“You’re not telling me how to run my investigation, are you, reporter lady?”

His tone had that edge again.

Caroline stopped walking and her hands flew to her hips before she realized she was taking up her fighting stance. “So is this how it is between us, Sam? I’m Caroline if I play the game your way, reporter lady if I have an opinion of my own? If I show any spunk, you knock me down a peg or two, make sure I stay in my place. If I’m frightened and defenseless, you kiss me.”

He met her gaze. Cold and stony, but there was something else there, a mysterious quality to him that she couldn’t read.

“I didn’t kiss you because you were defenseless.”

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

We’ve got an intoxicating lineup crackling with passion and peril that’s guaranteed to lure you to Harlequin Intrigue this month!

Danger and desire abound in As Darkness Fell—the first of two installments in Joanna Wayne’s HIDDEN PASSIONS: Full Moon Madness companion series. In this stark, seductive tale, a rugged detective will go to extreme lengths to safeguard a feisty reporter who is the object of a killer’s obsession. Then temptation and terror go hand in hand in Lone Rider Bodyguard when Harper Allen launches her brand-new miniseries, MEN OF THE DOUBLE B RANCH.

Will revenge give way to sweet salvation in Undercover Avenger by Rita Herron? Find out in the ongoing NIGHTHAWK ISLAND series. If you’re searching high and low for a thrilling romantic suspense tale that will also satisfy your craving for adventure—you’ll be positively riveted by Bounty Hunter Ransom from Kara Lennox’s CODE OF THE COBRA.

Just when you thought it was safe to sleep with the lights off…Guardian of her Heart by Linda O. Johnston—the latest offering in our BACHELORS AT LARGE promotion—will send shivers down your spine. And don’t let down your guard quite yet. Lisa Childs caps off a month of spine-tingling suspense with a gripping thriller about a madman bent on revenge in Bridal Reconnaissance. You won’t want to miss this unforgettable debut of our new DEAD BOLT promotion.

Here’s hoping these smoldering Harlequin Intrigue novels will inspire some romantic dreams of your own this Valentine’s Day!

Enjoy,

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

As Darkness Fell
Joanna Wayne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978 1 472 03299 7

AS DARKNESS FELL

© 2004 Joanna Wayne

First Published in Great Britain in 2004

Harlequin (UK) Limited

1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, including without limitation xerography, photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.

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All characters in this work have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises II B.V./S.à.r.l.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk Version: 2020-08-19

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Joanna Wayne lives with her husband just a few miles from steamy, exciting New Orleans, but her home is the perfect writer’s hideaway. A lazy bayou, complete with graceful herons, colorful wood ducks and an occasional alligator, winds just below her back garden. When not creating tales of spine-tingling suspense and heartwarming romance, she enjoys reading, traveling, playing golf and spending time with family and friends. Joanna believes that one of the special joys of writing is knowing that her stories have brought enjoyment to or somehow touched the lives of her readers. You can write Joanna at P.O. Box 2851, Harvey, LA 70059-2851.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Caroline Kimberly—She’s a reporter trying to do her job, until the killer becomes obsessed with her.

Sam Turner—He’s the detective in charge of locating the madman who’s brought fear and murder to his peaceful Southern town, but will his attraction to the new reporter get in the way of his finding the killer?

Becky Simpson—Caroline’s best friend, who only wants to enjoy the good life.

Jack Smith—Becky’s new boyfriend.

Matt Hastings—Homicide detective and Sam’s right-hand man.

John Rhodes—Editor in chief of the Prentice Times.

Ron Baker—Delivery coordinator and general handyman for the Prentice Times.

Tracy Mitchell—Works at the Catfish Shack and was a co-worker of the first victim.

Tony Sistrunk—Sam’s former supervisor with the San Antonio Police Department.

R. J. Blocker—Sam’s stepbrother.

Josephine Sterling—Police sketch artist.

Sally Martin—First victim of serial killer.

Ruby Givens—Second victim of serial killer.

Frederick Lee Billingham—The man in the portrait at the top of the stairs in the historic house that Caroline leases.

To my good friends Ted and Sylvia Ross whose romance

has withstood the test of time. And a special thanks

to them for being such great travel companions.

Contents

Prologue

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

Epilogue

Prologue

“There is one thing I should tell you, Miss Kimberly, ’cause you’re gonna hear it from the neighbors, anyway,” Barkley Billingham said, examining her signature on the one-year lease she’d just signed. “My grandmother claims this house has ghosts.”

Caroline looked at him, sure he was going to follow the statement with some kind of joke. But the guy just stared at her in the same deadpan way he had for the past two hours while she’d looked at the house.

“Why does she think the house is haunted?”

“You know how old houses are. They make noises. Creaks and moans, stuff like that. And when the north wind’s blowing, it catches the corner by the bedroom and sounds like a woman shrieking.”

“That’s all?”

He folded the lease and tapped it against his arm. “Pretty much.”

Caroline sighed. She could live with that, especially in a grand old house like this one. In fact, she couldn’t imagine anyone with the kind of roots Barkley had here ever wanting to live anywhere else. “Are you the owner of the house?”

“No, it’s still in my grandmother’s name, but she moved to Florida. Lives in one of those places for retired folks. She thought the house was too much work. She talks about selling it all the time, but nobody wants to pay the kind of money she’s asking for it.”

“Did you move out because you think the house is haunted?”

“I’d have stayed. I was living free here, but I moved in with my girlfriend. I wouldn’t worry none about the place being haunted if I was you. The house survived the Yanks coming down and destroying half of Georgia. Hell, I figure it can survive a few ghosts.”

“Is that one of your relatives?” she asked, pointing to a painting on the wall at the top of a winding double staircase that could have come right from the set of Gone with the Wind.

“That’s Frederick Lee Billingham, my great-great-great-grandfather. He’s the one who built the house, and my grandmother claims he’s hung in that very spot ever since the house was finished. She says he put a curse on the portrait, and if it’s ever moved, Frederick will come back from the grave and woe unto the one who removed him from his place of honor. My grandmother is kind of nuts like that.”

“Then I guess I better leave the picture hanging. I’m not looking for any woe.”

“Suit yourself. You can do whatever you want with it. Same with this furniture up here. You can use it or stick it in the basement with the other old junk.”

“This isn’t junk. I love the furniture up here, especially the sofa. I think the ghosts and I will get along just fine,” she said, hoping she was right.

“Good. ’Cause they’re all yours, as long as you pay the rent on time. How come you moved here to Prentice, anyway? Most people I know who are under the age of ninety are trying to get out.”

“I took a position with the Prentice Times.”

“What kind of position?”

“I’m a reporter.” Well, she wasn’t, but she would be, starting on Monday. She’d been a teacher in Atlanta until they’d let her go just two weeks before she was to start the year that would have given her tenure. But a job was a job, even one as a grunt reporter. And she loved the house.

“Don’t see how they even sell those papers. Nothing ever goes on around here to write about, unless you’re interested in that dumb historic pageant they do every summer in Cedar Park. Or the Heritage Ball.”

“I’m sure there’ll be some news. They seemed eager to hire a reporter.”

She stood at the top of the landing as Barkley let himself out the front door, then turned to the unsmiling face of Frederick Lee Billingham.

“Glad to meet you, sir. I’ll be living here now, and neither you nor any other Billingham ghosts are running me off.”

Actually, she couldn’t leave even if she wanted to—not until next August. She had a one-year lease. And high hopes for a new life in the quiet, historic town of Prentice, Georgia.

Chapter One

Six months later

Caroline Kimberly swerved into the first available parking spot she saw, past the news van from the local TV channel and two police cars that showered the park and street with blinking red and blue lights. She grabbed her camera from the back seat, then scooted out from behind the wheel, slammed the door shut and cut across a grassy area. Big mistake, she decided as her high heels sank into the mud.

She jerked off her dangling earrings and stuffed them in her purse before she reached the cop standing guard over the gate. Unfortunately she couldn’t do anything about the slinky red dress or the shoes. They’d been fine at her friend Becky Simpson’s birthday party, but they were sorely out of place here. A jacket would be nice to cover her cleavage, but it was unseasonably warm for February and she didn’t have one with her.

“Caroline Kimberly, the Prentice Times,” she said, flashing her press ID.

The cop shone a beam of light at the card, then looked her over, letting his gaze linger longer than necessary on the low-cut neckline of the dress. “If I were you, I’d go back to the party—unless you have a very strong stomach.”

“What happened?”

“Somebody caught a touch of full-moon madness. Killed a young woman, cut her throat and gave her a bloody paint job.”

“Full-moon madness?”

“That’s what I call it. Something about the moon and the blood rush pushes crazies over the edge.”

She shuddered and longed to turn around and go back to the party. But she’d worked hard to leave the ranks of grunt reporter and get a chance to cover some real news. Writing about murders had to be more challenging than covering a continuous run of ladies’ auxiliary meetings and garden teas. Of course, she hadn’t expected to run across a freshly butchered body her first week.

She scanned the area. No sign of her photographer even though he’d said he’d meet her here. Good thing she always kept her camera in her car. This could be big. She was glad her boss had gotten hold of the story so quickly, though it would have been nice if she’d beaten the TV reporters here.

“Get these people out of here—now. You can start with the broad on stilts.”

Caroline spun around to see who was barking orders and singling her out for his scorn. The guy was tall and brawny, dressed in faded jeans and a black T-shirt that had seen a couple of thousand washings.

“I’m a reporter with the Prentice Times and I have every right to be here,” she shot back.

“Wrong. It’s a crime scene. You have no rights.” He stormed past her and headed to the spot where the TV camera was rolling.

“Obnoxious ass,” she murmured, too low for him to hear, but apparently not low enough. Another cop stepped to her side while she stood there debating what to do next.

“Don’t pay no attention to Sam,” he said. “That’s just his way.”

“Rude and all bark?”

“Hell, no. Sam’s more vicious than a bulldog on speed. I just meant you shouldn’t take it personally. He feels that way ’bout all reporters.”

That was just too bad. The TV cameras were running. She had to at least get a story. Someone else came up and started talking to the cop and she slipped away, this time all but running toward the action.

The cop yelled at her to come back. She ignored him, hoping that wasn’t grounds for arrest. A few yards later she was close enough to see the body. The woman was lying on her back, naked. Her neck was gaping open and giant X’s had been painted in blood across her breasts.

Caroline’s stomach heaved and she turned away, suddenly so nauseated she could barely stand. Someone told her to get out of the way. This time she did, slinking into the nearby bushes and throwing up everything but the lining of her stomach. When she finished, the young cop who’d tried to stop her earlier was standing right behind her.

“Must have been something I ate,” she said.

“Yeah. I almost did the same thing when I saw the victim.”

Almost. Meaning he hadn’t. She was obviously green, both literally and figuratively.

“Are you all right now?” he asked.

“I will be in a minute. What’s the story on the dead woman?”

“There isn’t one yet.”

“Who found the body?”

“Not sure, but whoever it was called the TV station. They were here before the cops, which is why Sam’s fit to be tied. Probably the most brutal crime to ever hit Prentice, and his crime scene is compromised.”

“Is he in charge of the investigation?”

“He’s the head of homicide. Makes sense he’d head up this one.”

“What’s his last name?”

“Turner.”

Detective Sam Turner. The name seemed familiar, but she was certain she’d never met the man before. He might be irritating, but he wasn’t the kind of man you’d forget. More intimidating than handsome, but rugged—and brawny enough that a woman had to notice.

“I hate to run you off,” the cop said, “but Sam gave orders to clear the area of reporters.”

Yeah, especially the “broad in stilts.” She nodded and started back in the direction of the gate. Only, she made a turn at the last minute when she realized no one was watching her, took a deep breath to calm her stomach and rattled nerves, then walked back to the body. This time when she got there, she started snapping pictures, though she imagined they’d be too gory to run in the morning paper.

Detective Sam Turner appeared from nowhere and stuck his hand in front of her lens. “I hope there’s a very good reason why you’re still here.”

“I’ll be writing an article for tomorrow’s edition of the local paper, and I have a couple of questions.”

“Oh, well, let’s just forget the killer and try to get you a story.”

She ignored the sarcasm. “Do you have any suspects?”

“Hey, Turner,” someone called from an area beyond the immediate crime scene. “Come take a look at this.”

“Be right there.” He turned back to her. “I don’t have a suspect or a motive or even an identification of the victim, and I don’t give a damn what you write in your little article. I do care that some woman was sliced up like a slab of meat, so if you’ll get out of my way, I’d like to find out who did the carving.”

“Should the public be concerned that…”

He turned and walked away as if she were a pesky fly not even worth swatting.

But he had told her what she needed to know. There were no leads and the victim was as yet unidentified. Slim, but she could stretch it into a front-page story, especially if any of the pictures were publishable.

This was no doubt the most macabre murder to hit quiet little Prentice in a long, long time. Maybe since forever. She’d have to call her boss the minute she got to the car and tell him to hold her a spot on the front page.

The Prentice Times was a small-town daily and John Rhodes, both editor in chief and managing editor, had a very hands-on management style. He’d want to see every word of this story before it went to print.

According to the lore of reporters, she should be experiencing some kind of rush right now. But all she felt was a queasiness deep in her gut and a nameless dread that seemed to reach clear to her soul.

She’d write the article, and every parent who picked up the morning paper would feel a knot of fear when they read it. Those who didn’t know where their daughters were would become sick with worry.

This was some career she’d chosen—or that had chosen her. A frightening, challenging, dubious hell of a career.

COPS, TV CAMERAS, reporters. What a show. And down to a man—and woman—they’d recoiled at their first glimpse of the body. But they stayed and stared, soaking up the sight of gore as if they couldn’t get enough.

They were wondering, no doubt, how it felt to actually wield the knife, imagining the frisson when the first blood spilled from her body. They envied him. Not that they’d ever admit it. They considered themselves above such cravings, but he knew better.

They were fascinated with the act of murder, the same way racing fans lived for the big crashes and people stayed glued to their TVs when tragedy hit.

He watched and studied them all, especially Detective Sam Turner. But his gaze was drawn again and again to the reporter in the sexy red dress. She was doing her job, but it was clear she was getting no respect. Sam Turner thought this was his game, but he was wrong. He’d find that out soon enough. They’d all find out.

Murder by murder by murder.

Chapter Two

It was ten minutes before midnight by the time Caroline had finished at the newspaper office and made it back to her house. As she’d expected, John was thrilled that she’d managed to get few pertinent details and a couple of usable pictures of the cops working the crime scene. He’d stood over her while she’d written the copy, making suggestions and asking questions, but when she’d finished, he’d told her what a great job she’d done.

She was tired, but the images from the murder scene stayed with her, replaying like a video in slow motion as she showered, brushed her teeth, then rummaged through her bureau drawer for something soft and satiny to sleep in. Lingerie was her one indulgence, a side effect of the years she’d had to wear nothing but functional cotton that could take lots of wear and harsh bleaches and detergents.

Tonight she slipped into a pair of pink silk pajamas with a matching robe. But even that didn’t calm her mood. She went to the kitchen, poured a glass of wine and carried it with her as she roamed from one room to another. She loved the historic old house better all the time, even though the rent was a tad more than she could actually afford.

Sure the floors creaked and moaned and the ancient plumbing rattled, but the house had character and personality. It had seen weddings, births, countless celebrations—and deaths. It almost breathed stories of the past. So if a few spirits remained, who could blame them?

But she doubted any of the former inhabitants of the Billingham house had ever seen anything like the brutal murder she’d covered tonight. Caroline wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly cold and filled with a kind of nebulous apprehension, then climbed the creaking, winding staircase. The second-floor hallway was wide and high-ceilinged, and contained the furniture her landlord had left. A Queen Anne sofa so faded and stained, it was impossible to decipher the original color. An antique chest with spindly legs and broken pulls. A wavy wall mirror, bordered in tarnished silver, ornately embellished as if made for a queen.

And her favorite, a marred and stained secretary that had been made in France and shipped to America just before the Civil War. She’d found that out from records still stored in the secretary itself.

Caroline dropped onto the sofa and pulled her feet up beside her. Leaning back, she stared at the gold-framed portrait that hung above the staircase. Even at this angle, the eyes in the portrait seemed to be looking right at her.

“Things have changed, Frederick Lee. Time is no longer passing by your peaceful Southern town. History and modern macabre have now officially merged.”

Finally she gave in to the burning pressure of her eyelids and let them close. Her subconscious took over, forming new images out of gruesome reality. She was trying to close the victim’s gaping wound while Detective Turner guided her shaking hand. They moved slowly and deliberately, as if working some deranged jigsaw puzzle. The pieces were there, but she couldn’t make them fit. She was so tired. So very, very tired.

Slowly the images faded and she fell into the old nightmarish dream that had haunted her for as long as she could remember. The old church. The dark steep staircase. Dread so real she could taste it.

She jerked awake, the silk pajamas soaked with cold sweat that still beaded between her breasts and on her brow.

But it was only the nightmare that crept out from the dark recesses of her mind whenever she was stressed. Still, she flicked on the light. Frederick Lee was looking down on her, watching over her—at least, his painted eyes made her feel that he was.

It was nice to have him there.

CAROLINE STOOD with a dozen or more reporters at the news conference held at noon in Mayor Henry Glaxton’s office. The room overflowed with eager reporters, but it became whisper quiet the second the mayor stepped behind the podium and adjusted the microphone.

He addressed the group in a smooth Southern drawl, expressing his condolences to the family of the victim, who’d now been identified as Sally Martin, and warning the citizens of Prentice to be cautious until the man who had committed the crime was identified and arrested. A task that he assured them was top priority.

The chief of police took the mike next. His explanation of the murder was brief. Sally had been a waitress at the Catfish Shack and was last seen alive at about 10:30 p.m. when she’d left work alone. Her car was found in the parking lot of her apartment complex, her handbag in the passenger seat, apparently untouched. There was no sign of a struggle. Like the mayor, the chief declined to answer questions. He’d leave that to the lead detective, Sam Turner.

“Which means we’ll learn absolutely nothing,” a reporter standing next to Caroline muttered. “Turner considers reporters disgusting parasites that exist merely to plague him.”

Still, hands shot into the air as Sam joined the chief at the front of the room. He was no longer dressed in the faded jeans and T-shirt, but a pair of gray slacks and a light blue sports shirt, open at the neck. He cleaned up real good.

SAM LOOKED over the crowd and felt an annoying dryness in the back of his throat and a tightening of his muscles. As far as he was concerned, news conferences were a waste of time and a damn nuisance. He should be out in the field tracking down the murderer, not standing here trying to appease a bunch of clueless reporters.

“Do you think this was a crime of passion?”

“I don’t stick labels on murders. I leave that to you guys.”

“Do you think the killer knew the victim?”

“It’s possible.”

“Do you think this is connected to some kind of cult or devil worship?”

“We don’t have any information to indicate that.” Sam pointed at a skinny guy in the back of the room.

“If it’s not some kind of cult murder, how do you account for the marking on the victim’s chest?”

“I’m not jumping to conclusions and I’m not ruling out anything at this point.”

“But you do think it could be some kind of ritualistic killing?”

“Anything’s possible.” How many ways was he going to have to say that before this was over? He glared at the waving hands, then pointed to the woman who’d thrown up in the bushes last night.

“Do you think the killer will kill again?”

Not the question he wanted. Not that he didn’t know the answer. The guy was a walking time bomb armed with a hunting knife. And if Sam said that out loud, he’d send the town into total panic and give the mayor a heart attack.

“I think people should stay alert until this man’s behind bars.”

All the hands were flying now. He glanced at his watch. Five more minutes before he could cut and run. Five more minutes that the killer was walking free.

SAM TURNER was the first to leave the room when the conference was over. Caroline was the last. There was no reason for her to rush to the office and put a story together from the skimpy details that had been provided. The Prentice Times didn’t run a Sunday edition.

She took the side exit, the one closest to her car. That side of the building was deserted, and for a second she had the weird feeling that someone was watching her. She turned and looked behind her. No one was there.

Still, she locked the car doors the second she got in, realizing that this was the first time she’d done that since she’d moved here from Atlanta. Instead of starting the engine, she took out her notebook and scribbled down her thoughts, not in reporter framework, but just in the order they flew into her mind.

A young woman had her throat slashed and blood smeared over her breasts. What would cause a person to do such a hideous thing? Anger? Passion gone berserk? Or had something in the killer’s mind just slipped off center? And would he strike again?

Caroline’s cell phone rang, startling her so that she jumped and bumped her elbow on the steering wheel. She checked the number. It was Becky. She took a deep, steadying breath before she answered, trying to dispel the dark mood that had come over her.

“Okay, I’m a louse,” she said. “I should have called and explained my sudden departure just when the party was starting to get fun.”

“No need. We figured you’d rushed off to a story. Was it the woman whose body was found in Freedom Park?”

“Yeah.”

“I was afraid of that. That must have been totally gruesome.”

“Pretty bad.”

“We’ll have a beer later. You can tell me all about it.”

“You’ll need more than a beer if I do.”

“You sound upset.”

“A little. Actually more than a little,” Caroline admitted reluctantly.

“Maybe you should ask your boss to put you back in your old assignment.”

“Just wimp out?”

“Hey, if it involves murder, I would,” Becky said. “Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Fine. How did the rest of the party go?”

“Not a lot happened after you left. We danced awhile. The party started breaking up about midnight.”

“So how does it feel to be the ripe old age of twenty-six?”

“Not bad. I checked for new wrinkles this morning, but didn’t find any. Of course, it could be that my eyes are going.”

“No. I’m already twenty-seven, and I can still read the very small letters they print my name in when they bother to add it to my copy,” Caroline said.

“Tell them to make it bigger or you’ll quit.”

“And who would pay my rent?”

“I’ll lend you money. I have plenty.”

Which was quite true. Not only were Becky’s parents well-off, but her grandmother had left Becky a trust fund that ran somewhere in the millions. Caroline wasn’t even sure Becky knew what she was worth. And not only was she rich, she was fun, petite and cute, with baby blue eyes and bouncy blond curls that danced about her tanned cheeks.

“I’ll just keep working,” Caroline said. “It keeps me out of trouble.”

“It won’t if you keep wearing that red dress you had on last night. You were hot!”

“Do you think it’s appropriate for shopping at flea markets? That’s about the only place I go these days, except for work.”

Caroline stuck the key in the ignition as she talked, then noticed a yellow square of paper stuck under her windshield. Not a parking ticket, but some kind of note.

“Let me get back to you, Becky. I’ve got some business to take care of.”

“Okay, but first, what did you think of Jack?”

“Do I know a Jack?”

“He was at the party last night. Cute guy. Blond hair. I saw you talking to him before he left.”

“Oh, yeah. He seemed nice enough. Why?”

“I just wondered.”

And probably wanted to fix her friend up with him. But the guy obviously wasn’t interested, or he wouldn’t have cut out early.

They said their goodbyes and she opened the door and retrieved the note. It was about three inches square with a sticky strip across the back. She might have spoken too soon about how acute her vision was. This time she had to squint to read the tiny, but very neat, print:

I saw you last night in the park. You look good in red. Come to my next party. I’ll be looking for you.

She read the note again, but this time her blood ran cold. My party. Surely this couldn’t be from the deranged bastard who’d killed and cut up the woman in the park. Yet…

She sat there, shaking, holding the note and staring at it until her fingers grew numb. Finally she turned the key and the engine purred to life. She yanked the car into gear, then waited for a black sedan to pass.

Driving the sedan was none other than Sam Turner, talking into a cell phone without even a glance her way. She pulled out quickly and stayed close behind him, not sure that following him was a smart thing, but thinking she should show him the note.

Two blocks later he pulled into the parking lot of the Prentice Bar and Grille. She lingered in the car, giving him time to go in and be seated while she pulled herself together. Her first murder assignment. And now the killer wanted her for a pen pal. It was the stuff of horror movies.

Once inside, it took her a minute or two to locate Sam. He was in a booth in the back, on his cell phone again, one hand cradling a tall glass of iced tea. He looked even more imposing here than he had at the crime scene and the press conference.

“Table for one?”

She smiled at the hostess. “I’m with the guy in the back, the one wearing the blue shirt.” She nodded in his direction.

“Sam didn’t say he was expecting anyone.”

“I wasn’t sure I could make it.” She brushed past the waitress, made her way to Sam’s booth and slid in across from him.

He glared at her but finished his conversation. When he was through, he laid the phone on the table and made eye contact. His eyes were a deeper brown than his short hair, and she had the feeling he could see right through her. But mostly it was the sheer virility of the guy she noticed. He seemed to ooze testosterone.

“The news conference is over,” he said, his tone commanding.

“I don’t have a question. I have information.”

His expression changed very little. “What kind of information?”

She pulled the note from the side pocket of her handbag and slid it across the table toward him. “I found this on the windshield of my car after the press conference. I think you should read it.”

The condensation from his glass of tea had wet his fingers. He wiped them on a paper napkin and picked up the note, careful to touch only one corner. To avoid fingerprints, she was sure. Now why hadn’t she thought of that?

He read it slowly, his expression unchanging. But when he looked up, his gaze was piercing. “Where were you parked?”

“Behind the administration building. Between Cork Avenue and Savannah Street.”

“Did you see anyone when you approached the car?”

“No, but I had this strange feeling someone was watching me.”

“A feeling?”

“You know, just an uneasy sensation. And I’m not usually a nervous person.”

The waitress appeared and put a plate overflowing with a hamburger and fries in front of Sam. Caroline ordered a diet soda, quite certain it was all her stomach could handle at this point.

She waited until the waitress had walked out of hearing range before she asked the question that consumed her thoughts. “Do you think this note is from the man who killed Sally Martin?”

“It’s hard to say. That’s obviously what he wants you to think.”

“But who else would write something like this?”

“Any time there’s a murder like this, it brings out the weirdos.”

“You talk as if you’ve seen a lot of murders like this one.”

“I’ve seen my share. What about you, Miss…?”

“Kimberly, but you can call me Caroline.” She hesitated, hating to admit the truth but seeing no reason to lie. “This is my first one.”

His face remained unreadable. “Are you with a newspaper or a TV station?”

“The Prentice Times.”

“I thought Doreen Guenther handled their crime beat. Not that Prentice had much of a crime beat before now.”

“Her mother’s ill. She took a family-emergency leave.” The waitress returned with Caroline’s drink. She slipped the straw between her lips and took a huge sip, needing to soothe her dry throat. “So what do I do now?”

“I’ll take the note and try to get some prints off it, but I doubt I can, since you mishandled it.”

“I didn’t know it might be from the killer when I tore it off the window.”

“If you get another, I want you to lift it by one corner and put it in a plastic bag. And call me immediately.” He took a business card from his shirt pocket and passed it across the table. “Use the cell number. And just for the record, I wouldn’t publish the fact that the killer may have contacted you.”

“Why not?”

“Whether the note’s a prank or from the killer, publicity is likely to spur him on.”

“So I may just keep getting these notes?”

“It’s hard to say.”

“Do you ever say anything definite?”

“When I have something definitive to say.”

Yeah, well, she was beginning to wonder if he had a clue what he was doing or if he was just faking the whole experience bit. Which didn’t make her feel any better, considering she was getting fan mail from a killer. “Why me?” she murmured more to herself than to Sam.

“You didn’t exactly fade into the crowd in that getup you had on last night.”

“I was at a party when my editor called and told me to head straight for Freedom Park. I didn’t have time to change into something appropriate for a murder scene.”

“No reason to get huffy with me. You asked why you were singled out. I was just answering.” Sam slid his plate in front of him and switched his attention to the loaded sesame bun. She figured that was her invitation to leave.

She took another sip of her drink, then wiped her hands on her napkin. The man was too calm. If he thought she’d heard from the killer, he should be doing something. She wasn’t sure what, but she wasn’t a detective. “Aren’t you going to ask for my phone number in case you think of something else to ask me?”

“Your number’s easy enough to get.”

“It’s unlisted.”

He took another bite of his burger.

She stood and slung her handbag over her shoulder.

“One more thing, Miss Kinnerty.”

“Kimberly. Caroline Kimberly.”

“Miss Kimberly, whoever killed Sally Martin is a very dangerous man. Don’t try to be a hero.”

“That, Detective Turner, is the farthest thing from my mind.”

“Keep it that way.”

And that was it. Not even a thank-you for coming to him with the information, though she knew there were some reporters who wouldn’t have. They’d have played along with the killer in an effort to get a really big story.

Instead, she was playing with Sam Turner. She was certain it was not going to be a fun game.

SAM WATCHED Caroline walk away, a thousand memories tramping through his mind, none of them welcome. He wasn’t sure what it was about the reporter that reminded him of Peg. They didn’t look the same. Peg’s hair had been long, whereas Caroline’s was short, and the color of wheat, whereas Caroline’s was more like café au lait.

But something about Caroline reminded him of Peg and that was enough reason to make sure he kept his distance from her. Something that might prove very difficult if she became his link with a killer.

He’d lost his taste for the burger, but he finished it, anyway. He ate from habit, the way he did a lot of things these days. Eat and sleep and breathe. Go through the motions.

Let it go, Sam, or it will eat you alive.

That had been the police psychiatrist’s advice after Peg’s death. Shows how little the shrink knew about him. Except for the motions, Sam was already dead. And there was no letting go.

IT WAS HER DAY OFF, so when Caroline left the Grille, she went home, glanced at the day’s mail and made herself a salad that she barely touched. Nothing she did took the murder or the note off her mind. Finally she took a glass of chardonnay and climbed the stairs to the second floor to tackle cleaning the huge hall closet, a task she’d put off ever since moving in. But today the thought of escaping into someone else’s old junk seemed more of a reprieve than work.

Thunder rumbled in the distance as she opened the closet door and breathed in the musty odor. No telling what skeletons might climb out when she started rummaging through the tattered boxes. The good thing was, they wouldn’t bear any of her DNA. The bad thing was, neither did any other skeletons she knew anything about.

Wrapping her arms around a large box that sat on the closet floor, she tugged until it was out in the open. The tape that held it closed was brittle and peeling, and it took only a yank to loosen it.

The box was carefully packed, full of sealed plastic pouches. She opened one and pulled out the contents. Yards of teal satin spilled out. It took her a few seconds to realize it was a dress.

Standing, she held the dress to her shoulders to get the full effect. The full skirt hit just above her ankles, hiding most of her legs, but the neckline was plunging. A gown fit for a formal party in the late 1800s—or perhaps a madam in a fancy brothel.

The dress appeared in too good a condition to be authentic. More than likely it had been made for the annual spring pilgrimage event, when many of Prentice’s historic homes opened their doors to the public. It was traditional for the hostesses to dress in the style of the period during which the houses had been built.

Caroline had first met Becky at one of the pilgrimages three years ago, her first year as a teacher. She’d brought a group of her students down to tour the houses and Becky had been one of the guides.

They’d hit it off from the moment they met, more because they were so different than because they were alike. The friendship had paid off in lots of ways. Becky was the one who’d told Caroline about the Times looking for a reporter back when she’d lost her teaching job.

Stripping off her slacks and sweater, Caroline lifted the dress and fit her head inside the opening, letting the dress slide into place. The full skirt swirled about her legs as she danced over to the antique mirror and stared at her reflection. The distortion of the wavy glass was more pronounced than usual in the grayness of the cloudy afternoon, giving the shimmering dress a luminance that seemed almost magical.

The moment ended abruptly at the gong of the doorbell. She wasn’t expecting anyone. But then, she hadn’t been expecting a call to a murder scene last night or a note from a weirdo today, either.

Lifting the full skirt, she hurried down the winding staircase. The doorbell rang again before she got there, this time prolonged. She stopped at the door and looked through the peephole. Sam Turner.

And if he thought her outfit last night was a bit much, imagine how he’d react to this one. She started to yank the low-cut bosom up, then changed her mind and tugged it lower, leaving lots of exposed cleavage and little to the imagination. Might as well shock the detective all the way. Too bad she didn’t have on her stilts.

She swung open the door and smiled up at him. “Hello, detective.”

SAM ROCKED back on his heels, speechless. Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No, I’m just relaxing. Care for a mint julep on the veranda?”

He didn’t answer, just worked to drag his gaze away from the pink mounds of flesh peeking out of her dress. Another fraction of an inch and her nipples would have been staring back at him.

“That was a joke, Detective. There’s not a mint or a julep in the house. I was just cleaning out a closet, found the dress and tried it on.”

“Good. I thought you might be expecting Rhett Butler.”

“No. I hate men who don’t give a damn.” She opened the door a little wider. “Now that you’re here, I guess you should come in.”

“Just for a minute.”

“Were you able to get prints from the note?”

“Only one set besides mine on the right edge.”

“And the one set would have to be mine.”

“It appears that way.”

“I doubt you came all the way over here to tell me that.”

“No. I have a proposition for you.”

“I don’t sleep with cops.”

“Good, since I wasn’t going to ask you to. I’d like you to take a run over to the crime scene with me.”

“You want me to go to the park where Sally Martin was murdered?”

“That’s right. It won’t take long.”

She took a step backward. “I’d rather not go back there, Detective.”

Now that surprised him. Every reporter he’d ever known would have been salivating at the possibility of visiting the scene of the crime with the lead homicide detective. “It could be important, Caroline.”

“Why?”

“I’d like you to show me exactly where you were at all times last night. Where you parked your car. Which areas of the park you were in, that sort of thing.”

“I was only there a few minutes.”

“Long enough for the killer to see you, if in fact he was the one who wrote the note. You may have seen him, too, without realizing it. If we go back there, I can get a better feel for where he may have been standing while he was watching you. It might even trigger a memory of something you’ve forgotten.”

“I didn’t talk to anyone except cops.”

“Look, I know this won’t be as much fun as playing dress-up, but I have a dead woman, a brutal killer on the loose and no leads. Now are we going to stand here and quibble, or are you going with me?”

“Since you put it that way, I don’t have a lot of choice. I’ll need to change first.”

“A good idea.” Hopefully into something that completely covered her breasts. “Make it quick. The storm’s blowing in fast.”

She turned and hurried away, leaving him standing by the door. Her skirt swished about her ankles, making soft, crinkly sounds that seem to slide under his skin.

What the hell was it about her that got to him like this? Or had it just been too damn long since he’d been with a woman?

Not that it mattered. He had a killer to catch.

A killer who had Caroline Kimberly on his mind. It was no time for Sam to be lusting after her, too.

Chapter Three

There was no bloody body waiting, but Caroline found the park even more ominous and cryptic than she had the night before. Dark clouds, heaving with moisture, rolled and tossed in the wind, and bolts of not-too-distant lightning were followed by rumbling claps of thunder, adding to the eerie feel.

A group of teenagers carrying skateboards stopped to watch them as she and Sam got out of the car. Her imagination flew into overtime and she tried to picture one of them wielding the knife and cutting Sally Martin’s throat. But the innocence on their faces made them seem incapable of such brutality.

Sam glanced their way, then appeared to dismiss them as inconsequential. “It’s going to pour soon, so let’s get started.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Where did you park your car last night?”

“Down the block, near that big oak.” She pointed to a tree whose branches canopied the narrow neighborhood street.

He didn’t bother to wait for her, just strode off in that direction, his gaze scanning the area. Once under the tree, he threw back his head and stared into the branches above him as if he expected the killer to be sitting there, waiting. “Was there anyone standing nearby when you got out of the car?” he asked when she finally caught up to him.

“There were clusters of onlookers everywhere, but I didn’t notice anyone in particular.”

“Did anyone speak to you?”

“Not then.”

“You’re sure?”

She tried to think back. Her mind had been on so many things when she arrived last night. Her photographer. The lights of the police cars and the TV cameras. Her inexperience in such a situation. Still, her memory was usually good for details. “I don’t remember speaking to anyone until I reached the gate. I showed my ID to the cop who was standing guard, and he took one look at my dress and said I should go back to the party unless I had a strong stomach.”

“So you marched right in?”

“It’s my job.” It still was, so she looked around, trying to take in as many details as she could. The park took up a full city block. There were baseball fields to the back, a jogging track, trees and walkways and a play area with picnic tables off to the right, near a wooded area. That was where the body had been.

Across the street from the park were small houses, mostly brick fronts with touches of stucco. A few had porches. A middle-aged man sat in a porch swing in the house directly across from them, watching them as he swayed back and forth. It was a natural thing for him to do, but still, his gaze made her uneasy.

“Do you think the killer was watching me even before I entered the park?”

“Possibly.”

“From one of the houses?”

“He could have been watching from any number of spots. A house. Sitting in a parked car. Crouched behind someone’s bushes. From the edge of the wooded area. But more likely he was just mingling in the crowd of bystanders.”

And if the guy had been there last night, he could be out there somewhere now. She could all but see his eyes. They’d be dark, piercing, threatening. “Do we have to go inside the park?” she asked, anxious to get back in the car and drive away.

“It would help. Just retrace your steps, and I’ll follow you.”

They walked back to the gate as another bolt of lightning hit, this one way too close for comfort. Once inside the gate, she headed straight for the area where she’d first seen the body. “I started to follow the lights from the TV crew,” she said. “That’s when you spotted me and told some cop to order the broad on stilts out of here.”

“Apparently it didn’t do a lot of good.”

“The cop told me to leave, but when he got sidetracked, I went back to my job. The public has a right to know.”

“So you ignored police orders. Then what?”

“I looked at the body, and…” Damn, she hated to admit her weakness in front of this detective.

“You threw up in the bushes.”

“How did you know that?”

“You were quite a hit last night. Wasn’t a cop on duty who didn’t notice the reporter in the red dress.”

Cops. Killers. She’d impressed them all, except for Detective Sam Turner. He kicked a small pebble. It flew through the air, coming to a stop just inside the yellow police tape that circled the area where the body had been found.

Bloodstains were still visible, though they’d probably fade after the rain. But the images in Caroline’s mind were still as clear as if Sally had still been lying in the grass. She shuddered and stepped away.

Sam took her arm. “Steady now. We’ll be through here in a minute.”

“Do you ever get desensitized to murder?” she asked.

“No. If I did, I’d get out of the business.”

The admission made him seem more human somehow. It meant he wasn’t all roar and rumble. Might even have a heart beneath that brawny chest. “Have you ever been on a case where the killer contacted someone he’d seen at the crime scene?”

“No, but it’s not unheard of. I remember reading about one case on the West Coast a couple of years ago. Serial killer called a female news anchor before every crime.”

“What happened?”

He shook his head. “I don’t remember.”

She didn’t buy that for a second. “He killed the woman he’d called, didn’t he?”

For the first time since they’d been in the park, he turned his attention totally to her. “Nothing will happen to you, Caroline. Not unless you let this man draw you into his sick games.”

The first drop of rain fell, quickly followed by others. They splattered on her nose and ran down her cheeks. Sam grabbed her hand and started running toward the car. But the storm’s fury didn’t wait. The rain blowing into her face stung like needles, making her contact lenses blur until she could barely see. By the time they reached the car, her clothes were soaked and water from her hair was dripping down the back of her neck.

Sam started the ignition and turned on the heater, but he sat for a minute before putting the car in gear. She had the feeling there was something else he wanted to say, but if there was, he changed his mind. He kept his gaze straight ahead as he pulled away from the curb.

Don’t get drawn into this.

Good advice, only the killer had drawn her in the second he’d singled her out and delivered his note. With that one act he’d robbed her of any chance of the objectiveness reporters were supposed to maintain. Nonetheless, she’d keep things under control, report the news and do a good job of keeping the citizens of Prentice informed.

And pray he didn’t contact her again.

“I TALKED TO every neighbor on the block,” Matt said, scooting his notes in front of Sam. “Everyone claims not to have seen anything until the television news van arrived.”

Sam picked up the notes the young detective had made, reared back in his chair and propped his feet on the desk. “Did you check to see if anyone in the immediate area has a record?”

“All the adults are clean as a whistle. One of the teenagers on the block has a battery charge against him.”

“Details?”

“Gregg Sanders. Age seventeen—sixteen when the charges were filed. Attacked his stepfather with a baseball bat when he caught him fondling his little sister. Stepfather denied it. Kid got off with a warning, so I’m guessing the judge believed him, instead of the old man.”

“Where’s the stepfather now?”

“Out of the picture. Mother divorced him and has no idea where he’s living, but is fairly sure he’s not in Prentice.”

“Any known sex offenders in the neighborhood?”

“None that showed up in the records.”

“What about the search around the crime area?”

“We bagged some items. A couple of cigarette butts, an old sock, some chewed gum, a beer bottle, that kind of stuff.”

“Send them to the crime lab in Atlanta. See if we can get a DNA reading from any of them.”

“You got it. Anything else you need before I head out?”

Sam glanced at the clock. Five after five. Knockoff hour for the day shift. Time was when a cop on a murder case wouldn’t have bothered to look at a clock. But those were guys from the old school. Today’s cops had lives. They worked their shifts and that was it. They were probably better off for it. But then, so were the criminals.

“Guess that’s it,” Sam said. “Got a big night planned?”

“A hot date with a cute little redhead who works for Dr. Wolford. What about you?”

“I might cut out early and get some sleep.”

They both knew he wouldn’t. Sam would stop in at the Grille for the daily special, if he bothered to eat at all. After that he’d be back here at the precinct, going over the sketchy evidence.

Sam dropped the notes on the table as Matt left, then walked to the window and stared at the rain. It wasn’t falling as hard as it had been when he and Caroline had been caught in it, but it was steady.

Caroline Kimberly. She should have no meaning to him at all except as she related to the murder case. Only now, standing here staring at the rain and thinking about how she looked soaked to the skin, he knew she affected him in ways he couldn’t begin to define.

Not simple, like plain old-fashioned lust, though there was no denying he’d felt a tightening in his groin when she’d opened the door this afternoon.

But it had been even worse driving her home from the park, and she’d looked a little like a drenched, stringy-haired waif at that point.

Frustrated by the needs pushing at him from all directions, he crossed the room, opened his desk and pulled out the framed picture of Peg. He used to keep it on top of his desk, but he got tired of answering questions about who she was. So he kept it here for special times, when he needed to remember what life was supposed to be like. What it would have been like now if he hadn’t made that one fatal mistake and let a killer sneak into their lives.

The kind of mistake Sally Martin must have made. Had she trusted a stranger? Prentice was the kind of town where that could easily happen. An hour southwest of Atlanta, but a world away from big-city problems. More churches than bars. Clean streets. Landscaped lawns. Citizens who still held to the old Southern ways and treasured their past as if it were a gem to be polished and put on display.

Had the killer merely left the interstate and driven the twelve miles along the state highway, winding up in Prentice with the urge to kill tearing at his soul? Or was it someone Sally knew and trusted? A betrayed lover?

But if there had been a lover, the Martin family had never heard of him. Their story was that Sally had flunked out of Auburn University last semester and had come home to get her act together before returning to school. Now she was dead.

Sam had no reason not to believe the parents. Their grief seemed heartbreakingly genuine. Besides, Sam’s gut feeling was that the killer had picked Sally randomly or from some search criteria only he understood. He’d stripped her naked, but there were no signs of sexual assault.

Still, Sam was fairly sure the perp was male. The MO wasn’t that of a woman. The knife, the nudity, even the marks on the breasts all indicated that the killer was a guy, either one strong enough to overcome the victim or charming enough to have convinced her to go with him willingly.

And unless Sam had this all wrong, the guy wasn’t through with Prentice yet. Nor was he through with Caroline. Sam had no evidence to support that or even to prove that the note left on the reporter’s window was from the killer. It was all instinct. The stock and trade of any homicide detective worth his paycheck.

His mind went back to Caroline Kimberly. He’d done some checking on her this afternoon. She was new at reporting. New to Prentice, as well. Could she be…?

No. No way was she in this with the killer. And he doubted seriously she’d faked that note just to draw more attention to her reporting. Still, it never hurt to check out all the angles.

After all, his instincts weren’t infallible. Peg’s death was proof of that. He walked back to the desk and made a note to himself to call Sylvia in records tomorrow and have her run a more thorough check on Caroline Kimberly.

BY WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON Caroline had run out of things to write about Sally Martin’s murder, but the town had not run out of their avid fascination for details. She didn’t know if it was due more to their fear or their curiosity for the morbid, but the Prentice Times was selling twice as many papers as usual.

John was pleased with her work, but he kept pushing her for more articles. He wanted interviews with Sally’s neighbors, her family, the people she worked with, even her high-school friends. It was almost to the point where anyone who’d ever passed Sally Martin on the street could get his or her name and opinions in print.

“I’m making a Starbucks run,” Dottie said, walking through the office with pen and notebook in hand. “Who wants what?”

Dottie was their teenage assistant who came in two afternoons a week to earn extra credit for her journalism class. Caroline used her to proof copy occasionally, but mostly she filed or ran errands for John. And went for coffee for those who wanted something other than the thick black goop John brewed.

“A caramel latte,” Caroline said.

“Nonfat milk, medium?”

“You got it. I’m a creature of habit.”

“In the old days reporters all lived on straight black coffee,” John said.

“Yeah, yeah, we know,” one of the grunt reporters said. “And walked a mile in the snow barefoot to get a good story.”

That brought a rumble of laughter. Caroline went back to her typing. She was trying to stretch five good sentences from one of Sally’s friends from Auburn into half a column. She didn’t know about the old days, but being a reporter these days was tough enough.

Ron Baker stopped by her desk, which he made a habit of doing a couple of times a day when she was in the office. She usually didn’t mind. He was even newer at the paper than she was and didn’t quite fit into the camaraderie routine yet.

Fitting in was always harder for the nonreporters, but Ron was nice. Pushing fifty, a little shy, but a hard worker. His main job was seeing that the newspapers got to the carriers and the dispensers every morning, but he was a kind of jack-of-all-trades and John took advantage of all his skills. Today he was putting up some new shelves in the supply room.

Ron looked over her shoulder. “You must get tired of writing about that murder every day.”

“I wouldn’t, if there were something new to say.”

“No new leads, huh?”

“If there are, the cops are keeping the news to themselves.”

“What do you think of that detective they put in charge of the case? Sam…something or other.”

“Turner.” What did she think of Sam Turner? Now that was an interesting question. Rude. Irritable. And sexy. “I haven’t been around him enough to form an opinion yet.”

“Not doing much about finding the killer, is he?”

“Hopefully there’s more progress than we know about.”

Ron nodded. “Guess I better get back to my shelves.”

But after he left, the question of Sam Turner stayed on her mind. Maybe she should do an article on him. He was certainly fascinating in his own way. Kind of a man’s man, but there had been that minute in the park when he’d picked up on her fear and had actually seemed protective. And the way he’d looked at her when she’d first opened the door in the satin dress had been a little heated. He’d recovered fast, though.

The bottom line was that he was all business. Which probably wasn’t a bad thing when there was a killer on the loose. She just needed to remember that any interest he showed in her was all business, too.

She still had Sam’s card in her pocket, but fortunately she hadn’t had to call him to report any more contact from the weirdo who might or might not have been the killer.

But since she had his card in her pocket, perhaps she should call him. She was a reporter, after all, and he was the detective in charge. If he had new information, the public had a right to know. And this wasn’t because now that she was thinking about him, she really wanted to hear his voice or have him suggest they get together. Sure he was sexy and masculine to the core, but this was business. All business.

She pulled the card from her handbag, checked the number and punched it in.

“Sam Turner.”

“Hi, Sam.”

“Who is this?”

“Caroline Kimberly, reporter with the Prentice Times.”

“What’s wrong?”

The concern in his voice surprised her and made her feel a little guilty for calling the number he’d given her to use in case of an emergency. But she’d called, so she had to say something.

“Nothing’s wrong. I was just working on an article for tomorrow’s paper and I thought you might have a statement to make.”

“If you want a statement, call someone in PR.”

“I’ve tried that. There is no one in PR, only whoever happens to be manning the phones.” The silence grew awkward. “I’m sorry if I caught you at a bad time.”

“You didn’t. I mean you did, but I don’t know when a good time would be. The only statement I can make is we haven’t made an arrest.”

“Does that mean you have a suspect, or suspects?” She was really pushing it now.

“It means I don’t have a statement except that we haven’t made an arrest.”

“Okay. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“Yeah.”

The man’s conversation skills were abysmal.

“If you get any more messages,” he said, “call me immediately. It’s important that you do that. Don’t play with this guy, Caroline. He’s dangerous. Remember that.”

There was the concern again. Sam Turner was a hard man to figure.

“I promise I’ll call. I’m just your basic coward when it comes to dealing with murderers.”

“Good. Cowards have a much better chance of living to old age.”

She thanked him again, said goodbye, and that was the end of that. Feat accomplished. Results nil. Still, Sam stayed on her mind.

“Do you have that copy for me?” John asked, stopping at her desk with cup of goop in hand.

“Give me twenty minutes.”

“Make it ten. You write too much filler, anyway. Cut to the chase. It makes what you have to say more powerful.”

She went back to her typing, but it dawned on her that perhaps Sam should have been a reporter. If fewer words translated to powerful, he’d have won a Pulitzer.

CAROLINE BREATHED a sigh of relief as she pulled the car into her garage and killed the engine. It had been a long day and she was ready to slip out of the black pumps that were starting to squeeze her toes, pour a nice cold glass of chardonnay and watch a rerun of Will and Grace.

The garage, a fairly recent addition, sat a few yards behind the two-story house in the spot where a carriage house had been. The walk from the car to her back door was a pain when the weather was cold or rainy, but tonight it was clear and the brisk air felt good.

Only, tonight the area next to the garage was darker than usual. Much darker. For some reason, neither of her outdoor lights were burning, though they were on a timer and should have switched on at dusk. Probably a temporary power outage had them off schedule. Fortunately, she’d left the outdoor light over the back door on so she’d at least be able to see well enough to fit the key into the lock.

Something moved in the bushes behind her. Her heart slammed against her chest, but when she turned, it was only a cat that she’d startled from the bushes. Constant talk of murder had her spooked.

As she neared the house, she noticed a small package propped against the back door. She stopped in her tracks. The package was probably perfectly harmless, but no one had ever left one there before.

What if it had been delivered by the same man who’d left the note on her windshield? He knew what kind of car she drove. Maybe he also knew where she lived. He could be here now, lurking somewhere in the shadows and watching her the way he’d obviously watched her that night in the park. She couldn’t see him, but it was almost as if she could feel his presence.

Her heart pounded so loudly that if he was anywhere near, he could surely hear it. Probably even smell her fear. A killer. And her only defense against him and his knife were the keys in her shaking hand.

And there was nowhere to run.

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