The Prey

Quinn was behind her looking concerned, but Rowan gave him minimal attention. She focused on Michael’s sister.

“It’s all your fault!” Tess screamed.

“I’m sorry,” Rowan said. “Believe me, I am sorry.” She stood, turned to face Tess, ready to take any punishment.

“You lied! You kept secrets and Michael is dead. John told me everything. I-I-I’ll never forgive you. I hope he gets you. I hope you both burn in hell!”

What could Rowan say? She hoped he came for her, too. Then she would have a chance to stop him. And if she died in the process, what loss to the world would that be?

“I know,” she said simply.

“Tess, you don’t mean that,” Quinn said, putting his hands on her shoulders. She shrugged him off and stepped forward.

“Yes. I. Do.”

Rowan hadn’t noticed before, but Tess had the same green eyes as her brothers, only lighter. They all looked alike. Tess. Michael. John. She couldn’t think about John or what they’d done last night. What a foolish, selfish mistake! A mistake that cost Michael his life. Michael should have been here, safe.

But if John had gone home, would the bastard have gone after him?

Michael wouldn’t have been preoccupied, angry at his brother for forcing him to take a break. Angry at John because of her.

The realization hit her and she stumbled backward. Michael had known, at least sensed, the tension and attraction between her and John. He was jealous. He’d fought with his brother because of her, not just because John insisted he take time off.

It was her fault.

She tilted her chin up and nodded at Tess. “I don’t blame you, Tess. Michael was a great guy, and I’m-”

“Don’t!” she screamed and approached Rowan, hands bunched at her side. “Don’t talk about him! He was my brother! You bitch!” She started pounding Rowan with her fists and Rowan let her. She was numb, dead inside. Did she have any grief left to give? The pain from the punches couldn’t compare to the agony of death, the added nightmares, the guilt seizing her soul with its piercing grip.

“Tess, please.” Quinn rushed over and tried to gently pry her off.

The front door slammed, and Quinn pulled his gun and ran from the room. A moment later, John burst in, Quinn behind him.

“Tess!” John grabbed her and spun her around. Tears streamed down her face and she pounded her brother in the chest. He took hold of her wrists and gently wrestled her under control. “Tess, honey. Stop. Please, sweetheart, stop.” His voice was calm, soothing, very much in control.

Tess’s bottom lip quivered; tears streamed down her face. She collapsed into his arms, sobbing.

John caught Rowan’s gaze before he led Tess from the room. The mixture of pain and rage she saw in his hard, chiseled expression stabbed her heart.

Quinn crossed to her, put an arm around her shoulders, and eased her into the reading chair.

“Rowan, it’s not your fault.” He rubbed her back and brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. “Don’t blame yourself.”

She didn’t say anything. What could she say? The last two weeks were one big living, breathing nightmare. Would it ever end? Would he finally come after her so she could have peace?

Justice.

She couldn’t let him get away. When he found her, would he glowingly tell her of his crimes, seeking her praise? Her horror? Her anger? Whatever he wanted from her, she wasn’t going to give him anything but a bullet.

But first, she had to make sure Roger had done what she’d asked.

“Rowan, Tess didn’t mean any of that. She’s distraught.”

Rowan looked up at Quinn. His handsome face was long with sadness and worry. “Protect her, Quinn. When people get upset, they do stupid things. And call the Dallas and Chicago police and Bureau field offices. Make sure they understand the seriousness of warning prostitutes. Particularly high-paid call girls.”

“We already took care of that-”

“Do it again!” Rowan yelled, then pinched the bridge of her nose. It didn’t do any good to yell at Quinn. It wasn’t his fault.

“All right,” he said quietly. “Rowan, it may surprise you, but I know what I’m doing. I’ve been an agent for fifteen years. And Roger hasn’t rested since the beginning.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” She rested her hand on Quinn’s arm. “It’s just-” She absently waved an arm toward the shelf that housed copies of her books. She walked over to them and stared.

“It felt so cathartic to write these books, to always have good triumph over evil when we both know the bad guys often win.” She stared at the shelf. Crime of Opportunity. Crime of Passion. Crime of Clarity. Crime of Corruption. And her latest book, the one they were holding until this bastard was caught, Crime of Jeopardy.

Twenty advance copies had been sent to her, but she had only brought five to Malibu, in case she wanted to send them to someone. She’d given one to Adam…

There were three on her shelf.

She stared at them, her heart beating fast. Three left. There should have been four.

“Rowan-” Quinn began.

“He’s been here.” Her voice was barely audible.

“Who?”

“The killer. He’s been here. Right here.” She pointed to the shelf of books. “He has the last book. He could kill anytime.”

Three more days.

He stood at the window and looked out into the blackness. It was three in the morning and very, very dark here on the coast. He hated it. Hated the ocean, hated the cold, foggy mornings, hated the salt air. How she ran on the wet beach every damn morning in the soggy air was beyond his understanding, but she’d always been odd. His opposite.

Except for one thing. She came up with exquisite ways to murder.

In Crime of Jeopardy, Rowan’s counterpart, Dara Young, investigates the murder of a prostitute in Dallas that is linked to an unsolved series of murders in Chicago. The victims are mutilated and vital organs removed with precision.

He’d been studying basic surgical procedures in anticipation, but he read the good parts-the details about each murder-three times to get it just right. Exactly as Rowan envisioned.

Turning from the window, he crossed the spacious, sparsely furnished living room and finally went upstairs to bed. He pulled a book off his nightstand and caressed the cover. Crime of Jeopardy. It wouldn’t be in bookstores for another three days, but he had taken this copy out from under Rowan’s cocky little nose weeks ago. Weeks. Before Doreen Rodriguez took her last breath. Before he’d finished planning each payback, before he planned what he would do to Rowan.

But he knew now, and it would be good. Very, very good.

But first, Jeopardy. Dallas or Chicago. Chicago or Dallas. Hmmm. He was a little nervous about going back to Texas, but the challenge thrilled him as well.

Chicago, Dallas. Dallas, Chicago. It made no difference to him. Some stupid whore was going to die and lose her innards, one way or the other.

He lay back on the bed dressed in nothing and pulled the warm comforter over him. He had some serious planning to do.

He was running out of money. He couldn’t very well take out the whore when he didn’t have the plane fare to get to Dallas. Robbery really wasn’t his thing, but every few months he hit a couple stores and pulled in enough money to get around. The trick was to pick businesses with women behind the counter. They’d fork over the money quick and easy and he’d be out in less than five minutes. He’d only had to kill once.