almost ran into the room, just to shut Paige’s eyes. To call their boss and blame him for not backing her up. To turn off the damn video camera in the corner, broadcasting Paige’s mutilated body to the thousands of sick bastards who had paid to see her raped and murdered.
A blink of something green caught her eye. Next to the door a digital clock. All at once Kate took in the entire room, not just Paige’s dead body.
The wires.
The plastique.
The clock was counting backward: 1:11, 1:10, 1:09.
Looking quickly around the window for any booby traps, she broke it with the grip of her gun, cleared the glass as best she could, and jumped through.
The countdown turned from one minute to fifty-nine seconds. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven.
She fired a round into the video camera lens, then took off her windbreaker and approached Paige’s body. She wanted to get her out, but she didn’t have time.
So much blood.
Forty-one seconds.
Using her windbreaker as a glove, she reached over and pulled the knife from Paige’s body. It was stuck in bone. She grimaced as she used all her strength to remove it, then wrapped it in her jacket and leaped out the window.
All the evidence was about to be destroyed and this knife might be the one thing that could implicate the murderer.
“I’ll find him, Paige,” she promised then glanced at the clock.
Nineteen seconds.
Kate ran as fast and far as she could. The explosion shook the earth, knocking her off her feet. Her jacket fell from her grasp and the wind was knocked out of her.
She didn’t care about contaminating evidence. She just wanted a print. A print that could lead to the real identity of Paige’s killer.
You didn’t need evidence if you never went to court.
ONE
LUCY’S GRADUATION CEREMONY was being held outside on the high school’s football field. On the cusp of adulthood, nine hundred eighteen-year-olds sat surprisingly still on the risers framing each side of the temporary stage. Dillon Kincaid shielded his eyes against San Diego ’s morning sun, scanning the crowd for his family. He was late because of a last-minute psychiatric assessment of a prisoner who was being arraigned that afternoon.
The principal called the next graduate. “Monica Julian.” A tall, lithe blonde walked up the steps to the platform and accepted her certificate.
Good. He hadn’t missed Lucy receiving her diploma. He’d keep an eye on the audience for the largest burst of applause, and that would be where the Kincaid clan had saved him a seat.
The principal went through fifteen more names before announcing, “Lucia Kincaid.”
Dillon smiled, anticipating his beautiful dark-haired baby sister walking up the stairs. She’d worked hard for her grades, and her acceptance to their father’s alma mater of Georgetown was icing on the cake. He heard a loud raucous cheer in the middle of the right seating section, saw the tallest Kincaid, Connor, standing and hooting.
Circling the field and making his way to where his family cheered, Dillon watched the stage for his sister.
“Lucia Kincaid?” The principal repeated her name and Dillon stopped to scan the graduates. Where was Lucy? He reached the edge of his family’s row of seats as Carina emerged.
“Robert P. Kinney.” The principal went on to the next graduate.
“I’m going to look for Lucy,” Carina told Dillon when she spotted him. Her fiance, Nick Thomas, was right behind her.
Dillon fell into step next to Nick while Carina made a beeline for the nearest girls’ restroom. She’d graduated from the same high school fourteen years before and knew the campus well. Wearing graduation robes, two girls came out, adjusting their hats. Carina asked, “Is Lucy Kincaid in there?”
“I don’t think so,” one responded.
Carina brushed past her and went into the girls’ room, calling Lucy’s name. “She’s not there,” she stated tersely when she came out.
“Is there another bathroom?” Nick asked.
“Way over on the other side of the field.”
“Let’s check it out.”
They crossed the field behind all the proud families. “I can’t believe she ditched her own graduation!” Carina sounded both worried and angry.
“You don’t know that she did,” Dillon said. “There’s a logical explanation. Lucy could be sick.”
“And she didn’t come and tell us?” Carina frowned, picked up her pace. “No one’s seen her since eight o’clock this morning. She went to Becky’s house to get ready, saying she’d meet us here.”
“Carina,” Dillon said, “stop being a cop for a minute. Don’t assume the worst.”
“I can’t help it.”
Dillon had the same fears as his sister. Both siblings worked with violent predators every day-Carina as a homicide detective catching killers, Dillon as a forensic psychiatrist trying to understand them. The two had been sent down their career paths by the murder of their nephew. Justin Stanton would also have been graduating today had he not been murdered eleven years ago.
Carina took a deep breath as she walked under the bleachers and toward the restrooms. A group of male graduates was smoking cigarettes around the corner. “They’re at the ‘N’s now. You’d better get back,” Carina told them.
“Whatever,” one of the kids dismissed her.
Carina glared at him, and Dillon pulled her back, reminding her what was important. “Let’s find Lucy.”
The restroom was vacant except for a mother and daughter.
Standing outside the restroom, Carina said to no one, “Where is she?”
“You said she went to Becky Anderson’s this morning, right? The petite blond girl who was at her birthday dinner?”
Carina nodded. “She’s in the third row on the left.”
“Let me go talk to her. You and Nick check the campus.”
Carina looked like she was about to argue with him-Dillon knew she wanted a crack at interrogating Becky-but he held firm and Nick guided Carina toward the parking lot.
Dillon walked over to the graduates’ seating. He spotted Becky halfway down the third row and waved to catch her attention.
A teacher approached. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You can speak to your daughter after the ceremony.”
Dillon cringed. He might technically be old enough to be Lucy’s father, but he knew Lucy was sensitive to being much younger than her six siblings.
“I just need to talk to Becky Anderson. It’s important.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
Dillon caught Becky’s eye and motioned her to come over. She started down the aisle, her face revealing that she knew exactly why Dillon was asking to speak with her.
“Sir-” the teacher began.
“This is about a missing girl. I have to speak with Becky.”
Without giving the teacher another word, Dillon took Becky by the arm and led her away from the crowd.
