The Prey

Rowan could easily picture Flynn playing secret agent in the Southern Hemisphere. But prison-she couldn’t imagine him locked in a cage. Too much energy, in his mind and body. She sensed that he’d rather die than be imprisoned.

“Did the CIA get him out?”

“No. He escaped. Since then, he does very little work for the government. Can’t say I blame him.”

Neither can I.

“Rowan, the lilies could have been a coincidence.”

She closed her eyes. “No, Roger, they weren’t a coincidence. Adam said something about a man recommending them. It’s him.”

“Who?”

“The murderer. I know it.”

“I’ll get Peterson on it right away.”

“Okay,” she said. “But tell him he can’t press Adam. Adam is smart, but not in traditional ways. He’s a little slow.” She paused and rubbed her eyes.

“Roger, how does he know my name?” Her voice cracked.

“Let’s assume this guy is after you. We don’t know why. Maybe someone involved in one of your cases. He’s obviously a meticulous planner. The murders are well executed, well planned, and he’s psychologically torturing you. It would reason that he researched you as well. I buried your files deep, Rowan, but they still exist.”

“Have you dug deeper into the Franklin murders? I read the files. It’s not a closed case. There’s something there. There has to be.” Because if there wasn’t, it meant someone who knew her as a child was killing people.

“Karl Franklin’s brother has always said he was innocent. We contacted him and he was bitter, refused to talk. I’m going to Nashville early tomorrow to try to talk to him in person.”

Hope. “Really? You think it’s him?”

“I don’t know, Rowan, but we’re working every angle.”

Rowan swallowed. “Roger, what if this is someone connected to my childhood? Who knows what happened- who knew Dani? The pigtails, the lilies-it’s connected.”

Roger sighed audibly. When he spoke, his voice cracked slightly. “Rowan, listen to me. Don’t go there. You can’t keep reliving the past. Everyone connected with that night is gone.”

“But-”

“I promise, I’ll look at the files tonight. I promise I won’t leave any stone unturned. There’s no one left-except your aunt in Ohio, but I don’t think she’s responsible.”

Rowan sank to the floor. Her aunt. The woman who didn’t want her or Peter. The woman who turned them away because they were devil’s spawn.

“I’m not going to the premiere Friday night,” she whispered.

“Of your movie?”

“Too dangerous.”

“Peterson said he has it covered.”

“Perhaps, but this bastard would blow the entire theater.”

“Would he?” Roger asked quietly.

Rowan rubbed her head. “No,” she admitted. “He has one more murder to commit. From my fourth book. But he’s deviated before; he could deviate again.”

“The D.C. police have issued a warning to young brunette women in the area,” Roger said. “We’re not sitting back and doing nothing to protect them.”

“I know. But-” she stopped. How could they protect every brunette under thirty who commuted to D.C.? Not everyone listened to the news, read the papers, believed they could be in danger.

That was the crux of the matter. It won’t happen to me. I’m safe. How many survivors had she interviewed who told her, I didn’t think it could happen to me. I never thought my daughter would be kidnapped. I was only gone a minute. My car was only in front of the building. The parking lot was lit.

On and on. As if, if they ran fast enough, evil wouldn’t see that they’d let their guard down.

She shuddered and voiced her fear. “Even though my publisher delayed the release of my next book, the killer might have been able to get an advance copy. There’s been enough publicity and reviews for him to get a sense of the crimes involved. You might want to warn prostitutes in Dallas and Chicago to be extra careful.”

Roger Collins hung up and sent an e-mail to his assistant to contact the Chicago and Dallas police departments ASAP. He reviewed his flight itinerary for Nashville and made notes for his conversation with Karl Franklin’s brother. All the while, he couldn’t get Rowan’s fear out of his mind.

Lily.

Who knew about her past? He’d buried the information deep to protect her, allow her to lead a normal life. But she’d never had a normal life. Even before the violence that took her family from her, she was raised in a cruel environment by an angry father and scared mother.

He had tried to dissuade her from thinking about her childhood. He was worried for the first time in his life that the lies he’d told all those years ago were coming back to bite him. But how could he have known?

After calling Gracie to tell her he’d be late again, he went to his private safe and pulled out the thick file that contained Rowan’s past. The past he had tried to bury for her. To protect her. To give her a chance.

But she’d never had a chance. And the pounding in his head made him realize he might have made a fatal mistake.

He sat down at his desk and opened the file. He had no intention of moving until he’d reviewed every damned record to see if he had missed something.

Or someone.

John glanced at Adam sitting rigid in the passenger seat of the beat-up truck. He frowned, worried about the young man’s withdrawal. He didn’t know Adam well, but sensed that Rowan’s odd behavior disturbed him deeply.

Before Highway 101 veered east off the Pacific Coast Highway, John saw the flower stand. He’d driven past it several times in the last few days, but hadn’t thought twice about it. “Is this where you bought the lilies?” he asked Adam.

Adam nodded almost imperceptibly, and John illegally cut across traffic and into the turnout. “Let’s talk to the man who sold them to you.”

“I don’t wanna.” He crossed his arms and pouted.

“Remember what I told you, Adam? This man you saw may be the man who’s hurting all those people. And hurting Rowan. I know you like Rowan and don’t want to see her hurt.”

John didn’t push Adam further, allowing him time to mull over the information. Several minutes passed; then Adam opened the door without looking at him.

Good, John thought. He slid out the driver’s side.

Adam dragged his feet, but followed John to the wiry Mexican who manned the flower booth. “Hola, senor.”

“Hola,” the proprietor said with a nod. He looked at Adam and smiled. “Lady like flores?” He gestured to his colorful display.

Adam frowned and shook his head.

“Senor,” John continued, “My amigo-” he patted Adam on the back both to identify him and to keep him at his side-“met a man. Do you remember?”

“Recuerde?” he repeated in Spanish. “Si.”

“Can you describe him? His hair?” John touched his hair. “Pelo?”

“Yes, hair like sand.”

“The same color as sand?”

He nodded and waved toward the beach below the cliffs. Blond, John thought. A little darker than true blond.