Zoe looked up, hitting the screenof the car to bring up the call menu again. Might as well do it this way ratherthan grappling with her cell phone. She looked up through the windshield,blinking back tears of frustration with stubborn stoicism.
And blinked again.
That was it, wasn’t it?
The truck?
Zoe stared, checking the licenseplate against her memory. Same registration, same model of truck. It had to be.She’d managed, somehow, to end up right outside the place where he had stopped.
It took her a shocked momentbefore she scrambled into action again, climbing out of the car, carefully andquietly closing the door as she crept forward toward the driveway. The truckwas just sitting there, making small noises as the engine rapidly cooled in thefall weather, alone and dark. No lights were on, not in the car and not in thehouse.
Zoe looked up, mystified. Wherehad he gone? Inside? Was it possible that he knew this resident, had come tovisit? But if so, why in the middle of the night? And there were no lights oninside—not like you would expect if he was seeing a friend.
But then a light did flick on,upstairs, in the top right window. A bedroom or bathroom, most likely. Zoewatched, thinking. She had to trust her instincts here. Maybe it was just aninnocent visit—but if it wasn’t, someone would die. That was too big of a riskto take.
She rushed toward the front door,staying low and trying to keep her steps quiet. She tried the door gently butfound it locked. He had to have gotten in somehow. If he’d been invited in,then fine, all was as expected. But if he’d broken in, there would be some kindof sign.
Zoe headed around the side of thebuilding, dashing forward as quickly as she dared to without making a soundthat would give her away. The grass rustled faintly underfoot, and even thatmade her flinch. The clear light of the moon washed everything silver, and asshe approached the back door over patio tiles that made her want to take hershoes off for silence, she saw that it was hanging open.
Only just; the thinnest sliver.But there it was. Zoe drew her gun and pushed it open without a second thought.There was no messing around now. This was a serious situation. The killer wasin the house, and if he hadn’t done it already, then he was getting ready to.
Zoe had to stop him—and avoidbecoming the next victim herself.
Though it might have been nice toruin his pattern.
She listened inside the room shehad entered, which appeared to be a kitchen. The silver moonlight glinted fromtaps and plates and gave her dimensions, telling her the size of the room andcalculating possible home layout extrapolations. Was that water? Water running,somewhere above? Zoe cocked her head; yes, it was running water, she was sureof it.
Running water like the kind he usedto drown his victims.
She rushed forward until she foundthe stairs, and then started going up them two at a time. She was cautious butfast. She hoped that any creaking floorboards would be covered by the sound ofthe taps—hoped that he was standing right by them, couldn’t hear anything else.About halfway up, one of them creaked loudly, and she winced, dashing up thelast few steps just in case he was already coming out to meet her.
Zoe kept the gun out and steady infront of her as her eyes scanned the dark rooms in all directions, turningswiftly toward the only one that was lit: a bathroom, she saw by the white tilejust inside the doorway. She stepped smartly around into position, facing thedoorway fully, so that she could see inside.
There was a woman lying on thefloor, her blonde hair fanned out over her face. Shelley’s cold white eyesflashed into Zoe’s head, gripping her with an almost paralyzing fear. Even fromhere Zoe could see the blood pooling from the woman’s head, making drips on thetiles. Zoe rushed forward again, dashing into the bathroom and checking thebathtub—rapidly filling with water—and spinning to look behind the door.Nothing. He wasn’t there.
She stepped back toward thedoorway again, moving over the woman’s body so that she could squat down besideher. Zoe reached out two fingers and held them against the prone neck, herhands shaking with the need for the woman to be alive, feeling how her skin waschill to the touch—but there was something weakly moving under her fingertips,the heart still beating. Zoe drew in a relieved gasp. She wasn’t too late.
But if the victim was here, andnot yet dead, then the killer clearly meant to drown her in the tub. Whichmeant that he still had to be somewhere in the house.
Why had he left his victim behind?
And where was he now?
In the split second that sherealized it, Zoe stood and spun, coming to her feet facing back into thehallway that she had come from. But it was too late. Because he was alreadythere, standing right behind her, and something dark in his hand was alreadyswinging around toward her.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Zoe was unable to react in timebefore the heavy club swung down against her hand, knocking the gun downwithout a chance to save it. She had no time to register the pain in her hand,either, only time to step back and let the numbers fly in front of her eyes,telling her how to save herself.
She dimly registered relief thatthe gun had not fired on hitting the ground, but it was replaced immediately bythe more pressing concern: Ford’s arm flying back again with the club, tellingher the angle and trajectory at which it would come down, making her lean backsharply, ducking under its range. She heard the whistle of air moving as itpassed over her head, almost hitting her. The killer growled as the club hitthe wood of the door instead, splintering it, spraying Zoe with a hail of loosepaint chips.
Zoe saw the window of opportunity opento barrel forward into him, to knock him back, but his arm was going backagain, and she saw that her plan would put her right into the line of fire forhis next sweep. He was going to hit her.
She
