heart was racing, her pulse thrumming. Winter-dry grass snapped beneath her feet, the cold spring air seeping through her jeans and sweater. She reached the old fence that marked the beginning of Bubble’s property and stepped onto the road to get around it. A few hundred yards away, the house jutted up from the grassy landscape. Victorian and ornate, it had been on the bluff overlooking Whisper Lake for more than a century. Bubble’s family had owned it for most of that time.

It didn’t take long to reach the driveway. Bubble’s Oldsmobile was parked there, its glossy paint gleaming. The house was quiet, curtains pulled across the windows, the lights off. Charlotte tried the front door. Locked. Just like she’d hoped. The back door was locked, too.

Everything looked just as it should, but the air crackled with electricity and the engine still hummed in the distance. She went back to the road, told herself that she should go home, but something made her turn left instead of right. Toward the crossroad. Away from the cottage. Heading toward the stop sign and the paved road beyond it. She’d just reached it when something crashed through the trees a dozen yards away.

She jumped, her hand reaching for the bowie knife she hadn’t bothered bringing. A stupid mistake. One she vowed to never make again. There were predators out here. Usually, they didn’t bother people. Sometimes, though, food was scarce, they were hungry and they went after anything weaker than them.

Just head, asphalt marked the end of the private road she lived on. Headlights illuminated the dark pavement and a purse that lay abandoned there. Its contents had spilled out. Wallet. Lipstick. Keys. Phone. A few other odds and ends. None of them belonged in the middle of a country road in the darkest hours of the morning.

She pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911, staying out of the vehicle’s headlights. A truck. She could see that. Passenger door open. She couldn’t see the driver’s door.

That made her nervous.

The entire situation made her nervous.

She took a step back, the 911 operator’s voice ringing hollowly in her ear.

“Nine-one-one. What’s the nature of your emergency?”

“I need the police,” Charlotte responded, her focus on the truck, the open door, the purse.

“What—”

A woman screamed, the sound breaking the early-morning quiet and masking whatever else the operator said.

Charlotte whirled toward the sound, scanning the trees and the darkness, her heart pounding so frantically, she thought it might fly from her chest.

“Ma’am? Are you still there?” the 911 operator asked.

“I need the police,” she repeated, rattling off the address.

She could hear the heavy pant of someone’s breath, the thud of feet on dead leaves. A man stepped onto the road, his back to Charlotte, his body oddly misshapen.

She almost called out to him, but something kept her silent. A warning of danger that she heeded.

“Ma’am? Can you tell me what’s happening? Are you in danger?” the 911 operator asked.

As if he’d heard the words, the man swung around.

She realized the truth about two seconds too late.

He wasn’t misshapen.

He was carrying someone—a woman slung over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry.

Charlotte could think of a lot of reasons he might be doing that. Most of them weren’t good. Kidnapping came to mind. Carjacking. Murder.

Her instincts were telling her to run, but her conscience insisted she stay.

“What’s going on?” she called out, and the man took a step in her direction. Seemed to change his mind and turned toward the truck again.

The 911 operator was speaking, but Charlotte couldn’t make sense of the words. She was focused on the man. The open truck door. The escape that would be at hand once he got his victim into the vehicle.

“Put her down,” she demanded, and he swung around again.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t warn her.

One minute, he was holding the woman. The next, he dropped her like she was a bag of garbage he’d brought to the dump.

“If you leave—” Charlotte began, planning to tell him that he could escape before the police arrived, that he could disappear and never be found.

But he moved quickly, his body silhouetted by headlights, his face hidden as he lifted his arm, pointed at her.

The world exploded, and she was flying, landing in soft grass and scratchy pine needles, her breath gone, the world spinning. Sky. Trees. Ground. Lake. The man. Moving toward her, a dark blur spinning like everything else.

She should be scared. She knew that, but her thoughts were sluggish, her limbs leaden. She couldn’t run if she wanted to. Couldn’t get up.

She heard sirens, feet on pavement, an engine roaring to life. Felt blood oozing from her chest, blood slushing in her ears.

Someone knelt beside her. Not the man. A woman. Hair in her face, hands pressing against the wound in Charlotte’s chest.

“Don’t die,” the woman murmured.

She said something else, but the words were drowned out by the starless sky, the cool spring morning, the screaming sirens and the velvety darkness that swallowed them all.

* * *

Charlotte had changed.

That shouldn’t have surprised Special Agent Adam Whitfield. He hadn’t seen his ex-wife in five years. A lot had happened since then. He’d completed his master’s in criminal profiling and had joined the FBI. He’d rented an apartment in the suburbs of Boston, created an entirely new life for himself.

He was nothing like the twenty-four-year-old kid who’d driven away from Whisper Lake. He shouldn’t have expected that Charlotte would be the same person he’d left behind. He hadn’t expected it.

But he’d still been shocked when he’d seen her. Not because she was connected to machines, tubes running from her chest and her arms. He’d been prepared for that. He hadn’t been prepared to see how thin she’d become, how frail. Her cheekbones were chiseled, her jawline defined. Even her hands were thinner, her fingers longer and leaner.

In the seventy-two hours since he’d arrived, he’d gotten used to the tubes, to the hushed whisper of her breathing and the soft hiss of oxygen. He hadn’t gotten used to the newer, frailer version of his ex-wife.

The woman he’d been friends with, fallen in love with, married.

The one he’d had a son with.

Lost a son with.

Abandoned.

He frowned.

Abandoned was a harsh word, but an accurate one. He’d walked out on Charlotte because he hadn’t been able to bear walking past Daniel’s empty bedroom every morning. He’d wanted a fresh start in a new place, and he’d thought that Charlotte would want the same. When she’d refused to move away with him, he’d left the cottage, the town and the lake with his head high and his heart shattered.

He hadn’t looked back, hadn’t returned for even a visit. Hadn’t called to see how she was, hadn’t checked in on her to see if she needed anything. They’d split their marital assets, washed their hands of one another and moved on.

Or that was what they were supposed to have done.

Moving on from the person who held your heart wasn’t easy.

Now he was there, noticing the deep hollows beneath Charlotte’s cheekbones and the dark circles beneath her eyes. She’d cut her hair short and lost too much weight, but if he let himself, he knew he could still see the girl she’d been when she’d walked into his seventh-grade classroom all those years ago.

He brushed a strand of straight black hair from her cheek.

“Are you in there, Charlotte?” he asked.

She didn’t respond. Not with a twitch or a flutter of her eyelids. If they’d still been married, he’d have touched her cheek, lifted her limp hand and squeezed it gently. He’d have leaned close and whispered that he was there and that everything was going to be okay.

Instead, he let his hand drop away, settled back into his chair. He was tired, his muscles stiff from too many hours sitting. When he wasn’t working, he liked to keep active—running, hiking, rock climbing, kayaking. Being still and quiet wasn’t his thing and never had been.

“You should go for a walk,” his boss, Wren Santino, said, breaking the silence.

“You’ve made that suggestion a dozen times in the past couple of hours,” he responded, meeting her dark eyes.

“And?”

“I haven’t done it yet.”

“If you had, I wouldn’t have to keep suggesting it,” she replied reasonably.

“I want to be here when she wakes up.”

“Because you’re hoping to question her?” It was a legitimate question. Adam had planned to travel to Whisper Lake after he’d received a call from the Maine State Police saying that they might have another victim of the Night Stalker. One that had survived.

At the time, he’d had no idea that Charlotte was involved. All he’d known was that a young nurse had been abducted from the Whisper Lake Medical Center, that she’d escaped thanks to a Good Samaritan who’d been shot while intervening. That she fit the profile of the victims of a serial killer Adam and the FBI’s Special Crimes Unit had been pursuing for years. The Maine State Police thought it was possible—even probable—that her abductor was the Night Stalker.

Adam had been ready to travel to Whisper Lake to speak with the local police, interview the nurse and decide for himself whether the case fit the Night Stalker’s MO. He’d shoved aside thoughts of Daniel and Charlotte. He’d reminded himself that he had a job to do. He’d already had his vehicle packed for the trip when Wren had called him into her office and shown him the case file she’d received from the state PD. That was when he’d seen Charlotte’s name. That was when he’d understood just how personal the Night Stalker case had become.

It was also when Wren had informed him that he wouldn’t be part of the FBI team traveling to Maine. She planned to keep him in the loop but felt that it would be better for him and for Charlotte if he kept his distance.

He’d argued.

She’d insisted, so he’d taken personal leave and headed to Whisper Lake against her wishes.

Because he couldn’t not be there.

It didn’t matter that he and Charlotte were divorced. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t seen each other for five years. He wouldn’t let her lie in a hospital bed without family to advocate for her. He’d known that with her grandparents gone, she’d have no one.

Now she had him.

“I take it you’re not going to answer?” Wren said, taking a sip from a carryout cup of coffee.

“She may have seen his face,” he responded, sidestepping the question.

“I suppose this would be a good time to remind you that you’re on leave.”

“You’ve reminded me every hour on the hour since we arrived.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” she said with a half smile.

“Not much of one.”

“You know this guy’s MO better than anyone. You should be lead on this case,” she responded. No judgment. Just a statement of the facts as she saw them.

“Charlotte has no family. She needs someone in her corner.”

“She has our team. We’re not going to let anything happen to her. And not just because she’s a possible witness.”

“She needs someone she’s familiar with. Someone who knows her.”

“I could argue that she has people she’s familiar with and who know her. This is a small town. If we let news of her injury leak out, she’ll have plenty of friends standing in her corner.”

“If her identity leaks out—” he began.

“You don’t have to explain, Adam. We’re all aware of how dangerous that could be.”

Law enforcement had kept Charlotte’s identity quiet. Aside from her neighbor, Bubbles, only medical personnel knew she was the person who’d intervened in the attempted abduction. The less information available to the public, the less information available to the Night Stalker and the easier it would be to ensure Charlotte’s safety.

“Just so you know,” he said, “I’m not planning to leave Whisper Lake until she’s recovered enough to know what’s going on and what her options are.”

“Which options are we talking about? Because the way I see things, the only option she has is to cooperate with the investigation.”

“You gave Bethany Andrews the choice of staying in town with police protection or going into witness protection until the Night Stalker is apprehended.” The young nurse had chosen to enter witness protection. She’d been terrified that the man who’d abducted her after her shift at Whisper Lake Medical Center would come after her again.

“She and her fiancé are entering the program together. Currently, Bethany is in a secure location while she waits for medical clearance to travel. She did sustain a concussion and some memory loss from the attack. Charlotte’s situation is different.”

“How so?”

“She was never the Night Stalker’s intended victim.”

“She was the person who stopped him from getting what he wanted,” he pointed out.

Wren nodded her agreement. “True, and if she saw the shooter, we may be able to close this case quickly.”

“Quickly? We’ve put a lot of time and manpower into stopping the Night Stalker.” Five years. Four states. Nine victims. All emergency room nurses who had been abducted after late-night shifts. All killed by single gunshot wounds to their heads, their bodies discovered weeks to months after they’d disappeared. Ballistic testing had proved that the weapon used had been the same with each victim. A savvy Boston police detective had noticed the link. He’d contacted the FBI to help the investigation into what was obviously a serial killer. The case had been handed over to the Special Crimes Unit, and Wren had chosen Adam to put together the Night Stalker’s profile—white male working in a sales field, a loner in his mid to late twenties who lived somewhere in New England. Someone without connections who could come and go without suspicion.

The criminal profile had been circulated to every law enforcement agency in the northeast, but the Night Stalker remained at large. Bethany would have been his tenth victim. She fit the profile of his victims perfectly—emergency room nurse with dark hair and blue eyes, slight build, outgoing personality.

There was a difference, though.

Unlike the Night Stalker’s other victims, Bethany worked at a small-town hospital. The other nurses had worked in city hospitals—Massachusetts General, Rhode Island Hospital, Brigham and Women’s Hospital, Yale New Haven Hospital.

Whisper Lake Medical Center was a tiny hospital sitting on the outskirts of a tiny town. Its only claim to fame was the level-four trauma center that had been opened several years ago. Something about that bothered Adam, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were missing something important.

“Even with the trauma center, it’s still a small hospital in a small town,” he murmured, reaching for a disposable cup and pouring coffee from the carafe a nurse had brought in hours ago. “I wonder why he changed his MO.”

“You’re not on the case,” Wren reminded him.

“Just thinking out loud.” He took a sip of the cold brew and grimaced.

“Why don’t you go get us some hot coffee?” Wren suggested.

“I’ve already had too much of the stuff.”

“You can’t stay here forever, Adam.”

“I can stay here until she wakes up.”

“Then I hope River gets back from Boston soon. I hate cold coffee.” She set her cup down.

“I thought River and Sam were on protection duty here at the hospital.”

“They are. I sent River back to Boston this morning to double-check the ballistic results on the bullet they took from Charlotte.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s as much an expert as anyone working in the lab.”

“That’s not what I’m asking, and you know it. Why did you feel the need to have the ballistic results checked?”

“Because I’m wondering the same thing you are. Why the Night Stalker suddenly changed his MO. Why he chose a victim who worked in a small town at a small hospital. Before we pour more resources into this case, I want to make sure we’re not dealing with a copycat—someone who had a bone to pick with Bethany and thought mimicking the Night Stalker would help him get away with murder.”

“That’s a stretch, Wren. Especially since the initial ballistics results are a match.”

“River is going to give his own expert advice. And not just because I don’t want to waste resources. Nine women are dead. When we catch their murderer, I want to make sure we have every i dotted and every t crossed. I don’t want any doubts, any reason for a jury to hesitate.”

Wren leaned forward, her suit jacket swinging open to reveal her holster. “It’s not just about the case to me. I hope you know that, Adam. It’s about seeing the victims get the justice they deserve. It’s about seeing the survivors heal and move on.”

Her phone buzzed and she pulled it from her pocket, read a text message and then tucked it away again.

“River is back,” she announced, standing and stretching her nearly six-foot frame. She was model-slender, her build belying the strength Adam had seen her use during self-defense training.

“And?”

“You’re not on the case, so I shouldn’t tell you.”

“But you’re going to,” he guessed, and she nodded.

“The bullet taken from Charlotte matches the ones taken from the Night Stalker’s victims. This is a go.” She was suddenly all business, her dark eyes flashing with barely banked energy. “River is on the way up to the room. He’ll be out in the hall. I have a meeting scheduled with Sam and some local and state law enforcement. Call me if she wakes up.”

She was gone before he could respond.

He waited until she closed the door, then turned his attention back to Charlotte. She’d been his first love and his last. He’d walked away from her when she’d needed him most. He could do it again. It would be the easy choice: go back to Boston, pick up the case where he’d left off, let Wren, River and Sam handle things on this end.

That would require no emotional commitment, no trips down memory lane. No drives past the graveyard where Daniel’s tombstone had been set. No visits to the cottage on the lake. It required him to do nothing but the job he’d been trained to do.

He couldn’t do it, though.

He’d taken the easy path five and a half years ago. He’d failed Charlotte, and he’d failed himself. There was a big part of Adam that felt he’d also failed God. He hadn’t been a Christian when he’d married Charlotte. They’d both been wild teens who’d lived by their own set of rules. Maybe if God had been part of what they’d been building together, the foundation would have been strong enough to withstand Daniel’s death.

Still, Adam had taken vows.

He’d broken them.

In the years since, he’d learned what faith was. He’d learned what mercy and grace were. What he hadn’t learned was how to forgive himself for what he’d done. He couldn’t go back and change things, but he could do this.

He settled in the chair again.

“It’s going to be okay, Charlotte,” he said, patting her lax hand.

Her fingers moved—a tiny twitch that made his heart jump.

He waited, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest beneath white hospital sheets, the flicker of her closed eyelids.

“Charlotte?” He touched her cheek, his palm resting against cool dry skin.

She opened her eyes.

He’d forgotten how beautiful her irises were—deep purple-blue rimmed with black. He’d forgotten how it felt to watch her wake, the haze of sleep slowly dissipating, the softness of her features sharpening.

“Why are you here?” she said, her voice raspy and raw, her eyes closing again.

“I thought it was time I was finally around when you needed me,” he responded honestly, certain she’d already lost consciousness again.

“I don’t need you,” she whispered so quietly he almost didn’t hear, and then she was unconscious again, the soft beep and hiss of machinery the only sounds in the quiet room.

He could have left then.

He’d done what he’d said he would. He’d stayed until she woke. She’d been lucid enough and aware enough to know who he was and to know she didn’t want him around.

That shouldn’t have hurt.

He told himself it didn’t.

But there was a piece of his heart that still belonged to Charlotte. He might have failed her after Daniel died, but he wouldn’t fail her now. Whether she needed him or not, he was there to stay until the Night Stalker was found and he knew for sure that she was safe.

TWO

Nine days.

That was how long Charlotte had been cooped up in the hospital. There’d been a steady stream of visitors during her stay. County police. Town sheriff. State police. FBI. All of them asking questions, most of which she couldn’t answer.

She hadn’t seen the face of the man who’d shot her.

She had seen his truck.

Just enough of it to know it was old. Big. A pickup with two doors.

She’d seen him, too. The man the FBI called the Night Stalker. She may not have seen his face, but she’d seen his height and breadth and the gleam of his eyes through the darkness.

She shuddered, pushing the image away.

She’d almost died.

Everyone who walked into the room reminded her of that.

Except for Adam. Her ex-husband. The one person she never would have expected to see sitting beside her hospital bed. In the earliest days of her recovery, she’d thought she was dreaming his presence, dreaming the shorter haircut, the fine lines near the corners of his eyes, the somberness in his gaze.

Only, Adam hadn’t been a dream.

He’d been as real as the wound in her chest, the tube in her side, the surgical staples in her skin. The tube had come out. The wound was healing, the staples were gone, but Adam was still in Whisper Lake.

It still seemed impossible, but all she had to do was glance at the reclining chair he’d slept in the past few nights to know he’d really been there. He’d left his jacket lying across the arm, a duffel on the floor beside it. She wasn’t sure where he’d gone, but she was certain he’d be back.

Charlotte’s calm, predictable life had turned to chaos. She wasn’t sure how it had happened or why. She only knew that she had to get things back on track. That meant going home to the cottage, sitting by herself, thinking through her options and making her own decision about where she wanted to go and what she wanted to do.

If law enforcement had its way, she’d be taken to a safe house the minute she was discharged. Special Agent Wren Santino had outlined the plan for Charlotte earlier that day. They’d let her return home to collect a few personal items, and then they’d fly her out in a private jet, whisking her off to some destination only a few people were privy to.

And, of course, Clover would be with her.

That seemed to be the common theme. Everyone she spoke to about the FBI’s plan had assured her that she could take her dog along. As if she were a child who would be persuaded by that. As if there’d ever been a doubt or question. Of course she’d bring Clover wherever she went.

If she went anywhere.

She had more than Clover to think about.

She had her teaching job at the community college, her dog-training class that met every Saturday morning. She had Bubbles to think about, too. Her neighbor wasn’t getting any younger, and if Charlotte wasn’t around, there’d be no one to keep an eye out for her.

The fact was, Charlotte had no reason to believe the Night Stalker knew who she was, where she lived or if she’d survived. Based on what she’d learned from Wren and Adam, she thought it was more likely that he’d gone on his merry way and was currently searching for a new victim somewhere far from Whisper Lake.

Of course, she wasn’t law enforcement. She was just someone who’d been in the wrong place at the right time. Someone who’d gotten mixed up in something that had almost gotten her killed. She could be very wrong in her thinking. It was possible the serial killer did know who she was and where she lived. It was also possible that he planned to pay her back for ruining his plans to abduct his tenth victim.

She frowned. Maybe she did want to leave town for a while, go into hiding, let the FBI protect her.

Maybe.

But she needed to think about it, and the best place to do that was home.

She eased out of her hospital gown and into the loose-fitting jeans and sweater Bubbles had brought her. It took longer than it should have, and she was shaking when she finished, but she’d accomplished the task.

Now all she had to do was get home.

She thought about calling Bubbles and asking for a ride, but she didn’t like the idea of her elderly neighbor driving out to the hospital at midnight. Besides, Bubbles had been spending her days at the cottage, taking care of Clover and sending away friends who’d been wondering why Charlotte hadn’t shown up for meetings or training sessions. The FBI had coached her carefully, and Bubbles had told everyone who cared to know that Charlotte was on vacation. Unplanned. Spur of the moment. Just one of those things that young people did.

That was plenty for a woman in her eighties to deal with. She didn’t need to be dragged out of bed at midnight to ride to Charlotte’s rescue. Besides, if the Night Stalker was still out there, Charlotte didn’t want Bubbles to be in his crosshairs.

She shivered, her thoughts going back to that moment on the road. The bright headlights. The dark form. The woman dropping to the ground.

The explosion of sound and of pain.

She’d been assured that she was safe. That the Whisper Lake Sheriff’s Department was working with the state and federal police to keep her that way.

She believed she was safe.

But she was still afraid.

“That doesn’t mean you’re staying here,” she muttered. “You’re going home. You’ll make decisions about whether to stick around once you’re there.”

“Are you okay, Charlotte?” someone called from the other side of the closed door.

Someone?

Adam. She knew his voice like she knew her own. Even after all these years.

“Charlotte?” he called again.

“I’m fine,” she called back.

“Were you talking to someone?” The doorknob turned, the door opened and he was there. Standing in the threshold, his dark gray eyes a shade darker than she remembered, his hair just a little shorter. His shoulders were broader, too. The twenty-four-year-old kid he’d been had grown into his lanky frame.

“Just myself,” she admitted, turning away so she wouldn’t have to look into his eyes and see the concern and compassion there. Since they’d divorced, she hadn’t spent much time thinking about how the years would change him. She’d been too busy trying to forget what they’d once had.

Now, though...

Now she could see what time had done. He was the same, but better. Calmer. Steadier. More patient. More willing to listen.

At night, when he thought she was sleeping, he’d sit in the recliner and read a leather-bound Bible, the thin pages rustling as he turned them. She’d wanted to ask him about that. She’d wanted to tell him about the church she’d joined and the comfort she’d found there. She’d kept silent, afraid to open doors that were better left shut. Her heart had been broken once. She wasn’t sure she’d survive having it broken again.

“You still talk to yourself, huh?” She could hear his footsteps on the floor as he walked toward her, but she still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Old habits are hard to break.” She grabbed the bag of clothes and toiletries Bubbles had brought, wincing as the healing wound in her chest pulled tight.

“Let me.” He took it from her hand, his fingers grazing her knuckles, his touch as familiar as sunrise. She could have leaned into it if she’d wanted to, leaned into him and let all the things that used to be wash over them. But they’d been divorced for longer than they’d been married. They were nothing more than strangers who had once known each other.

If she remembered that, she’d be just fine.

“Thanks.”

“You look like you’re planning to go somewhere,” he commented as she grabbed her purse from the table beside the bed. Bubbles had brought that, too.

“I am.”

“That’s not a good idea, Charlotte.”

“I don’t see why not.” She reached for a sheet of paper that lay on the table, the flowery stationery covered with a scrawled thank-you note from Bethany Andrews. Wren had delivered it in a plain white envelope. No hint of where it had come from or who had sent it. Charlotte had read the note several times already, the ER nurse’s heartfelt thank-you reminding her that everything she’d been through had been worth it. Hopefully, they’d have a chance to meet face-to-face one day. She had a feeling she’d get along well with Bethany. She sounded like a sweet young woman.

Young? According to Wren, Bethany was twenty-five. Just three years younger than Charlotte. They’d attended Whisper Lake High School together for one year. Charlotte had ended her senior year six months pregnant, and she didn’t remember much of her last year of high school except for the fact that she’d worn baggy shirts and oversize dresses, hoping to hide her growing belly.

Needless to say, she didn’t remember Bethany.

She folded the note and slid it into her pocket, making the mistake of meeting Adam’s eyes. He was watching, his shoulder against the wall, his expression neutral.

Whatever he was thinking, he hid it well.

“What?” she asked, breaking the silence because it felt too thick, too heavy and too filled with words that should have been said years ago.

“You’re an intelligent woman, Charlotte. I’m sure you know exactly why leaving the hospital isn’t a good idea.”

“The Night Stalker doesn’t know who I am. He doesn’t know where I live, and as far as law enforcement can tell, he left town and hasn’t returned.”

“Law enforcement has no idea who he is or where he lives. For all anyone knows, he’s your next-door neighbor.”

“Bubbles is my only neighbor,” she pointed out.

“I’m aware of that, Charlotte. We did live together for four and a half years.”

She hadn’t needed the reminder.

Sometimes when she couldn’t sleep, she’d think about how it had felt to have someone lying in bed beside her. She’d remember what it was like to be wrapped in a solid embrace, or to reach out in the middle of the night, knowing that someone would reach back.

She missed that.

She was honest enough with herself to admit it.

“Wren said the Night Stalker probably hunted for his victims far away from home. If that’s the case, he doesn’t live anywhere near here,” she commented.

“He changed his MO when he went after Bethany. He’s always taken women from large hospitals. This time, it’s different.”

“That doesn’t mean he lives close by.”

“It doesn’t mean that he doesn’t,” he pointed out.

She grabbed the Bible that Bubbles had brought to the hospital. The leather cover was cracked with age, the pages thin, wrinkled and highlighted with pink and yellow and lime green. Charlotte’s grandmother had spent hours studying scripture. The Bible had been hers. In the years since Daniel’s death, Charlotte had pored through it, seeking comfort in the words her grandmother had highlighted years ago.

She tucked it under her arm and reached for the slip-on shoes that Bubbles had set on a chair. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Adam.”

“I want you to say that you’re going to follow the team’s plan.”

“What plan? The one where I get on a private jet and travel to an unknown destination?”

“Yes.”

“Were you part of making it? Is that why you want me to agree to it?”

“You know I’m on leave,” he said. “I have nothing to do with the plans that are made.”

“I’m sure you’d like to be part of the decision-making process. You can go back to Boston and back to work,” she replied and felt like an ogre for it. Adam had been nothing but kind, and she’d done nothing but try to push him away.

“No. I can’t. Not until I know you’re safe.”

“I don’t need you to keep me safe,” she murmured, but her heart wasn’t in the words. They sounded hollow and sad and a little lonely.

“I didn’t say you did. I said I need to know you are. We might be divorced, but I still care about you, Charlotte. That has never changed.”

She dropped one of the shoes. It bounced across the floor and slid under the bed.

“I’ll get it,” Adam said, grabbing her elbow when she bent to reach for it.

His fingers were warm, his skin calloused, and she could feel his touch long after he released his grip. She rubbed the spot, trying to wipe away the warmth and the memories that filled her head. Cold nights. Hot fires. Long conversations as they lay side by side.

He’d been her best friend.

He’d known everything there was to know about her.

And then he’d been gone.

She swallowed down grief that she shouldn’t be feeling and whirled away, the quick movement making her light-headed.

She grabbed the doorjamb, her fingers curving around cool wood.

“You okay?” Adam asked, and she realized he had both of her shoes in his hand and was watching her.

“Fine. Just anxious to get out of here.”

“For the record,” he said, placing the shoes on the floor so she could slip into them, “I don’t approve.”

“Your disapproval is noted.”

“But you’re leaving anyway?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll get a wheelchair.” He gave in with a lot less of a fight than she’d expected.

“I can walk.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I will.” She stepped toward the door, and he touched her arm. Not stopping her. Just offering support. Her breath caught, her heart skipping a beat. His lashes were still long, thick and curly, his skin deeply tanned. He had a faint scar on his left jaw, and a solemnness to his demeanor that had been missing when he’d been a young deputy sheriff, fresh-faced and eager to prove himself. She felt dizzy with the memories, or maybe from moving too much and too quickly.

“On second thought,” she murmured, “a wheelchair might be good.”

He slipped his arm around her waist and led her to the recliner. She was sitting in it before she realized what was happening, his jacket settled around her, the scent of his cologne filling her nose.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He was looking into her eyes, and she was looking into his, and for a moment, there was nothing between them. No past. No pain. No heartache. They were simply two friends taking care of each other the same way they had since the first day they’d met.

He backed away, turning on his heels and striding from the room. Minutes later, he wheeled the chair in, helping her settle into it with the same quick efficient manner as any of the nurses or orderlies would have.

Whatever had been there was gone.

They were strangers again, and she told herself she was fine with it.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, and she nodded.

“Clover has been alone for eight nights. That’s seven too many.”

“He’s a dog,” he pointed out. “And Bubbles has been spending every day with him.”

“He’s family,” she corrected.

He nodded, his dark eyes tracing the curve of her cheek and jaw. She could feel it like a physical touch.

Maybe they weren’t so much like strangers, after all.

She frowned, relieved when he walked around to the back of the wheelchair and rolled her into the hall.

“One of my colleagues is waiting for us at the service entrance. We figured taking you out that way would attract a lot less attention than wheeling you through the lobby,” he said. “You remember meeting Special Agent River Callahan?”

“Blond hair, blue eyes, nice smile?”

“I never paid much attention to the smile, but the other two are accurate. He and Wren are accompanying us to your place. They’ll be staying there until you make a decision about protective custody.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“You didn’t.” His quick blunt response left no room for argument.

Not that she cared about that.

She could have argued.

She could have listed a dozen reasons why she didn’t want or need federal officers in her house. Except that she wasn’t a hundred percent sure she didn’t need them.

She thought she didn’t.

She hoped she didn’t.

But if the Night Stalker really did live somewhere nearby, he might be someone she knew, someone who’d recognized her.

Someone who wanted to make sure that she didn’t recognize him.

“Okay,” she said.

“That was easy,” he responded.

“You expected me to argue?”

“You’re leaving the hospital against the advice of law enforcement,” he pointed out, “so that seemed like a reasonable assumption.”

“I’m tired of the hospital,” she replied. “But I’m still really fond of being alive. If there’s any chance the Night Stalker knows who I am—”

“We’ve been very careful about what information is released to the press.”

“That doesn’t mean much in a small town.”

He didn’t respond as he rolled her out into the hall.

She hadn’t expected him to.

He might have moved to Boston, joined the FBI, lived the high-stress busy life he’d always wanted, but he’d been born and raised in Whisper Lake. He knew how small towns worked, how information traveled over backyard fences and across church pews and made its way through the entire population so quickly it was nearly impossible to stop it. Regional papers had gotten wind of the Night Stalker’s attempted kidnapping. They’d been fed information from anonymous sources who’d been happy to tell them that a woman had been shot saving a nurse from the serial killer. Charlotte had seen the story running on local and national television. It had been front-page news for a week, and there was no doubt that Whisper Lake was buzzing with it.

People who lived there knew the police had responded to a shooting near the lake. They knew there’d been two women at the scene. They knew everything except for the fact that Charlotte had been involved.

She wanted to keep it that way.

They reached the nurse’s desk and the bank of elevators across from it. Adam passed both.

“Where are we going?” she asked, suddenly wondering if her escape from the hospital had seemed too easy because it was too easy.

Maybe Adam had his own plans.

Plans that didn’t include letting her return to the cottage.

“To the freight elevator,” he replied, turning down a quiet corridor that led deeper into the hospital.

“We are going home, right?” she asked as he stopped at the oversize elevator and tapped the call button.

“Yes.”

“If you don’t, I’ll find a way to get there myself.”

He leaned down, his lips so close to her ear, she thought she could feel their warmth. “I was a lot of things when we were married, Charlotte, but I was never a liar.”

The doors slid open and he wheeled her into the cavernous space.

He didn’t speak again, and she couldn’t.

All the words were caught in her throat, a million memories of Adam and what he’d meant to her flitting through her brain and lodging in her heart.

When the doors slid open again, she inhaled deeply, the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding puffing out into the chilly basement air. This part of the hospital wasn’t one visitors normally saw. The cement floor was old and paint-spattered, track marks from thousands of carts being wheeled through etched into it. Up ahead, what looked like a wide garage door was illuminated by a few dim overhead lights.

A man waited there, his suit jacket crisp and neat, his expression grim. He had a holster beneath his sports coat. She’d seen it and him a lot during her hospital stay. He was a member of the FBI’s Special Crimes Unit. He was also quiet, reserved and pointed in his questions. No matter how many times she answered, no matter what she said to him, she always had the idea that River Callahan didn’t believe her.

He nodded as Adam wheeled her closer, pressing a button so the door rose. Beyond it, moonlight cast long shadows across a nearly empty lot. Like so many other places in Whisper Lake, the hospital was bordered by state land, the edge of a national forest just beyond the lot.

She couldn’t take her eyes off the trees, off the circles of streetlights that illuminated the bare branches of old sycamores. Someone could be standing in the shadows, pointing a gun in her direction. She wouldn’t know it until it was too late, until the bullet had already flown and she was lying on the ground, bleeding to death.

“It’s okay,” Adam said quietly as he pushed the wheelchair down a long ramp. “We’ve been keeping an eye on the area since you arrived. If anyone were out here, we’d know it.”

“We?” River asked, his shoes tapping against the metal ramp.

“Figure of speech.”

“Good. I was afraid you’d forgotten that you’re currently on leave.”

“That would be difficult to do, seeing as how you and Wren remind me several times a day,” Adam replied. He sounded...older, more confident than he’d been five years ago.

And why wouldn’t he?

Time had passed. Life had gone on. He’d created his new reality. She’d created hers. They hadn’t spoken since the divorce papers were signed, their relationship cut off cold turkey as if they’d both understood that was how it had to be if they were going to move on without each other.

Cold air whipped across the parking lot, carrying a hint of wood-burning fires and pine needles. Winter would linger for another month or two. Then the world would blossom again. Charlotte planned to be around to see it. She planned to bring her dog-training group out on trails, to hike and fish and do all the things she did every spring and summer. She had to stay alive to do that. That was what she should be concentrating on. Not Adam and all the ways things were different. And the same.

She frowned, waiting impatiently as a black Cadillac drove around the corner of the building. It pulled up at the end of the ramp, and the next thing Charlotte knew, she was being bustled inside, nudged to the center of the back seat.

“When we reach your place, you’ll have to walk. I don’t want anyone seeing you in a wheelchair. We’re sticking to the story about your vacation. People are going to want to hear all about it. We’ll work on the details together. Okay?” Adam said as he slid in beside her.

She nodded.

The doors closed, and Adam grabbed her seat belt, pulling it across her lap and buckling it into place.

And then they were moving, the SUV pulling around the side of the building and out onto the highway, headlights gleaming on the paved road that led toward home.

* * *

He shouldn’t have come.

That thought was crystal clear in Adam’s mind, and he couldn’t shake it. Not that coming hadn’t been the right thing to do. It had been. The problem lay in the fact he couldn’t make himself leave. Charlotte had turned the corner a week ago. She’d gone from critical to stable to ready for release. The hospital had held her an extra day at the FBI’s request, and Adam had stayed by her side even then.

She was a habit he’d broken years ago.

Now he was forming it again.

That wasn’t a good thing. It wasn’t an acceptable one. He’d come to Whisper Lake because he’d needed to make amends for his failures. He hadn’t come to reconnect with Charlotte or to fit himself back in her life.

They’d grown up and apart, and he’d been content with that.

He still was, but he couldn’t help wondering if that would change. Enough time with Charlotte, enough quiet conversations in the middle of the nights, and maybe he’d begin to fall for her the way he had all those years ago.

Wren took the turn onto the country highway that led past the lake, and Charlotte slid toward Adam. His arm came up automatically, his fingers slipping around her shoulders, holding her steady.

“Careful,” he cautioned. “You don’t want to tear your wound open and end up back in the hospital.”

“The wound is healing nicely. Tomorrow, I’ll see the surgeon, and he’ll probably give me the go-ahead to get back to my regular activities.”

“Tomorrow, huh?” he said, glancing at the rearview mirror. Wren met his eyes. Just like he knew she would.

“River, you want to contact headquarters and see if they can send someone out to check Charlotte’s injury?” she asked.

“They don’t need to send someone out,” Charlotte argued. “As I said, I have an appointment with my surgeon. It’s already been set up.”

“You’ll have to cancel,” Wren said bluntly.

If the FBI had its way, Charlotte would be on a plane and out of the area before the scheduled appointment. Adam knew that. He wasn’t sure Charlotte did.

“Look, I know you’re doing your job and trying to protect me, but I really don’t think I should stop living my life. If I do, people who know me will wonder why. They’ll start asking questions. That will lead to speculation and gossip.”

“Going to a surgeon who specializes in trauma is probably not the best way to keep your friends from asking questions,” Adam cut in.

Charlotte frowned. “It’s not like I’m going to make an announcement about where I’m going. I have to go into work, and—”

“You’re kidding, right?” he said, because there was no way she could really think that would be okay with anyone.

“I teach math at the community college, Adam.”

“I’m aware of that.” He wanted to add, “Congratulations,” because she’d accomplished the goal she’d been shooting for since they were in middle school. He didn’t, because she was angry. He could see it in the tightness of her jaw, feel it in the tension of her muscles.

“I can’t just continue to not show up for work. My boss isn’t going to be happy forever with the ‘unexpected family emergency’ excuse you guys provided,” she continued.

“We spoke to your supervisor and the HR department,” Wren said. “Your job is secure.”

“I thought you didn’t want anyone knowing what was going on?” Charlotte countered.

“We make exceptions when we have to. Your supervisor assured us that he’ll keep the information private. He sent you his best.”

“When did you contact Reggie?” Charlotte asked, her hands fisted so tight Adam was sure she was gouging her nails into her skin.

“A few hours ago,” Wren answered, turning onto another road, the beams of the car glancing across a raccoon that scurried out of sight.

“It would have been nice to be informed about it before now.” Charlotte’s voice was tight, her words clipped.

“My team has been busy making sure your property is secure. We’ve also been putting together a backup plan. In case this doesn’t work.”

“This?”

“You staying at home.”

“I don’t see why it wouldn’t.”

“Did you ever see yourself as the victim of a serial killer, Charlotte?” River finally cut into the conversation. As usual, when he spoke, what he had to say was right on point.

She shook her head, some of her tension easing, her hands relaxing. She understood what he was saying—that anything could happen in life, and that it was best to be prepared for it.

Adam could have explained that she already knew that.

Losing their son had taught them both the lesson.

The car fell silent as Wren navigated the deep curves. The darkness of the road made it difficult, and she drove slowly, easing around bends that Adam knew like the back of his hand. He knew the hilly areas, the blind entrances. He’d driven along this stretch of rural highway every day for nearly a decade. He hadn’t forgotten it. Sure, the forest seemed lusher, the trees taller. Everything else was the same. The glint of lake in the distance. The pinpricks of house lights through dense foliage. Not many people lived out this far. Those who did liked their privacy.

Charlotte stared out the front window, her hands resting on her thighs, her gaze focused.

“What are you thinking?” he asked quietly.

She met his eyes, and he was caught in her gaze. Caught in that look of rebellion and pride that had drawn him to her when they were both outcast kids in a community that didn’t quite understand them.

“That the road looks a lot darker than it ever has before,” she responded.

They were nearing the crossroad that led to the cottage. She had to be remembering the way it had felt to see the truck, to hear Bethany scream.

He reached for her hand, the gesture more muscle-memory than planned. Her fingers curved through his, her palm as smooth and silky as he remembered.

He squeezed her hand gently, forced himself to release it.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said, and she nodded.

“That’s the thing to say, right? When tragedy happens? How many times did we hear it after Daniel died?”

His entire body tensed, his blood seeming to freeze in his veins. He thought about Daniel plenty, but it had been years since he’d heard his name spoken aloud. Hearing it was like hearing the saddest melody ever written, reading the most heartbreaking ending of the most beautiful story ever penned.

“Too many,” he managed to say.

The crossroad was just ahead, and he made himself focus on that—on the stop sign still strung with caution tape, the abandoned orange cones that had closed off the road after the shooting.

Something darted out from the trees, a blur of fur and legs, zipping toward the Cadillac with so much speed Adam was certain they’d hit it.

Wren slammed on the brakes, and he put his arm up to keep Charlotte from flying forward. As if the seat belt wouldn’t hold her, as if it were somehow still his job to protect her.

The Cadillac skidded to the right, bumping a couple of sapling trees. Adam had his gun in hand before it stopped, his arm pressing Charlotte down and out of the line of fire.

He knew how quickly safety could turn to danger, and he knew how desperate the Night Stalker must be. The local papers had run the story. So had the Boston Globe, the Providence Journal and a half dozen other New England newspapers.

Guardian Angel Saves Tenth Victim of Notorious Night Stalker

Adam had seen that headline and a variation of it. The reporters might not have Charlotte’s name, but they were speculating that she was someone local to Whisper Lake.

How long would it take the Night Stalker to figure out who she was and where she lived?

Would he try?

That was the question Adam had been asking himself. It was one he knew the team had been discussing.

“Holster your firearms,” Wren said. “It was a dog.”

“A dog?” Charlotte pushed his arm away and straightened, peering out the window. “What dog?”

“It ran off into the woods.” Wren gestured to the left. “Probably someone’s pet got off the chain.”

“We can’t leave him. There are predators around here,” Charlotte said.

“Yeah,” River agreed. “And some of them are human and want you dead. How about we worry about that and let the owner find his own dog?”

“Or we could unroll the window and call to him,” Charlotte argued. “It’s not like we’d be out in the open. We’d just be sitting here exactly like we are. Only, we wouldn’t be abandoning someone’s pet to his fate.”

“Fine. I’ll give it two shouts. If he doesn’t come, we’re out of here.” Wren unrolled her window. “Fido! Come!” she shouted.

Leaves rustled. A twig snapped.

A dog appeared.

At least, Adam thought it was a dog. It looked more like a giant ball of curly red fur. Floppy ears. Bearded snout. Dark eyes.

“Clover!” Charlotte shouted, and then she was scrambling over him, opening the door, tumbling out onto the road.

He grabbed the back of her soft pink sweater, hauling her up and into the SUV. Not caring about the injury or the incision. Not caring if they ended up back in the hospital getting her stapled up again.

All he cared about was keeping her alive.

If the dog loping toward them was hers, someone had let it out. Someone who might be waiting for her to return, waiting for her to go looking for the dog she obviously loved. Waiting on the road with a gun in hand, ready to finish what he’d begun.

Adam wanted to believe the Night Stalker didn’t know Charlotte’s identity, but he wasn’t going to be foolish enough to ignore the possibility.

Wren obviously felt the same.

She shouted for River to jump out and get the dog, and then she was speeding toward the lake and the cottage and the memories Adam had tried so hard to forget.

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