When Piper hugged her, Bryn’s eyes burned with tears. A friend. She hadn’t known this woman but for a few hours, and it felt as if they’d known each other a lifetime.

  “Thank you for talking to me.” For not prying or demanding she divulge the entire story. “And for not judging me for being mad at God.”

  Piper rubbed Bryn’s shoulders. “You’re welcome. We all have our moments of anger. We just can’t stay that way. A good start to healing would be admitting it to Him, and asking for His help in working past it.”

  “Won’t He be mad that I’m mad?”

  “I think He can handle it. But let Him help you past it. Bitterness will eat you alive from the inside out.”

  That’s exactly how Bryn felt. Like something was devouring her. Eating away at her insides until she was nothing but a shell. “Thank you. For understanding.”

  “Whatever and whenever you need me, you call. Besides, we gotta have each other’s backs if we’re going to put up with those two out there. United front all the way.”

  Bryn laughed and picked the cake up while Piper carried the coffee to the dining room. “Dessert and coffee,” Piper said as she entered. “Chocolate layered cake. Mama Jean’s recipe.”

  “I do love married life,” Luke said, taking Piper in his arms and kissing her neck.

  “Bryn can’t have any. She has a stomachache.” Eric gave her “the eye.”

  Bryn blew him off with her hand. “I’m not leaving until I have a big whoppin’ hunk of this cake.”

  “Fine.” He plopped in his chair, feigning indignation. “Cut me a piece, too, then. And don’t be stingy about it.”

  * * *

  Eric was thankful his friends had made Bryn feel welcome. The moment Piper led her into the kitchen she’d relaxed and stayed that way the remainder of the evening, although something said in that kitchen must have weighed on her mind. She’d been quiet on the ride back to her house.

  “That was fun. I liked them.”

  “They’re likable people. As I am.” Eric stroked her upper back. “How you feeling?”

  “Better.”

  He half believed her, but once again he wasn’t going to pry.

  “I think you and Luke make great partners. He can lean toward the overly serious side, while you...” She cocked her head.

  Eric cut the ignition in Bryn’s driveway. “Luke’s a great partner. Mr. Rule Book. The couple of times he bent them, they backfired.”

  “Do you bend the rules?” Bryn asked.

  “Nah, I just like to make him think I will.” He chuckled. “Did Piper share their story with you?”

  “Yeah. Lot of odds stacked against them.”

  But they’d prevailed. Could he and Bryn? “Not everyone can make it past obstacles like they did. Of course, I think they tripped over several of them and knocked a load down on the way to the finish line. But...they did finish.”

  “Yeah, seems they finished well.”

  “I think if we examined them more closely, we’d find some scars. I know I have scars, Bryn.”

  Bryn closed her eyes. “Me, too,” she whispered as she touched her abdomen. Eric studied her and wondered about the gesture. She reached for the door handle. Eric covered her hand.

  “I know we’ve had a good time tonight. Relaxed. But Rusty Beckham is still out there, and so is Julian Proctor. I want you to be on guard. Don’t let tonight fool you into believing the danger has passed.” He frowned. “I don’t see Holt’s car. I thought he was staying tonight.”

  The police department and the bureau simply didn’t have the manpower to keep an unmarked car on her home every night.

  “He is. He texted during dinner to say it’d be pretty late.”

  Eric clenched his jaw. He hated leaving her. “I should stay.”

  Bryn’s smile quivered. “And give my neighbors a new reason to gossip. Get some sleep. I’ll be focused and on alert.”

  Hesitating, he balled a fist. “I worry.”

  “I know. I won’t lie and say I’m not concerned. I’ll be okay, though.”

  Eric would call Holt as soon as he left and see exactly how long he was going to be tied up. “For any reason, without hesitation, call me.”

  “I will. And I’ll even throw you a bone. Come help me clear the house.”

  “I was already gonna do that.”

  “Good. Then you go home. No sleeping in the SUV. I need you fresh tomorrow. You promised to help me paint.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “Funny.” She unlocked the door, and he slipped inside, clearing each room, checking under beds. No monsters. No Rusty Beckham.

  “Lock your doors,” he said when he exited the front door. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

  But he wasn’t fine. “’Night.”

  Eric drove around the neighborhood a few times. Nothing out of the ordinary, but he couldn’t keep the invisible creepy crawlers from skittering over his skin. “God, keep her safe. She won’t let me.”

  Begrudgingly, he headed home to his big, cold, empty house.

  THIRTEEN

  After washing her face and brushing her teeth, Bryn switched off the light and slid under the covers. A faint sliver of moonlight washed through the miniblinds.

  Other than a few pops from the house settling, it was quiet. Newton’s breaths came rhythmically. He’d had a big day, too. Bryn was as emotionally frazzled as physically. She peeked at her cell phone.

  11:43.

  Her eyes grew heavier each second. Her leg jerked as she eased into sleep.

  Newton’s growl jolted Bryn awake, but it was too late.

  Beefy gloved hands wrapped around her throat. She opened her eyes, taking in a man wearing a black ski mask, dark jacket and jeans. She clutched his fists, working to pry them away. With the other hand, she aimed for his eye, digging her thumb into the wet socket.

  Her attacker hollered and cursed, and loosened his grip on her neck. She sucked air into her burning lungs and brought her legs up, kicking him in the chest and giving herself time to roll to the side of the bed nearest the door.

  But her gun was on her night table.

  And her phone.

  She burst into the kitchen, the thug hot on her heels. After grabbing a kitchen knife from the block, she hurled herself into the garage, slamming her finger on the button to open the garage door, but it wouldn’t budge. Darkness overtook her, eyes not yet adjusting. A flicker of moonlight filtered through the garage windows.

  She flung herself into the maze of boxes towering in rows and sank down.

  Blood whooshed in her ears, leaving her light-headed. With clammy hands, she gripped the knife tighter.

  Heavy footsteps thudded on the concrete floor. Paused.

  Just like Scott Mulhoney. Looming over her as she slept. Coiling his hands around her throat.

  Stomach tightening, sweat rolling down her temples, she clutched the knife.

  It was only a matter of seconds before he found her among the rows of boxes. It had to be Rusty Beckham, but with gloved hands she couldn’t be sure.

  This wasn’t Ohio. Bryn wasn’t going to shut down.

  Fear slicked the back of her throat in acidy waves, but she leveled out her breathing.

  God, if You still care at all, help me think straight.

  If she rammed a knife into his chest, she’d never get answers. Wouldn’t get the mastermind behind this—Julian Proctor. Beside her foot lay a dumbbell and an ankle weight. She silently set down the knife, picked them up and raised herself from the floor, her heart beating against her chest in a staccato rhythm.

  All Bryn had going for her was the element of surprise. It was now or never.

  She slung the ankle weight across the garage; it clanged against the metal door and fell to the floor. Taking the last shot she had left, Bryn surged forward while the attacker’s attention was focused on the noise. Ramming the dumbbell upside his masked head, she toppled him to the ground and struck him once more until he stopped moving.

  She yanked off his mask and stared into an unconscious Rusty Beckham’s face. Racing back into the house, she grabbed her gun, cuffs and phone. With the cell to her ear, she straddled Beckham and cuffed him. Eric answered.

  “You said call,” Bryn said between shallow breaths.

  “On my way. You hurt?”

  “Me? No. Rusty Beckham can’t say the same thing.” She hung up, called backup and checked the time on her phone: 3:22 a.m. Hello, Saturday morning.

  Rusty came to and struggled with his cuffs, a stream of foul-mouthed words blew from his tongue. Bryn ignored them. This time, she’d fought. She had overcome the panic. And won. Maybe God was with her after all. God, I’m going to believe that You helped me. That maybe You haven’t abandoned me. She wasn’t sure if that was the case or not, but she was alive.

  Headlights glared on the sides of the garage windows. Eric was here.

  He barreled through the kitchen door into the garage. Bryn stood, her gun pointed on Rusty Beckham. “You want to do the honors of reading him his rights?”

  “I ain’t sayin’ nothing,” Rusty hissed, then spit on the concrete.

  Thanks for the DNA, idiot.

  He shot off a few more expletives.

  Eric motioned for Bryn to proceed, and she read him his rights.

  Bringing an arm around her shoulders, Eric sighed. “That’s twice in one day you’ve scared me half to death.”

  “Then you should be all the way dead.”

  Eric’s gaze warmed Bryn, but there was more than relief in his eyes. She wasn’t ready to deal with his feelings. Or hers. Eric must have picked up on it. He turned to Rusty, his jaw hardening, nostrils flaring. “So, how’s it feel to get beaten up by a girl? A girl, dude.”

  Eric’s words would be like pouring salt into a gaping, bloody wound. Rusty getting bested by a female. Bryn had to hand it to him—Eric knew how to get a dig in and do it calm and collected.

  Rusty ranted and cursed. Eric yanked him up by the collar of his coat. “Your mom should be so proud. You really have a way with words.” He pointed to the button on the wall. “Hit that, will ya, Bryn?”

  “I tried earlier. The garage door wouldn’t go up.”

  A uniformed officer stepped in. “Looks like it’s been messed with and recoded.”

  Bryn glared at Rusty as he smirked. Maybe she should have used the twenty-pound weights instead of the ten. She was just glad he was caught. That she’d been able to take him down. She’d fought and survived with a level head.

  * * *

  Eric was convinced he was having heart palpitations. When he’d looked at his phone and Bryn’s number had popped on the screen, he’d lurched from the bed in a state of panic. But she’d used her brain over brawn to take out Rusty Beckham. Eric couldn’t have admired her more.

  After hauling Rusty to the station and processing him, Eric and Bryn sat inside the interrogation room across from him. “Tell us about Julian Proctor.” Eric demanded.

  Rusty jutted his chin out and stared straight ahead.

  “Fine. Don’t. Either way we’ve got enough on you to send you straight to the chair. Or lethal injection. We’re polite Southern gentlemen so we’ll offer you a choice. Of course if we’re low on the old injection, you’ll get the chair regardless.”

  Rusty’s cheek twitched. Eric was getting through.

  “Care to reconsider the silent treatment?”

  “What do you wanna know?” Rusty grunted and pursed his lips.

  “Why did he bail you out of jail?”

  “He’s a nice guy.” Rusty crossed his arms over his chest and set his jaw.

  Eric remained calm. Coming across the table only worked in the movies and in really bad crime novels. Slow and steady would win out. And while he waited, he’d envision coming across the table and wringing this joker’s neck.

  “Look, you cooperate with us and we’ll see if the DA will offer leniency. Maybe take the death penalty off the table. Did he require you to do this as a favor for bailing you out of jail?” Eric faked boredom and cupped his hands behind his neck as if about to snooze in the chair. “I’ve got all day.”

  “I ain’t gonna get the death penalty for threatening some broad who thinks she’s high and mighty.”

  “Try attempted murder, not threatening,” Bryn said and stood, arms akimbo. “And you absolutely will get it for the murders of Cat Weaver, Kendra Kennick, Annalise Hemingway and Bridgette Danforth. So if Julian Proctor put you up to it or is in on it with you, you’d be smart to talk to us. Although, you’ve proven your lack of intelligence so far.”

  Rusty’s face twisted. “What? You think I did those broads?”

  “Give me a reason to think you didn’t,” Bryn challenged. “You were there the night we found Bridgette Danforth. You attacked me in the park. I drew your tattoo, and you were identified. You shot at me, tried to strangle me, twice...knocked me out and tossed me in a woodpile—”

  “You can’t prove it!”

  Technically, all she could prove was the attack in the park, thanks to the tattoo. She didn’t actually see Rusty hit her on the head at the garden store. Recognizing his voice wasn’t enough to convict.

  “Who will a jury believe? You, a filthy pig, or an upstanding citizen and officer of the law?” Bryn placed her hands on the table and leaned into Rusty’s ugly mug. “You’re going away, Rusty. It’s just a matter of how long and if you spill on Julian Proctor.”

  He licked his lips and cursed. “I want a lawyer.”

  And end of interrogation. He probably thought Proctor would hire a fancy attorney to get them out of this. He would probably be right.

  “Fine, don’t talk. We don’t need you to.” Bryn blew from the room. Looked like she was planning on waking up a judge for a warrant into Proctor’s financials. They’d looked into Rusty’s phone records. No calls made to Proctor. Of course, they could have used untraceable burner phones.

  No heavy deposits landed in Rusty’s account, but he might not have put payouts in an account. Proctor’s financials would show him withdrawing large amounts of money if he’d been paying Rusty. If they could find that, they could get a warrant to search Proctor’s home, but he was calculating and clever. Using his own home to drown the victims would be stupid. But he might keep his souvenirs there—the jewelry he took from each victim. They hadn’t found any at Rusty Beckham’s.

  Bryn entered the room with a smug smile on her face. Guess she’d gotten her warrant.

  Time to cover all the bases. Yeah, he’d asked for a lawyer, but maybe... Eric slid a photo toward Rusty. John Linden left a tart taste in Eric’s mouth. On the off chance Julian Proctor wasn’t calling the shots, Linden had connections to each victim and had refused access into his financial affairs. Not good.

  “Have you ever seen this man?”

  Rusty studied the photo. “What if I said I had?”

  “Have you?”

  “Yeah, I seen him. Who is he?”

  “Where have you seen him?” He needed to connect him to a coalition meeting.

  “Standing in the back once at a M.A.G.E. meeting. Is that a crime?”

  Eric shifted toward Bryn, and motioned for her to follow him outside the room.

  “What are you thinking? John Linden is involved?” Bryn asked.

  “They wouldn’t run from him. Rusty has identified and connected him to the coalition. Plus, he’s a hater.”

  “So is Julian.” There were entirely too many haters.

  “I know. It’s a long shot. Maybe if we get the focus off his mentor, he’ll talk before the lawyer gets here.”

  “And everything he says will be inadmissible and could ruin our case, Eric.”

  “We were already barking up Linden’s tree. I just wanted identification. I got it.” He groaned. “I don’t want to miss anything. We need to cover all angles. Maybe they’re all involved indirectly.” Or they all had a part to play with each woman. He shrugged off the ludicrous thought.

  “We need that members list. See if Linden is indeed on it.”

  “Did you see Beckham’s face when you pinned those murders on him? He won’t deny hating our victims—simply based on gender—but he was shocked. Maybe he came out to see what the fuss was about. Heard it on a scanner or something and then saw you come in and take charge—”

  “I did not take charge!”

  Eric didn’t mean to ruffle her feathers. He clasped her shoulder. “To him you did. So he loses it. Makes it his mission to scare you, but it escalates with each threat. He gets a taste of taking a life and continues to try. He idolizes Proctor, but that doesn’t mean he’s working with him.” Didn’t mean he wasn’t. Eric wasn’t sure who was doing what, but they were all guilty of something.

  “Two killers or three, but not working together. You think the threat on me is over?”

  “It wasn’t Rusty who locked us in the steam room. You’re getting close to a killer. And the closer you come, the worse it’s going to get. Not trying to scare you—”

  “Too late. Hey, I don’t have a death wish. Fear can be a motivator to stay alive.”

  Good. At least she was being rational about that.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you. But the minute Proctor realizes we’ve got Rusty in custody and are focusing on him, he’ll take drastic measures. And he’s not a loose cannon like Beckham.”

  “I guess we better catch him quick then.”

 

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