Can he keep the key witness from harm...

before it’s too late?

After escaping a terrifying encounter with a serial killer, RN Kiera Connell lands in the protection of US Marshal Travis Johnson. In order to make sure she stays alive to testify, Travis has to thwart whatever danger comes her way. Normally, for a pro like Travis, that’s not an issue. But focusing on the mission becomes his greatest challenge as Kiera’s exposure threatens to unravel all his best-laid plans.

RYSHIA KENNIE has received a writing award from the City of Regina, Saskatchewan, and was also a semifinalist for the Kindle Book Awards. She finds that there’s never a lack of places to set an edge-of-the-seat suspense, as prairie winters find her dreaming of warmer places for heart-stopping stories. They are places where deadly villains threaten intrepid heroes and heroines who battle for their right to live, or even to love. For more, visit ryshiakennie.com

Also by Ryshia Kennie

Sheik’s Rule

Sheik’s Rescue

Son of the Sheik

Sheik Defense

Suspect Witness

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Wanted by the Marshal

Ryshia Kennie

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09432-0

WANTED BY THE MARSHAL

© 2019 Patricia Detta

Published in Great Britain 2019

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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This book is dedicated to you, the reader. Enjoy!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

About the Publisher

Chapter One
Cheyenne, WyomingLate spring

Kiera Connell grabbed her bag and headed with a smile to the exit of the Prairie Seniors’ Care Home. Few things made her happier than her work here. In fact, she often came in for extra hours beyond those they paid. She supposed it was because of her own lack of family that made being here so special, made her feel so included. She’d lost her mother when she was a toddler and the aunt who had raised her had died seven years ago. The seniors and the other caregivers were, to her, like family. Today, she’d filled in on an earlier shift before working her scheduled evening shift. It was late, and her car was in for repairs. It was a nice night and only a twenty-minute walk home. She planned not to waste any time getting out the door.

Her hand was on the knob when a quavering voice stopped her.

“Kiera? Do you have a minute?”

She turned around without hesitation. “Sure, Ann,” she said. She guessed that the elderly woman had hurried down the hall after her as fast as her walker would take her. Kiera must have been caught up in her own thoughts, for she hadn’t heard the shuffle of Ann’s feet as she had struggled to follow.

“What’s up?”

“I wondered if you could pick up a magazine for me tomorrow.”

“I will,” Kiera said as she put a reassuring hand on her arm. She’d promised she’d run the errand for her only an hour ago. She’d also promised an hour before that. But Ann, like many of the other residents, had dementia. “I’ll get one with racy pictures.”

Ann smiled. “You’re a tease,” she replied. “But thank you.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Kiera promised. “Now get some sleep.”

After watching Ann turn slowly around and make her way painfully down the hallway, she headed for the exit. But she glanced back and saw Ann take a wrong turn to get to her room. It was a simple setup, a small facility, but for someone with memory loss, nothing was simple.

Kiera dropped her bag and hurried down the hall. She could leave Ann to find her way to her room on her own. She knew that she would eventually get there. For one corridor only met another and circled back to the starting point. She could wait and let the plan of the hallways take Ann the long route back to where she wanted to go. But she couldn’t do that. It wasn’t in her nature. She slowed her step as she walked beside the woman. She chatted to Ann about her day, her plans for tomorrow and the promised magazine. It was a conversation she’d had three other times since supper. Once, when she’d brought Ann’s medication. Once, when she made sure that she was ready for bed and again when she checked on her later in the evening. She’d completed the same ritual for half a dozen other people as well, but Ann was one of her favorites. While some of the work was repetitive, it was the people that made this job one of the best she’d ever had. As a nurse-practitioner, it was her that the staff turned to when health issues cropped up. She loved the challenge of keeping this community of seniors healthy. She loved it every bit as much as she loved being part of their support structure.

“Kiera,” her supervisor, Beth, called as she left Ann in her room and headed back down the corridor. “What are you still doing here?”

“I was delayed.”

“Ann again?” Beth shook her head and smiled. There was no danger of Ann overhearing their almost maternal hovering; she’d disappeared into her room. And, like many of the residents, she was hearing impaired. “I could have given her a hand.”

“I know,” Kiera replied. “But I was here so...” The words trailed off as she shrugged. She looked at her watch. It was almost midnight.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take a cab home?” Beth asked. “It’s late.”

“I’ll be fine. It’s a warm night and a short walk.”

“Be careful,” Beth warned with a wave.

She gave a wave back and headed out the door. It was a beautiful late spring night. She was walking down well-lit streets in an area of the city where she’d always felt safe. The air seemed to caress her skin. She walked by one of the city’s eight-foot-tall, artist-painted, decorative cowboy boots. A streetlight splashed light on the gold-and-brass spur and revealed a cloud-studded, bright blue Wyoming sky above a mountain range. The beautiful scene was painted on the body of the boot. The boots were all unique and were displayed randomly throughout the city. They were one of the many things that made Cheyenne special to her. Tonight, this one marked the halfway point, ten minutes from home.

She began to hum a little tune. And, as she walked by a local coffee shop, she noticed a man sitting slouched on an outside bench. It wasn’t unusual to see the occasional homeless person in the area, especially during the warmer weather. She thought nothing of it and instead considered jogging the rest of the way home.

“Miss.”

The soft male voice came out of nowhere and startled her. But there was no threat in the voice, only a kind of lost hopelessness. She’d heard that tone before. The streetlight pushed the shadows away as another man in a ragged T-shirt and baggy jeans rose from the sidewalk where he’d been sitting cross-legged with cup and a sign asking for help.

He approached her slowly, with a slight limp.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a soft voice. “Could you spare some change?”

“Of course,” she said and reached into her pocket and pulled out some coins. She dropped them into the cup. He looked thin and grubby. She guessed he might be in his late twenties but not much older. It wasn’t a sight that she was unfamiliar with. Occasionally, she volunteered at a nearby soup kitchen. There, she often saw people like him who were homeless or just down on their luck. She sometimes wondered what had brought them to such a desperate state. Whatever the reasons, she couldn’t turn down someone in need.

“Have a coffee on me.”

He nodded. But it was as if his interest was elsewhere. She turned in the direction that seemed to have caught his attention. And as she turned, she saw the hooded figure approaching. They were alone; the man on the bench had disappeared as if sensing trouble. There was no time to run. There was no time to scream. It was over before she knew that it had happened.

When she opened her eyes again, her arms and shoulders ached. The breeze that had lifted her hair earlier, and which she’d taken joy in walking in, was gone. She was no longer on the street but in what seemed to be a house. Everything was dimly lit, and she could see the shadowy shape of the room: large, empty and rather rank smelling. Her wrists and ankles were tied with rope that was so tight it cut into her skin.

Escape.

And yet, as much as she knew that she needed to get away, she couldn’t. Even without the ropes that restrained her, her body was weak and didn’t seem to want to respond. Her head spun. She guessed that she might have a concussion. The smell of must and disuse closed around her. Her heart pounded so hard that her chest hurt.

Stay calm, she told herself as she took deep breaths. That’s the only way you’re going to figure a way out of this. But her head reeled, and she passed out. When she came to, everything was dark. She lay still, trying to figure out where she was, who had done this to her and what they wanted. She had to clear her mind. She had to still her fear so that she could think straight. She was focusing like she’d never done before. Hours of yoga, of meditation, were being used in a way she had never thought possible. As soon as she cleared her mind, she realized that, again, she wasn’t alone. She could smell rank body odor. She cringed and waited for what might come next.

“I’m going to enjoy every minute with you.”

The voice came out of nowhere, sliding through the darkness like a stream of venom.

Kiera thought she might throw up. She held back a shudder.

She knew that voice. It was the homeless man who had asked her for money. That seemed both forever and only minutes ago. Time was lost to her. Her head spun as he whispered a long litany of sexual pleasures he would demand from her. She could smell something rancid on his breath that made her stomach twist and bile rise in her throat. His finger ran along her arm and she held back a shudder. Instinct told her that fear would entice him. Show no fear was second only to escape.

“And then,” he said, drawing his words out as if he were about to offer her a unique treasure. “When I am through with you, you will die.”

She’d never been more terrified. He didn’t need ropes or restraints of any sort—she couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to. It was as if she were part of a TV program. It was as if everything that happened was part of that program, part of that fantasy. She’d wake up soon and it would all be over. A silent shiver crawled through her. This was real life. A nightmare.

“Not until I have my turn.”

Kiera didn’t know who or what they were, or if the voice was male or female. She only knew that the second voice made her skin crawl.

They moved away from her. Now their voices were low, too low to hear. She passed out again after that. When she awoke, she sensed that she was alone. Time passed. It was broken only by changes in her consciousness. There were moments that she fought with her restraints. There were moments where she drifted back into unconsciousness. In the moments she was conscious, she lived in a state of panic where she feared she would die.

The next time consciousness returned she was aware of a painful ache in her hands. The pain came from lack of circulation, for not only were her wrists tied, but she’d been partially lying on her hands. She shifted, taking the weight of her body off her hands. Something smelled different, a scent that was heavier, like pine and mold strung together. And there was the sense that she’d been moved. She pushed her hands against what felt like a wooden wall and moved them up as high as she could reach. Then, she rolled away from the wall and pain shot through her legs as her fingers touched another wall. Wherever she was, she was in a place much different from the cavernous room she’d first been in. She guessed the size by feel, determining that she had about a foot of space in either direction. As she rolled over again, she could feel wood against her lower back and against her legs. It felt like it was touching her skin, but she’d been wearing pants and a tunic. The only bare skin was her arms, at least that was the way it had been. Kiera felt with her fingers along her leg and felt skin rather than cloth. Further exploration told her that there were large tears in her pants and in her tunic.

Her clothes were torn but still there. She felt in the darkness as surprise ran through her. Considering what had happened, what she’d heard, this wasn’t what she’d anticipated. Something had changed, and she didn’t know what. She remembered the threats. She knew where this was going. They were frightening her, dragging things out. It was clear in the things they’d said. They wanted her terrified and they’d accomplished that. That they wanted to rape her wasn’t in doubt. Their words only confirmed that, but for some reason that hadn’t happened. Not yet. She didn’t know why but for now she’d been lucky. But she sensed that time was running out.

There was only one option: she had to get out of here, get away from them before the worst happened. She didn’t want to contemplate, again, what that might be. But the possibilities of worst were engraved in her tortured mind. Rape, as they’d promised, or worse—she took a deep, almost panicked breath—death.

The taste of dust and disuse was in her mouth as she began to chew at the rope that bound her wrists. Minutes passed. It could have been hours. Time blended into itself and had no meaning. All she had was hope and she needed to cling to that. Desperate, she tried to pull her wrists apart. Something seemed to give but the rope didn’t break.

Kiera rolled over and something sharp bit into her skin. She felt for it awkwardly, twisting her body to get more reach. Something pierced her finger and she bit back a cry of pain but continued her exploration and discovered a nail jutting about a half inch out of the wood. Excitement raced through her. Finally, a tool to free herself. She shimmied closer and began to rub the rope that was binding her wrists against it. Minutes passed and then, the rope snapped. The force of it had her falling backward, missing the nail that had freed her and hitting her head against the wall. She lay like that for seconds as she caught her breath. Then she began to shake her wrists, trying to return circulation to her numb hands. But as blood began to flow, the pain overwhelmed her. She cradled her hands and had to bite her lip to stop from crying out.

Silence and darkness crowded around her. As she lay waiting for the pain to dissipate, a thin stream of light flicked across the room and then disappeared as quickly as it appeared. Her heart leaped. Was it possible that the light came from outside? Where else would it come from? Was it the headlights of a car? Was she near a street or was it just her captors turning a light on and off in another room? The light had appeared to move before it disappeared. Its very presence suggested a possibility. Her heart pounded at the first sign of hope before she struggled to her feet. She felt in the darkness a little over four feet above the floor where the light had seemed to come from. The wall felt different. The wood wasn’t as solid and seemed out of line with the rest of the wall. It was a subtle difference, but enough to hint that it might cover something. Her heart raced at what this might mean. She began to pick at the wood. She scratched and clawed with her fingernails and was surprised when a piece broke off easily as if it was not only thin but rotted. Determined, she dug harder. In places the wood was almost like butter while in others it was hard and resistant. Splinters dug into her skin, embedding under her nails. The pain made her eyes water. She didn’t stop. Her gut screamed one thing. This was her chance to live.

The wood chipped away piece by piece, sliver by sliver. Now she didn’t think of the pain or of the warm trickle that ran down her fingers, and then down her wrists. Vaguely, she knew it was blood. She knew that she was bleeding. It didn’t matter. For she knew now, what she’d only guessed before, there was a window behind the wood covering.

The possibility of freedom began to appear as she could see vague shapes, enough to figure that she was looking at an alley. Now half of the window was uncovered. It was enough. She ripped her already torn pants off at the knee and wrapped the material around her hand. Her body shook with stress, with anticipation. She took a deep breath and hauled her arm back. She drove her fist through the window with all the strength she had. The glass shattered. She could feel the slick warmth of blood as it ran down her arm. She forced her mind to think of only one thing—escape. With that thought, she yanked out two more pieces of glass, clearing the bottom half of the window enough so that she could get out.

Freedom.

Kiera sank to the floor and began untying the rope that bound her ankles. She looked up often, her heart pounding. She feared that her captors would burst in at any moment. They’d punish her for what she’d done—kill her even. It wasn’t a thought she could entertain. She couldn’t think of that. There was no time to speculate.

Finally, she pulled the last knot free and stood up.

There was a sense that time was slipping away. There were furtive noises on the other side of the wall, the one to the right of the window she’d just uncovered. She had to go now. And even though she wasn’t a big woman, she knew it would be a tight squeeze. Seconds later, one leg was outside; a breeze ran across her skin and she barely acknowledged that. The jagged edges of glass that she hadn’t been able to clear away ripped the places where her skin was bare. The pain only reminded her to keep going, that she wanted to live.

The night air was heaven as it sent goose bumps across her exposed flesh. Her heart raced. Her captors could be anywhere. They could be behind her now.

Kiera flipped over so that she was on her back and didn’t land on her head into the unknown darkness. But, with the majority of her body out, she lost her grip. She landed on a pile of plastic garbage bags that broke her fall. For seconds, she lay there, shocked, terrified and exhilarated all at once.

Freedom at last.

Something sharp bit into her side as she struggled to her feet and pain shot through her. Finally, she stood in the darkness shaken and disorientated. She took a breath and then another. And she told herself that if she ever got out of this, if she were truly free, she’d be setting up a safe-ride program for all the workers at the care home.

A streetlight glimmered in the distance. She limped as fast as she could toward the light, and the possibility of freedom.

Cheyenne, Wyoming
One week later

US MARSHAL TRAVIS JOHNSON knew that he should be looking forward to the low-key case he’d just been presented with, especially after his last assignment. It had been high-octane from beginning to end as they’d cornered a drug lord who had made it through two international borders and numerous state lines. But, the truth was, he loved action and he loved a challenge.

“I’ve received notice that Kiera Connell was discharged from the hospital yesterday.” The look James Perez, the FBI lead on this case, gave him was grave.

Travis nodded. He knew the case. He knew that the woman was the only survivor of a serial killer who had terrorized women from coast to coast for well over a year.

“She’s safe but we’re afraid she might run if she feels otherwise. At this point, no need of twenty-four-seven protection, just a presence that gives her a sense of security. I want you to head the team that will protect her.” James shrugged with a half smile. “I wouldn’t dump this on you, but considering the high-profile status of this case, we need the best protecting her.”

“No worries,” he said. He wasn’t surprised that James had considered the pressure this might put on him. James was one of the most considerate men he knew. They’d known each other for years, worked together many times, and had eventually become friends who shared many interests including a mutual love of baseball.

“You read the file?”

Travis nodded. He’d followed the case over the past year. The file had only sharpened the details.

“Yeah, I did,” he said with a grimace. It didn’t matter how long he was in law enforcement, or how many cases he saw, the depths of mankind’s depravity could still surprise him. “There appears to be no connection between the witness and killer.”

“There isn’t, at least that we know. I doubt that will change. From everything the witness said, she’s never seen him before.”

“That seems to be the usual for this killer. Picks random women,” Travis said grimly. Eleven women had died at this man’s hands and other than the fact that they were female and attractive, there were no other commonalities. They ranged in age from twenty to forty, their ethnic roots as varied as their ages.

“As you know, she was found here.” James turned his computer around. He pointed it out on the detailed map of one of the most neglected areas of the city. “Five o’clock in the morning, a transit driver on her way to work found her. She called it in immediately and stayed with the victim until police and an ambulance arrived.”

“A Good Samaritan.”

“I salute them almost every day on this job,” James said with sincerity.

Travis couldn’t agree more. The unsung heroes. The civilians who went above and beyond were an invaluable resource that often went unpraised and unnoticed.

“She was damn lucky,” Travis said. Having her alive and able to ID the killer was a huge break in a case that, as horrific as it was, unfortunately, was titillating. The media had had a field day following the trail of the killer and that news had gained a growing body of followers over the months of the spree. Now those killings were being tied to others hinting that the killer might have been active much longer than authorities had known. That was the dark side of humanity. They loved tragedies and horrors, as long as they had no personal connection to them, of course. He pushed the chair back and stood up. Despite what he’d said, he was anxious to get back into action even if it was as non-challenging as babysitting a potential witness who was no longer in danger. The perp had been put behind bars.

“She was lucky. She escaped before she could be assaulted or worse. According to what she told authorities, she wasn’t sexually assaulted. She was backhanded a number of times. She has some fairly serious bruising on her left cheek.”

Travis swore at the thought of it even though he knew that in the scope of things, that assault was minor.

“Unfortunately, that wasn’t the worst this piece of sludge did to other women. Besides the concussion, she has dozens of wood splinters in her hands—and yet none of that stopped her from getting away.”

He pushed the file at Travis. “She’s spent more time in the hospital for psychiatric evaluation than anything else.”

A phone rang.

Travis looked at the picture on the file as James took the call. The dark-haired beauty who had smiled with lighthearted innocence for the photo was frozen in a moment in time when she couldn’t imagine the nightmare that was to follow. Since the picture was taken, she’d come close to death. The thought made him feel slightly sick.

“Just a heads-up,” James said as he put the phone aside. “She’s insistent that she return to work as soon as possible.”

“What?”

He looked up, shocked that that would even be a consideration after everything she’d been through.

“I’ve suggested at least a two-to-three-weeks’ wait on that.”

Travis said nothing. There was nothing to say, for in reality, he had no say. It was up to the FBI. For him it was an assignment, nothing more. The only thing he knew was that everything about this case was troubling.

Her attacker, Eric Solomon, the man now known as a serial killer who had silently hunted, killed and raped women across the country, was behind bars. Something about the emergency call had triggered an instinctive reaction by the detective in charge that night. He’d felt something off and deployed unmarked vehicles without sirens or flashing lights. The victim had been taken to the hospital while officers had converged quietly on the deserted house where the victim claimed she’d been held. The perpetrator had been caught when he’d returned minutes later and had been unprepared for what awaited him. There, the baby-faced man had been surprised by the police presence. He’d turned to run and been caught and arrested on the spot. The evidence had almost been too easy. The victim’s DNA was lodged under his fingernails and strands of her long hair were twisted around his ring finger like a trophy. Once the victim had identified him in a lineup of photos, it was clear that they had their man. He was now awaiting trial.

“In all my years, I’ve never dealt with this kind of situation,” James said. “The perp is behind bars and the victim is still terrified for her life. She thinks there’s another killer out there.”

“Could it be a delusion brought on by post-traumatic stress?”

“We’re definitely considering that possibility. In fact, that is why she was held in the hospital a day or two longer than necessary,” James said. “Right now, as you know, our biggest concern is that she might be saying one thing and planning another. I think her talk of going back to work is only a ploy to let us believe she’s alright. Truth is, I think she’s far from it.”

James glanced at his phone as it dinged a message and pushed it away. “I’ve never seen a victim escape something as dire as she did in quite the way she did. She has a mind of her own and where that might lead her...” He leaned forward. His blue eyes stood out more than usual against his tan complexion. “I can’t take any chances with this. We need her on the stand. But...” He paused. “This witness appears to have more guts than any I’ve seen before.”

Travis had to agree with that. For the woman had literally clawed her way out of a closet and broken out through a boarded-up window by crawling through an impossibly small opening. Then, she’d run barefoot down a dark, neglected alley to safety. And when she’d been brought in, James had told him how deadly calm she’d been. There had been no tears or hysterics, only a shaky voice as she’d reported what happened. The tears had come later according to hospital staff but even then, there’d been few. According to the file, and James had confirmed it, she’d been solid in her testimony that would incriminate the perpetrator of one of the worst serial killer rampages the country had seen in recent years. She was a five-star witness and had identified Eric Solomon from a picture lineup presented to her while she was still in the hospital. But there was only one glaring glitch, and it was the fact that she claimed to have heard two voices—both she believed to be men and both with the intent to hurt her. That belief was a glitch that cast a shadow on both her stability and her believability. It was her insistence, with a complete lack of supporting physical evidence, that the killer hadn’t worked alone.

Chapter Two

The covers were twisted, some on the bed, some off. The room was still in darkness as Kiera fought with a sheet and finally reached over and flipped on the bedside light. She’d thought she’d heard a sound, something out of the ordinary. Seconds passed. She clutched the sheet as the fridge fan clicked on. The soft whirring seemed loud in the night silence.

“It’s the fridge,” she muttered as if saying those words would reassure her, as if they would change everything.

It was her second night back in her own home, in her own bed. It had been over a week since the attack. When she’d been discharged from the hospital, she’d been more than ready to pick up her life where it had left off. Except, that wasn’t the way it was. The condo she called home no longer felt like one. The funky, crafty style she’d created by shopping flea markets and craft sales, the style that had felt so completely her and so homey, felt foreign. She’d been on edge since she’d come home. And a police officer had been assigned to patrol her area. He made a regular pass of her property, checking in often and would continue, the officer had assured her, until a US marshal took over. While she wasn’t under twenty-four-hour surveillance, she was promised a patrol car in her neighborhood and a regular check-in.

She grabbed the book she was reading and her blanket. After heading to the kitchen to start the coffee maker, she curled up on the couch while it brewed. But the cozy mystery lay unopened on her lap despite the fact that it was one that she’d anxiously been waiting to read. She sat quietly, trying to think of anything but the trauma she’d endured.

She looked over at the half-grown cat she’d so recently taken in. Her name was Lucy. Both the name and her reason for being here were fate more than choice. She’d taken the cat so one of the residents at the home where she worked wouldn’t lose contact with her pet and would still be able to see her. Now the adolescent cat was curled up on her raspberry-and-blue flowered armchair. Lucy had claimed that chair from the minute she’d been brought home. Kiera stood up and went to sit on the edge of the chair and ran her fingers through Lucy’s soft fur. The cat batted at her hand and curled up tighter, presenting her with her back.

“You win,” she said with a smile and went back to the couch. But, despite the cat’s rejection, it felt good to have her here, to have another living being sharing her space. In fact, she’d picked the cat up from her friend’s house the minute she’d been discharged from the hospital. But she knew that she needed more than Lucy to move past the trauma. She needed to dive back into the work she loved. Returning to her routine would get rid of the fear and uncertainty that had rooted in the midst of her life like a field of thistles. Even now, she missed her colleagues’ banter and the everyday comings and goings of the care home. The thought of that brought a touch of normalcy to the sense of unreality she’d had since she’d been kidnapped.

She stood up, paced and then sat down again. She knew that the experts disagreed with that theory. They thought that counseling sessions and rest were the answer. She didn’t need counselors or psychiatrists or any other health professional to talk her into wellness. What she needed, besides her life back, was to know that both her kidnappers were behind bars. That would make her feel so much better than any therapist ever could. But the authorities thought they had her attacker. No one believed that there were two involved in the attack for there was no physical evidence. Instead, the FBI had assigned a team of marshals to protect her. They weren’t here yet, and secretly she felt that they were putting them in place more to ensure that she didn’t skip town than to protect her. It was a feeling based on the way they’d phrased things as they laid their protection plan out to her. Whatever they thought about that—they were wrong.

It was five minutes to five o’clock.

The phone rang.

“It’s a prank,” she muttered. “Someone with a sick sense of humor.” That’s what the police officer had said when she’d told him that she’d gotten two calls early yesterday morning. One a hang up and the second heavy breathing. He hadn’t taken the calls seriously at all. In fact, he’d called the incidents unfortunate and bad timing, following so closely on the heels of all she’d been through.

Yet, in her heart she didn’t believe any of that. Her gut knew it would happen again and her hand shook as she answered.

“Hello,” she said and fought to keep the tremor from her voice. “What do you want?”

She was talking to dead air. They’d hung up just as they’d done yesterday at exactly this time.

If they followed yesterday morning’s pattern, they’d call again. In exactly ten minutes.

She hit End and wished that she could hurl the phone across the room.

She got up, dropping the blanket and the book on the couch as she went into her bedroom and over to the nightstand. She hesitated a second before opening the drawer. She looked at the gun lying there as if that would somehow make her feel better. The gun had rested in the bottom of her aunt’s purse for forty years, or so the woman who had raised her had claimed. She’d kept the gun after she had died, as a memento, nothing more. She didn’t like guns. And, for the longest time, aside from getting a permit to carry a concealed weapon, she’d kept it in a locked storage box. Despite the promise of police surveillance, being checked in on didn’t feel like it was enough. In her fear, she’d taken the gun out of the locked storage box the day after she left the hospital. Her life had turned on its head. Her aunt had been right, one should always be prepared. If she’d had the gun with her that fateful night, maybe she would never have been taken.

“Auntie Nan, you may have known what you were talking about,” she said. Her voice was soft, reflective. She looked upward as if somehow, somewhere, her aunt would be listening.

“Damn it.” She hated this, hated the fact that her life was in shreds and now she was the victim of some idiot. A prank caller on top of everything else was too much. For she knew her freedom would soon be curtailed by personal protection. A man prowling her property night and day was not something she wanted, and not, according to the FBI, anything she could avoid.

A US marshal was security she didn’t need. They’d soon be here anyway. What she wanted hadn’t seemed to matter in over a week. First the kidnapping and now in its aftermath, the surveillance, protection they liked to call it. Despite their insistence of vigilance, the irony was their reasons for it. They didn’t believe her claims that there was another killer. Instead, they feared that she would run. There was no danger in either option. She wouldn’t run and there was another killer. But Cheyenne wasn’t a place where a serial killer could continue his sick activities and not get caught. It wasn’t a place where he could blend in. It was a small city and that made it difficult to hide. Whoever the second killer was, he’d follow a pattern already established over the last year and head to a larger center where there was more opportunity. She was as sure of that as she was that the second killer existed. She tried to tell herself she was safe, that the fact that only one killer was behind bars, didn’t matter. She tried to tell herself that the killer that authorities insisted didn’t exist, was no threat to her but they would be a threat to another woman in some other town or city in this country. But despite thinking that, she wasn’t so sure that she was safe or, that it was over. She wasn’t a forensic expert or a psychiatrist, but she knew a little about serial killers. She’d met one face-to-face and she’d been in the presence of the other.

The other. She shuddered for it was the thought of that—of the one on the loose that terrified her most.

The one they hadn’t caught, the one they didn’t believe in, that one had been the leader. At least, that’s what she sensed. She also sensed that nothing would stop them. They’d go on, find a new partner, maybe work alone. But the end result would be that someone else would die. She shuddered. Someone had to stop the killing and to do that someone had to believe her.

At five minutes after five o’clock in the morning, the phone rang again. There was no point hesitating. That wouldn’t make any of this go away. She answered.

The deep breathing started. As it had before, it went on for a minute. This time she said nothing after the first hello, not for thirty seconds. Then she demanded that this end. She demanded an identity. She got neither of her demands. The phone call ended exactly thirty seconds after that.

She tossed the phone to the other end of the couch as if distance would make a statement, end the harassment. Prank calls were what she had thought yesterday. But now she sensed something else was at play, as a sense of déjà vu almost choked her.

* * *

THE SUN HAD only begun to rise when Travis turned the corner onto the quiet residential street. The assignment was low-key. That’s what he’d thought going in. He’d also learned a long time ago that situations like this could turn on a dime. And a second read of the file gave him a feeling that something was off. It was because of that, because he trusted his instincts, that he was here this early. His shift didn’t start for another three hours. Something told him that he needed to be more proactive than normal.

He wanted to get a clear handle on things. He wanted an uninterrupted look at what he was dealing with. That included not only the witness but her environment as it was now—undisturbed. Less than a minute later, he pulled up to the three-story off-white condo building in the middle of the block. The ground-floor unit was the one that the witness, Kiera Connell, resided in. She’d purchased it a year ago. He knew that because he’d already run a check on the property. It was built five years ago, and she was the second owner. They were trivial facts but even in a low-threat case like this, it was his habit to research such things. Even though there was a driveway, he parked the SUV in the parking lot a group of similar buildings shared. It was too early in the morning to knock on her door and introduce himself. The entire building, including her condo, was still in darkness. He could see the darker shadows of flowers in the flower bed. Everything seemed to be in place—neat and organized.

He wondered what the inside of her place was like and he wondered what the occupant was like. He didn’t know what she’d been like before the incident. But he could only guess that now she would be in need of support and counseling for many months, or even years, to come. She’d survived a vicious attack by a serial killer who had left a trail of women dead. The women had all been raped and then murdered, all except the first two. They’d been murdered without any evidence of sexual assault. That wasn’t odd but rather an indicator that the perpetrator had evolved. An attack like that could leave the victim broken and unable to return to their former life. He hoped that wasn’t the case. But the law of averages wasn’t in her favor. It was too bad. According to the file, she’d been a determined young woman. She had carved a career for herself despite adversity. But a file never told the whole story, nor did the authorities who led the investigation. To keep her safe, he needed to know who she was as a person. That was for later; for now he’d scout out the area. The advantage of this early hour was that he could do so without any distractions. He was lead on the team of marshals who would protect Kiera Connell. The danger to the witness was minimal. Despite the low risk of danger, he was working the case like he did any other.

On this assignment, he’d had shorter notice than most. It was up to him and his team to keep her safe and make sure she kept it together until the trial was over. The feds had pinned their case not only on the evidence they’d collected but on the testimony of the only witness.

He’d learned as much as he could about the woman who was his latest assignment. It fascinated him that she was the only victim who had escaped. That a twenty-five-year-old nurse, with little life experience, had been the one to do it—that, to him, was mind-blowing. Although, he couldn’t imagine how messed up she must be from the experience at the madman’s hands. He felt for her. But he still would rather bow out of this assignment. For, he saw little challenge. The perp was behind bars and he and his team were effectively babysitters to a witness who was too important for authorities to take any chances on. She was the key to ending a killing spree that had lasted far too long. For they suspected it had gone on long before they’d become aware of it. All that aside, bowing out was, unfortunately, not an option.

He looked at his watch. It was twenty to six. He’d been up since four after only five hours of sleep. It wasn’t a big sleep loss, only an hour less than he usually got. He shrugged the thought away. It wasn’t a factor. The amount of time that had passed since he’d arrived was. He’d learned a long time ago that time could slip away if not tracked and organized. Time was critical for it could mean life or death. That was why he always kept a tight schedule and a close eye on the time.

A window at the front of her property was open a crack. It was the swing-out kind that, if one was into such things, could open from the outside. He frowned at that. No matter that the killer was behind bars—open windows low to the ground were begging for a crime to happen. He stood at the corner of the condo. The sun was rising. Streaks of sunlight were making it easy to see without the aid of a flashlight. He took a step forward meaning to scout the entire perimeter of the unit.

“Freeze! Take one more step and I’ll shoot.”

The woman’s voice came out of nowhere. He’d been broadsided. Damn it, he thought. He’d been caught with his pants figuratively down. He turned and saw out of the corner of his eye the barrel of a handgun. He didn’t dare turn right around, even though he wanted to. But he didn’t plan to die today, or any day in the immediate future.

“Drop your weapon!”

There was no way in hell that was happening. His mind ticked through the options. He could take her down, but he had to get closer. He hoped her attention was on his weapon as he dropped it to his side, still holding it in his left hand. At the same time, he took a step backward, toward her.

“Do it!” she snapped. “And don’t take another step.”

“I’m a US—”

“I don’t care who you are,” she interrupted. “Put your hands where I can see them and drop your gun.”

He slid his gun into his holster and lifted both hands in the air. He had his badge in one hand, having pulled it out from the side of his holster as he’d holstered the gun. “I’m going to toss my badge—”

“No!” she interrupted. “You’ll throw nothing.”

Damn it, he thought again. He was furious with himself. She’d snuck up on him. But she hadn’t come out of nowhere. He should have sensed that he wasn’t alone. He should have known. Hell, he thought. He should have expected it, been prepared for it. It was the basic tenet of any scout pack—Be Prepared—never mind a US marshal. He’d missed the signs that she was near. And because of that, he was at the wrong end of a gun. Was he getting old? His friends had teased him about that only a week earlier over a couple of beers. They’d been celebrating his thirtieth birthday. He discounted that thought. He worked hard to be at the top of his game. Still, that didn’t change the fact that he’d screwed up—big time.

“Who are you?” he asked. If nothing else, he deserved to know who was threatening him. More important, he needed to put himself back where he belonged, in charge of this situation.

She fired a shot that kicked up dirt two feet to his right.

“What the hell!” he roared and almost spun around, stopping himself with sheer willpower.

“Another word and you’re a dead man,” she retorted.

A thought came to him that was as outrageous as it was possible. After all, it was her condo that he was standing outside. The more he thought it, the more the idea gained plausibility. Was it possible that this was the witness he’d come to protect?

“I’m here to—”

“Do you not understand English? Shut up,” she said.

The words were angry and spoken with no hesitation, no hysteria and no tears. That wasn’t what he expected if she was the witness. But if it wasn’t her, who was she?

“Turn around,” she ordered. “And do it slowly.”

There was something about her voice. A silken edge that in another time and another place might have been erotic. He couldn’t help the thought. It was a voice that could do things to a man in the darkness of the night.

He found it interesting that her voice vibrated a bit as if she was nervous or traumatized. Had she never held a gun before? It was a possibility. And a possibility where he’d been lucky that she hadn’t hit him.

He pivoted on a heel. He wanted to give her the impression of how little he cared about her demands, or the fact that she had the advantage. She needed to know that he didn’t fear her.

But when he faced her, he could only stare. For the woman holding a gun on him with a grim but determined expression was the face on the witness’s file. He was facing the very woman he was to protect, and the file picture had done her no justice. In the picture she’d been pretty; in real life she was so much more than that. The rising sun highlighted her dark hair, giving it a glossy sheen that framed her beautiful face. She was petite, no more than a few inches over five feet. She was slim and yet voluptuous in a way that made him fight to keep his eyes up and on her face. It was an attraction that he hadn’t felt in a very long time, if ever. She mesmerized him with a look.

He was pinned by green eyes. They were eyes that would have held him forever if it weren’t for the gun that she had yet to lower. The moment shifted everything he knew about this case. A simple, uncomplicated assignment had just become difficult. Difficult in ways he’d never imagined.

Chapter Three

“Kiera Connell?”

“How do you know me?” Kiera’s voice cracked as it had off and on since her ordeal. She hoped that it wasn’t on the edge of breaking or of her losing it like she had for an hour only yesterday. She couldn’t afford to lose her voice when a strange man was roaming her property. After everything she’d been through this was beyond disconcerting. She wanted to ask who he was, why he was here but she feared that her voice wouldn’t hold out. That he knew her name was interesting but not startling. There was a list of owners in the common area. The question that was more troubling was—had he been casing the place?

“I don’t.”

The easy way he spoke combined with his soulful brown eyes seemed to say that none of this bothered him. That this was just an everyday occurrence. Who was he?

He took a step forward.

“Take another step and you die.”

It was a stupid thing to say and she knew it. She’d already threatened him with death once and despite her threats, she doubted if she could kill him. Pull the trigger, yes, she’d already done that. But that had all been for show. If she was going to threaten to kill, she should be able to make good on that threat. She’d only shot the gun at the shooting range and then here, when she’d dusted the top of a dandelion to prove her point. She didn’t like the feeling of aiming a killing weapon at another human being, at any being.

“Who are you and what are you doing slinking around my place in the dark?”

Except it wasn’t dark anymore. The sun had cleared the night shadows and the neighborhood was coming to life. Soon one of her neighbors would be wondering what was going on. On the upside, she was sure that if someone were to see their little tableau, they would be quick to call the police. This wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where guns and violence were common. In fact, she’d never seen or heard of an incident in the time she’d been here.

“Travis Johnson...” He broke off as if reconsidering saying anything else but instead took a step forward.

“Stop!” Her throat hurt at the effort, but it didn’t break. She clenched the gun so tight that her palm was beginning to sweat.

She frowned. He hadn’t ditched his gun as she’d demanded, only holstered it. She wasn’t sure how she’d let that get past her. She guessed that she would have had to shoot him for him to relinquish the weapon as she’d demanded. Except for the weapon which he was careful to keep his hand away from, he was complying. Not once had he tried to overpower her, to take the gun from her. Considering how fit he looked, she guessed he could have easily been able to overpower her. Instead, he’d let her remain in control, let the situation play out. Except for the gun, none of his mannerisms indicated that he was the trespasser or thief that she’d first thought. His voice was low and calm as if having a gun held to him was a normal way to begin his day. His stance was relaxed, as if she were no threat. That annoyed her.

Despite the discomfort, she held the gun tighter. It was as if by doing that she was safe—protected even more than before. Her eyes met his. His brown eyes were steady and in an odd way honest. Yet something ran under his calm surface. She speculated that he hid a harder, darker side. The thought of that made her hold back a shiver. She needed no more darker sides. She’d faced more darkness than she ever wanted to see in this lifetime. And yet it wasn’t over. There was still the trial. And there was still... She pulled her thoughts back from another terrifying reality. One that was hers alone, for no one else believed her.

“Okay, Travis Johnson. Why are you on my property?”

“I’m a US marshal,” he said quickly, as if afraid that she was going to cut him off again.

She couldn’t hide the look of disbelief on her face. Despite her earlier analysis, there was something about him that made her think of the bad boy in high school and not of someone in law enforcement. Except, this was no boy. He was tall and broad shouldered, with a rough but good-looking face and a tough-as-nails attitude. With the early morning shadows lifted, it was clear that he likely wasn’t a common thief. Besides, she doubted if one would be this confident after being caught red-handed trespassing.

“Identification?”

He held out something that glinted in the early morning sun. “My badge.”

It looked official enough. And she had been told there would be protection.

“You can call—”

“I don’t need you to tell me who I can call,” she said and couldn’t keep the bite from her words. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. She had too many men look at her like that and the last thing she needed was another. Except if she were honest, there was no lust in his eyes, only an intense determination. She didn’t like that either.

Despite that, she lowered the gun. She held it stiff and inches away from her hip. “So, you’re the protection I was promised.”

“Yes,” he said. “Along with two other US marshals. We are your security team from now through the trial.” He shifted as if contemplating moving a step closer.

“Don’t move,” she demanded.

“I have to say I’ve never had a witness react like this before,” he said looking down at the lowered gun.

“I’m betting that you’ve never met someone who escaped a serial killer either,” she said. She couldn’t help herself. Even in this situation she wasn’t about to take guff from anyone. She told it like it was; she always had.

“No.” He shook his head. “You’re right. You’re the first.” He took a step forward, his hand out. She held out her hand and noticed that he had to reach and take a step forward to accept it. She hated her small size in a situation like this for it made her feel at a disadvantage. He took her hand and it seemed to be swallowed in his as he gave it a firm shake and let go.

“Marshal Travis Johnson. Here to protect you and make sure that your testimony is given, and that piece of trash is put away for good.”

There was something in the tone of his voice that held a doubt she couldn’t identify, as if he questioned his assignment.

“You think there might be a problem?” she asked.

“No problem,” he said. “Look, let’s go inside and talk there before you have your neighbors wondering what’s going on.” He eyed the gun. “You might want to put that away.”

“This way,” she said and ignored his suggestion as she brushed past him. Their eyes met as she passed. His seemed to see beyond what she’d left unsaid, as if he knew her very thoughts. She looked away. He might be here to protect her, but he had no idea what he was up against. For there was another threat. The fact that it was faceless didn’t make it any less deadly.

* * *

“WOULD YOU LIKE a drink? Water, coffee?” Kiera asked as she closed the back door to her condo.

“Coffee, please.”

“Follow me,” she said with a no-nonsense tone of voice, as she led the way to the kitchen.

The unit was compact with only one bedroom, a living area and the kitchen. Despite the small space, everything seemed neat and organized. There was a homey feel to the way she’d decorated, and the smell of coffee seemed to permeate everything.

“Have a seat,” she said. “I’ll just be a minute. I obviously need to put this away.” She raised her gun hand mere inches, enough to make it clear that it was the gun she was putting away.

And with that she turned and disappeared into the bedroom. He heard a drawer open and close, and then she returned empty handed and went to the cupboard, pulling out two cups and lifting the coffee carafe and pouring them each a cup.

He felt out of place, too big for the space and very much as though he were intruding. He accepted the coffee cup from her and noticed that her hand shook. He wished there was something he could do to take the fear away from her but knew he had nothing to offer but his presence. Her fears existed in the past and in the unknown of her future.

They sat across from each other and for a minute neither of them said anything. She’d been through hell and he didn’t know what he should address first. He ran through a list of things that he knew he needed to ask, to tell her. Where to begin eluded him. When he looked at her he saw the way she rubbed her thumb against the tablecloth and when she looked up, he noticed the whiteness of her lips, and that’s when he knew just how much stress she was under.

Another minute went by and the silence was heavier, more awkward.

“I’m glad I have my aunt’s gun,” she said in a soft voice that broke the silence.

“If you find yourself in a situation in the future where you need to pull a weapon to defend yourself, just remember—you have to be ready to use it.” He paused. “You weren’t today, were you? I don’t count a wild shot, completely off mark, as prepared.”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“Maybe is as good as no, and in another situation, hesitation would have been fatal—for you.”

“Then I can’t hesitate.”

“Exactly,” he said. “On the upside, I’m here to make sure that you never need that gun. If it’s not me, it will be another marshal making sure you’re safe. Although, we’ll need some help from you.”

“What do you need?”

“The truth and—” he paused “—your trust. That means that if there’s anything you haven’t said, anything you’re holding off saying, you need to tell me.”

“I’ve already told the FBI everything I know,” she said. “And they don’t believe all of it.”

“Everything?” he asked. He hoped that she’d give him something that could be used in the case. She’d seen one face only and she’d identified him, for now that was what they had to work with.

“He wasn’t working alone,” she said. “I heard...”

Her voice dropped as his heart sank.

She couldn’t repeat this, not in court. It would make her testimony questionable if she spouted those beliefs like facts with no physical evidence to back them up. They needed an ID on a killer, nothing else. Certainly not a belief that had no support, no evidence, no backing of any kind and seemed more fantasy than reality.

“Kiera, we can’t assume...”

“Not without evidence,” she said with a nod of her head. “I realize that. But there’s something else. I don’t think it’s connected, but it’s frightening.”

“What’s going on, Kiera?” he asked hoping that maybe going along with her might be a better way to eventually get her off this particular track.

“I’m getting anonymous calls,” she said. “In the early hours. Yesterday was the first morning I was home since the attack and that’s when they started. There was another this morning. They were both the same. The phone rings at five minutes to five o’clock in the morning and then again at five minutes after five.”

That much he hadn’t heard. Had it been reported? He doubted it, for it was a fairly glaring oversight and James was nothing but thorough. Another thought hit him. He pulled out his phone as he stood up. His knee caught on the table. Coffee slopped from his cup. It just missed the embroidered tablecloth.

“I’m sorry,” he said. But he could only think of what she’d said. Five minutes after five o’clock in the morning was the time the 911 call had come in. The facts from the time she was found and how it had rolled out as the authorities took charge were engraved in his mind. The time of her rescue wasn’t public knowledge. He couldn’t imagine the time being anything more than a coincidence though. He wasn’t sure if even she knew the exact time of her escape. He wasn’t sure if anyone had told her. She might only know it was early in the morning, unless she had asked. Either way, he didn’t like the sound of any of this. The bus driver who had first found her knew the time, as did the police and the first responders. Would one of them have leaked the information? Except for the bus driver, that would be a breach of confidentiality and mean immediate firing. He made a mental note to mention the possibility that there was a leak to James. The thought, even the possibility, that someone had taken that information and used it to harass her was, to say the least, disconcerting.

She was back with a dishrag in her hand.

“Let me,” he said. He took the cloth from her and wiped up the coffee just as it had come close to creeping onto the edges of the tablecloth.

“Got it,” he said handing the cloth back. The tablecloth was unique, and he guessed that it was handmade. He’d seen his mother and his aunts embroider many such pieces. This one was a beautiful, vibrant garden scene.

“You embroider?”

“No,” she said with a smile. “I found it at a craft sale.” She leaned over to take the dishrag and wiped a drop he’d missed.

A minute later she sat down. It seemed that she moved slowly every time she was forced to sit anywhere near him.

“Have you reported the calls?” he asked despite the obvious tension.

“Yes,” she said. “Sort of. I spoke to the police officer who was here yesterday but no, unless he put a report forward, which I doubt, they weren’t officially reported. I left that to him.” She got up as if she was unable to sit, as if his proximity made her nervous.

“Kiera? Are you alright?”

“Would you like more coffee?” she asked with her back to him.

“No thanks. Look, I’m sorry that this is happening. I’m sorry—”

She turned around and there was a pallor to her face. “It’s alright. It’s me. This is just all so difficult.”

He’d taken the wrong approach. He’d been in her face since the beginning, but he wasn’t used to dealing with a woman traumatized in quite the way she had been.

“Look, I’ll have another cup of coffee, if you’ll have one too.”

A look of relief crossed her face. And a few minutes later they were talking easily about the craft sales in the area and he was silently thanking the women in his life, in his family, for his knowledge of such things. Ten minutes later she was looking, if not relaxed, at least not so tense that she’d leap at the slightest sound.

“Kiera, I hate to ask this, but you said the anonymous calls you received the last two nights or more specifically, early morning, weren’t reported. Why not?”

She shrugged and was quiet for a minute. He gave her time to get her thoughts together and wondered what she was afraid of revealing and why.

“Like I said, I told the police officer the other night, after the first occurrence. He told me there was nothing to be frightened of, that a prank call was just the luck of the draw.”

“He brushed them off?” Travis asked as he fought outrage and tried not to let that emotion show in his voice. “You didn’t tell him the time and that there were two of them?”

“I told him all of it,” she said. “He didn’t believe any of it was part of what happened. I don’t believe that. Someone needs to know.”

Damn it, Travis thought. There’d been no mention of this, no report. Heads would roll. He pushed the anger back and instead focused his attention on her.

“Tell me about the phone calls,” he encouraged in a gentler tone.

She looked at him with relief.

“And don’t hesitate to tell me anything from here on out.”

She nodded and something in the set of her chin seemed less tense.

“The call occurred again this morning. Two calls, two early morning calls in a row. It begins with a ring and a hang up. Then, ten minutes later, five minutes after five o’clock, they call again. The second call is always heavy breathing for about a minute before they disconnect.”

He was quiet, considering what she had said.

“Here.” She tossed her phone to him. “The calls are there. They’re listed as unknown but the time, duration...”

He looked at the phone’s history that confirmed what she’d already said, although he’d never doubted her—at least on that fact.

“We may get along yet,” she said with a cough. She covered her mouth and turned away. “Excuse me,” she said. “How long did you say I was stuck with you and—” she coughed again and then turned, gave a slight smile, as politeness disappeared “—and, as my aunt would have said, your ilk.”

“Right until the bitter end, sweetheart,” he said, glad to, again, see the hint of attitude. It gave him hope that she’d be able to overcome the trauma she’d endured. She was a strong woman. That was what the therapist had put in his report, and he’d been right. Not many could endure what she had.

“You have no idea what that might mean.”

“You’ll be safe, I promise,” he said although he knew that wasn’t what she’d been alluding to but rather the unknown that lay between now and the trial.

“Will I?” she asked.

He looked into her eyes and saw heartbreak and fear. Both were emotions that tore at his heart in a way no woman had affected him in a long time. But she’d been through more than he could imagine. And other than preventing further threats, he couldn’t change what had happened. He couldn’t stop the fear, for that arose from a horrifying experience that he could not change. He could only hope that his protection made her feel safe despite prank calls in the middle of the night. He could only try his best to help her face the nightmare she’d endured.

“The calls, they’re just opportunistic pranks, aren’t they?” She asked the question with hope in her voice. She turned away, her shoulders slouched.

“Kiera,” he began. “I’m sorry you weren’t taken seriously.” He thought of the police officer who’d blown the first calls off. He’d be having a few words with him. “They might be pranks.” He wanted to say that they also might not. But all of this was guesswork and needed investigation, monitoring. “I’ll handle this.”

She turned around to face him. “I can’t stop thinking about the phone calls and why they chose me, now of all times. My name wasn’t made public. It’s a stretch to think that there’d be a connection at all. But the time the last one comes in is about the same time in the morning when I was rescued—give or take. I don’t know the exact time—I never asked.”

He knew the exact time. He also knew that she was right.

It seemed too coincidental. It seemed too everything. Had someone leaked information and this was their idea of a prank? He hoped not. He hoped it was an unfortunate coincidence. If they continued, he’d have her phone rerouted and the calls handled. She needed time to heal and get on with her life. The calls were obviously frightening her, threatening her peace of mind. And, because of that, they had to end.

He stood up. His gut told him that something else was going on, that this case wasn’t as straightforward as everyone thought. There might not be a second serial killer, but something was off, something had been missed.

“I’ll be doing some back and forth from the office to here. But I’ll be available by phone and I’ll be in and out throughout the day. There’ll never be a moment when you can’t reach me or one of my team.” Seeing how frightened she looked, he made a snap decision. He would be here for her until daylight tomorrow. “Tonight, if you get any more of these calls, I’ll be in my vehicle, in your driveway. Get me.”

“I will,” she said softly. “That’s guaranteed.”

But it wasn’t her next words so much as the finality with which she said them that, despite what he believed, made his blood chill.

“Whoever wanted me dead. Whoever I escaped from. One of them is still out there.”

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