Chapter
One
MONDAY, NOVEMBER
OUTSIDE WASHINGTON, DC
“A third victim has been found and a serial killer is once again thought to be terrorizing the Northeast—just east of the territory Peter Romanos paralyzed with his string of murders,” Rachel Goodwin reported from her position outside the prison. “Peter Romanos, who is incarcerated in the new high-security DC federal penitentiary, is serving twelve life sentences. Only this time, instead of teenage girls, this particular killer is targeting older women. That’s all the information I have at the moment. I hope to know more soon.”
The camera panned away from the woman, and clips of Romanos’s arrest thirteen years ago took over the screen.
The man in the recliner stood and frowned. Peter Romanos had gotten what he deserved—caught.
Because he’d been stupid.
The killer walked down the hallway, grabbed his keys off the table near the door, stepped outside, then crossed the yard to the barn. He unlocked the padlock, lifted the wooden beam, and stepped inside, surveying his office. It wasn’t what most people considered an office, but it was definitely where all the important work took place.
He stepped into the stall on the left of the area where he’d dug the hole. It had taken him a month to get it just the way he wanted. Once he had it deep enough, he smoothed concrete on the floor and then concreted the walls most of the way up. High enough that no one could climb out. The remaining sides, up to the barn’s floor, had fencing with chicken wire to hold back the dirt and a heavy chain-link fence on top that would allow air in. He didn’t need anyone suffocating in there. He was the one who chose the time of death. He was the one who decided how they died. And, because he paid attention to details, everything had gone according to the plan so far. No one would ever trace anything back to him. Ever. Because he was smart.
Not like Romanos.
Who leaves evidence in their house for their kid to find?
So dumb. And it was infuriating that Romanos had treated killing like it was a game, a sport. Killing was not a game nor a sport. Romanos’s victims hadn’t deserved to die like that. They were young. Innocent. They’d had so much to live for.
Not like some.
The ones who weren’t innocent. The ones who deserved what they had coming.
Like Sonya Griffith. What a mean old bat. He’d taken care of her and made sure she never had a chance to spread her poison ever again.
His phone buzzed and he glanced at the text.
See you at noon for lunch, sweetheart.
He stopped and tapped back his response.
So sorry, hon. I need to cancel. Looks like a long day. I’ll let you know when I’m on the way home.
So much for plans for lunch. He tucked the phone back in his pocket and headed into the workroom, where he wiggled the mouse on the laptop. It was thrilling to see all his hard work finally paying off.
Because killing wasn’t a game. It was very serious business.
Chapter
Two
FIRING RANGE, QUANTICO
Supervisory Special Agent Grace Billingsley adjusted the ear protectors, aimed her weapon at the target fifteen yards in front of her, and pulled the trigger three times. Agent Mark Davis, in the space next to her, let out a low whistle. “That’s pretty deadly aim there. I don’t think you’re going to have any trouble requalifying.” Quarterly firearms qualification was required, and Grace was always ready to prove her skills on the range while praying she never had to use them in any other scenario.
She eyed the holes in the paper with satisfaction. “Don’t worry, Mark, you keep practicing and maybe one day you’ll be just as good.”
He snorted and holstered his weapon. “Better watch out or you won’t be able to get that head through the door.”
She laughed and reloaded her weapon. The lighthearted bantering was good for her soul. Healing. Dealing with what she had to see on a regular basis, she’d come to appreciate the moments when she could laugh.
Early this morning, she’d been sitting at her desk located in the CIRG—Critical Incidence Response Group—building just outside of Quantico, scrolling through ViCAP, reading the latest information on new crimes. The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program was a database containing the details of certain violent crimes—solved and unsolved—as well as unidentified recovered bodies and missing persons believed to be victims of violent crime. It was created as an attempt to link crimes with similar methods of operating, signatures, et cetera.
She made it a point to keep up with the new entries. Unfortunately, not all departments entered their crimes into the system, but most did.
Six months ago, against some stiff competition, she’d applied for and been offered the position as behavioral analyst, formerly known as a profiler, with the Behavioral Analysis Unit 4—crimes against adults. Finally. She’d set her sights on this job when she’d been a teenager in juvie and had befriended the psychiatrist who’d worked with her and the others who’d been incarcerated there. It had taken hard work, a lot of sleepless nights, and some unappealing assignments, but she’d made it.
The range door opened and Jerry Stevens stepped inside. “Hey, how about an early lunch? I’m starving. The food court good with y’all?”
The Academy had a food court with an assortment of choices. Mark grinned and Grace shook her head. Jerry was always starving. At six foot three and two hundred twenty pounds, the man could put away some food.
“I’m in,” Grace said. “Just got to clean my weapon and change out my ammo.”
“Same here,” Mark said. “We’ll meet you there.”
“Text me your order so I don’t have to wait on you.” He left, and she and Mark did as requested before turning their attention to their weapons.
Fifteen minutes later, they walked into the cafeteria and Grace drew in a deep breath. Fried eggs and crispy bacon were on the menu today. She waved to two of the workers she often chatted with, then spotted Jerry at the table, food already in front of him and two empty seats.
She slid into the chair, said a quick blessing, then dug in. Three bites later, Jerry’s phone went off. He answered, listened, then nodded. “Grace is with us. Ask Frank if she can come along.”
Grace raised a brow but continued eating. She’d know the details soon enough. Frank Boggs, her unit chief, would say yes, but they still had to ask. Mark shoved the last of his food in his mouth and waited.
Finally, Jerry nodded. “Great.” He hung up and snagged his tray. “Got a body.”
Mark sighed. “Right.”
And just like that, her good mood darkened.
Jerry’s gaze switched to her. “Looks like we might have a serial, so this is going to land in your lap at some point. Frank okayed you to go.”
Grace nodded. “Just need to make a quick stop back at CIRG so I can grab my laptop and vehicle. You can give the details on the way.”
They hurried toward the exit and Jerry’s vehicle.
The men had been partners for almost fifteen years. They’d caught more than one serial killer and were ready to stop the next one—should this one turn out to be what was suspected.
Grace found she liked and admired both men. Thankfully, they respected her, too, and they made a good team when they had the opportunity to work together.