Being with Nina when times had been good had been unequalled. Daniel had to admit, he'd fallen deeply in love. But their relationship had been so tempestuous, so full of wild highs and stomach-churning lows and fights that had led up to that terrible, terminal argument that he never wanted to think about again.

  He’d take Charlie-Ann on a couple of dates. They’d been for drinks and for dinner. Things hadn’t gone further between them, partly because both of them were so busy, but also because when Nina had woken up, Daniel had felt utterly torn.

  He and Nina hadn't been together by the time she'd had the accident. Not in that way. They’d been working on the case with everything they had, but the rest of the time? Not even speaking to each other.

  He’d wondered with a sick feeling whether that terrible fight had indirectly caused the accident. Would things have been different if they’d been in harmony with each other? What decisions would have been made?

  And what did the future hold? Nerves swirled in his stomach as he considered that.

  It might be better for him and Nina to stay apart from each other and not even try to have a relationship again. There hadn’t been any romantic moments between them since she’d woken.

  Maybe that’s partly because you’ve been avoiding her? A little voice in his head suggested that unwelcome idea.

  Quickly, he silenced the voice by replying to Charlie-Ann. “It’s been the same this side. Busier than usual. And my investigation partner, my original partner, is getting better. She woke up from her coma.”

  The first thing he did was mention Nina. How could he not do that? She was at the front of his mind.

  “That’s great news. I’d like to hear about it. Free for a drink this week?”

  Now, the dilemma was clear.

  This wasn’t just a friendly drink. The friendly drinks had already been done. Dinner had been done. This was the point where a decision had to be made. Was he going to progress things with Charlie? The twenty-eight year old brunette, with long, wavy hair and bright green eyes was sassy, fun, easy company, and there was definitely a spark.

  It would be safer to stick to his plan and move ahead with his life, rather than to wait, in the hope that things could resume with Nina the way they had been, years ago.

  Daniel told himself firmly to be sensible. Work was work and better left uncomplicated.

  “A drink sounds great,” he said, immediately feeling a surge of guilt that told him while his brain was fully on board with this idea, his heart was protesting violently. “I’m wrapped up with this case at the moment, but we could pencil in Friday?”

  “Friday I’m busy. Late sales meeting,” she said regretfully. “Saturday?”

  “Saturday it is. I’ll call you,” he said.

  They hung up, and shoving the guilt aside, Daniel focused on the drive, and on getting to Matthew Pendleton’s house as fast as possible.

  This man was a strong suspect. Would he be home?

  He took the exit off the highway, speeding along the main road, hoping that Paul, in the FBI office, might uncover more information. Or that the guy would turn on his phone and allow them to track him. Phones were turned off for all sorts of innocent reasons, but being out of communication in the middle of the day was making Daniel feel uneasy.

  Still, here he was now. In his street and heading up to the house that was his registered address. It was a simple but well maintained single story home, with a neatly mowed lawn, and a crape myrtle tree in the front yard, flanked by flower beds.

  It was easy to think that the home of a killer must be a neglected, overgrown place that had the look of a haunted house, but in Daniel's experience, psychopathic serial killers were often methodical and highly organized people who kept their environment neat. And especially if they were highly intelligent, they would not draw attention to themselves for any obvious reason, such as a neglected home or yard.

  So, the state of the house told him nothing. Apart from that it could easily contain a walk in freezer room. It was more than big enough.

  He climbed out and headed up the path to knock on the door, but already, he was thinking that Nina’s instinct had been right. The blinds were drawn, the curtains closed, the door shut. Ringing the doorbell, he waited, listening to the chirp of birds from the neighborhood trees.

  Otherwise, the area was very quiet.

  Matthew Pendleton was not at home.

  What about the neighbors? Hoping that he'd get lucky, and that an observant retiree or a stay at home mother might be in one of the adjacent houses, Daniel headed to the left hand house. He rang the bell there before crossing the road and trying the two homes opposite.

  He ended up on the right of Pendleton’s home.

  Finally, he got what he needed. Knocking on the door, he heard a shout from inside.

  “Coming! I’ll be a sec!”

  Footsteps closed in, and the door swung open.

  Daniel found himself face to face with a man of about twenty-five years old, dressed in paramedic’s clothing. He guessed he’d caught him either before or after a shift.

  “Agent Grant, FBI,” he introduced himself. “We’re looking to speak to the man who lives on your left, a Mr. Matthew Pendleton. Do you know where he is?”

  The man, with a broad, good-natured face and a mop of fair hair, frowned thoughtfully.

  "Hate to say this, but I'm not sure who Matthew Pendleton is. The woman who lives there is called Stacey, and she's been there for six months – a month longer than me. She lives alone and rents the place. So, if there's an owner, he's moved out."

  “Thanks,” Daniel said. “Do you know Stacey’s number?”

  “Not a clue, sorry,” the man said.

  Turning back to his car, Daniel felt worried. Their likely suspect had turned into a ghost.

  Time to check in with Nina.

  He tried to call her as he strode back to his car.

  But Nina wasn’t picking up, and with a sense of dread, Daniel listened to the phone ring and ring, wondering what had happened in the interim, and where she was.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  Katherine Horne climbed out of her car, feeling as if it had already been a very long day. After the excitement of women’s month, the deluge of articles about her had meant she was thinly stretched in every direction.

  As a writer, time alone, to focus on her work in solitude, was desperately important to her. She couldn’t get her day’s work done if there were too many interruptions. And the problem as that over the past few weeks, there had been streams of them.

  She’d had no choice but to offer help to those who were reaching out. After the tragedy that had hit her family, and her mother’s predicament, she’d felt that she needed to help others who were suffering the same.

  Dealing with a relative who was now confined to a wheelchair and would never be able to walk again was a massive hurdle to overcome. Not only the physical challenges but the mental ones, too. She'd held her mother's hand dri,ed her tears, and learned together with her as they embarked on this new phase of her life.

  With the money she had, which had dwindled alarmingly, she'd done her best. The cottage on the side of her double-story house had been renovated into a simple home that could easily be accessed via wheelchair. She'd sourced the equipment that she needed, being creative, scouring second-hand stores, asking for help and advice where she needed it, and learning as she went along.

  She had never thought she was a heroine and had been surprised when the first article came out. She was just an ordinary woman, struggling to survive and adapt and to do her best for the mother she loved, who’d escaped with her life after the car wreck that had claimed her father’s life.

  But it had all been so much more than she’d expected.

  The fuss was starting to calm down now. There weren’t as many requests for help and advice and simple support as there had been a month ago. With any luck, things would be back to normal in another month. Hopefully, the advice and support she’d given others would help them, and her mother would be more settled in her new life.

  She drove up the long, narrow access road to her house. With the cottage renovation, she’d had to change the parking arrangements, as the garage had formed part of the new building. As a result, she was now parking at the back of the property, under a metal carport. It wasn’t ideal, and she felt it was a security risk at night. At least, today, there was a refrigeration vehicle nearby, perhaps delivering something to the house next door. They seemed to get a lot of bulk orders. Buy bulk and save, seemed to be their motto. It was a good one. She knew with her mother to support, she’d also have to be very careful with money for the next few years.

  Climbing out of her car, tugging down her cheap, cotton top which had creased during the drive, Katherine saw there was something under the carport. What was it? A wooden box?

  She stepped forward cautiously. Frowned as she looked down.

  Inside the box was a tiny, exquisite ice sculpture on a wooden plinth. It was almost completely frozen and must just have been left here.

  Who had done such a thing?

  The ice was glossy and immaculate, the sculpture flawless, although already frosted with condensation in places as it began to melt. But the shape and design were clear.

  It was a writer. A woman with a feather quill in her hand and a notebook resting on her forearm.

  Her first emotion was delight. What a wonderful gift. She should take it in, put it in the freezer to preserve the design, and then, when it had frozen up again, her mother would be charmed. People had been very kind, leaving flowers, and bringing them meals, and now this strange, enchanting gift.

  But as her mind began to work, Katherine started feeling more uneasy.

  Hadn’t she read something about these strange ice murders that had happened recently? She’d even taken her mother to the ballet a couple of months ago. It had been one of her first wheelchair outings, successful and memorable and a highlight of her mother’s new life. Katherine had felt a pang of horror when she’d read that the prima ballerina had been a victim of this creepy, inexplicable crime.

  Maybe instead of putting this in the freezer, she should call the cops.

  Looking at the statue, now with fresh and more suspicious eyes, she saw something strange.

  The reflections on it were moving, shifting.

  As if…

  As if there was somebody behind her, coming closer.

  She drew in a shocked breath, whirling around to see the man who was approaching, fast, from the refrigeration van.

  But she didn’t have time to let it out in a scream. The steel bar glanced off her temple, and she toppled into a dark, yawning void.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  There had to be a way to narrow down these common factors. Nina fretted over the logistics, her fingers flying over the keyboard, her focus all on the plentiful news stories, the accounts of these heroines and their noble endeavors.

  “Dark haired. Maybe in their late twenties to late thirties?” she muttered, thinking of the victims’ age ranges so far. “Based in Seattle. Tragic past. And recent efforts to make the world a better place.”

  Based on that, she was ruling out five of the stories she’d read so far. Two of the heroines were blond, one was in her fifties, and one was very young, just eighteen, and her hair was dyed pink.

  Scrolling through the stories, checking her list, she decided that her research was over now. On her list was everyone who'd been named as a heroine in recent months and who fit the parameters.

  And struck off the list were those who were not the physical type that he was targeting.

  She was satisfied that she was left with the most likely women. Research was something she was good at, even though she found it tough, arduous and draining. She always had done, and it was worse after her coma. Her mind couldn’t focus for as long as it had previously done. Concentrating for long stretches was a battle.

  However, Nina was satisfied that she’d been thorough, and that she had not missed anybody out.

  There were three women on this list that could be targets, and Nina quickly got on the phone.

  She started with Holly Jarman, who'd lost her twelve-year-old son two years ago after he'd fallen while dirt biking. Holly had since had a breakdown, which she'd been brave enough to speak openly about to help other mothers who suffered tragic loss. Nina had only skimmed through the news stories and glanced at the recorded video interview, but had been touched by her bravery.

  “I’ll put you through to Holly,” the receptionist at the construction company where she worked, said. Holding her breath, Nina waited for the potential victim to pick up.

  “Holly Jarman?” a light, cheerful voice said.

  “Holly, this is Nina Veil from the FBI.”

  A pause. “Sorry, did you say the FBI?” She sounded both curious and concerned.

  “Yes, Ms. Jarman. It’s in connection with a serial crime we’re investigating. I’d like to know, firstly, if you’ve received any unusual gifts recently. Anything that is, or could have been, an ice figurine.”

  “I – I don’t think so,” she said hesitantly. “After the articles came out last month, I did receive a lot of gifts and things like anonymous flowers. But no ice figurine.”

  “Even so, it’s possible you may be targeted by the serial killer who’s been committing murders in the Seattle area,” Nina said.

  “What?” Her voice was high and shocked. “Are you serious?”

  “I am. Please, tell me this. Do you have anyone with you at the moment?”

  “I do. The construction site manager is with me in the car,” she said.

  “Ask him to stay with you and drive immediately to a place of safety that is not your home," Nina said. "A friend's house, a colleague's home. Once you are there, please call the local police and ask if they can send an officer around to guard you. I know this sounds shocking and inconvenient and that I am asking the impossible of you, but you must please cooperate. It's life and death," she urged.

  “Wow. Okay. I’ll do that.” In a lower voice, clearly speaking to her driving companion, she said, “Rob, did you hear that? Can I go around to Annette’s place?”

  “Thank you. Please do this immediately, and I’ll call you again as soon as the danger is over.”

  Hanging up, she turned to the next name on the list, Sandi McGrath. From the articles written about her, Nina already knew that Sandi was a nurse who had suffered a series of miscarriages during her efforts to conceive a child. She'd become deeply depressed, but had managed to overcome her depression, and in the articles, Nina had been touched by her willingness to speak openly about the dark place she'd been in, and the support structure she'd used to claw herself back from the brink. It was also beautiful to see the photos of herself, with her partner and her adopted child, a beautiful brown eyed girl, aged three.

  She called the hospital to see if Sandi was on shift, stating her FBI credentials to make sure she got the correct information, fast.

  "I'm sorry, she left an hour ago," the ward nurse said, once she understood the urgency of the situation. "I think she would probably have gone to her yoga class and then to pick up Daisy. Her yoga class is in the studio down the road, and her daughter goes to kindergarten at Little Angels."

  “What car does she drive?”

  “She drives – oh, I don’t know, I don’t know.” For a moment, the ward nurse sounded as if the pressure was getting to her. Then, in a relieved voice, she continued. “I do know. A white Audi sedan, a few years old.”

  “What’s her cellphone number?”

  The nurse gave it to her immediately.

  “Thank you,” Nina said.

  She dialed the number, but it just rang. Maybe Sandi had it on silent after her shift. Or maybe something else was wrong.

  Since she had one potential victim still to track down, and Daniel was hopefully going to be tracking the killer, Nina got up from her desk and headed through to the police station’s front desk.

  She knew that she needed to force herself to be as calm and methodical as she could in this time of crisis. The more efficiently she could get the message out, the less time everything would take.

  “Are there any officers available urgently?” she asked. “I need a car to look for Sandi McGrath. These are the locations where she’s likely to be. She drives an older Audi sedan.”

  “We’ll send a car out immediately,” the officer said.

  With worry churning inside her, because this had eaten up precious minutes and there was still one woman left to call, Nina hurried back to the desk. There, she looked up Katherine Horne. Katherine was a writer whose mother had been paralyzed from the waist down in a car crash that had killed her father. Katherine had brought her mother home, and had cared for her full time for three months, while renovating a small cottage on her property so that it was wheelchair friendly. Now, her mother lived in the cottage, and Katherine had frequently said, in the press releases that Nina had read, how wonderful it was to have her living so close by, and how her mother had taken on a new role as her personal assistant and researcher.

  Knowing that this was probably going to cause the mother intense worry, but not having an option, Nina called Katherine’s office number.

  A woman who sounded about sixty years old, with a brisk, professional manner about her, answered.

  “Katherine’s office. Mrs. Horne senior speaking. How can I help?”

  “Is Katherine Horne there, please?” Nina asked. “It’s urgent. FBI agent Veil speaking.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. Horne replied. “I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to put calls through to her while she’s writing. She has very strict rules on that, you know.”

  “So she’s home?”

  "Yes, I think she is." The mother sounded uncertain, now. "You know, I can't really tell because I have my little cottage on the side of the house. But I did look through the window just now, and I saw her car drive up to the house. She drives a bright blue Toyota, so it's very distinctive."

 

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