by Cynthia Eden
Cameron blinked. “The reporter said plenty of evidence was on hand—”
“Like people don’t get framed?” She laughed, and the sound was bitter. “I know all about that. My dad lost his badge because he got pulled into that BS about setting up drug dealers on his beat.” Though her dad had always sworn he hadn’t been involved in the frame-ups, his protests did little good for his reputation. “People get framed. It’s a sad fact of the world.” She pushed a glass toward Cameron.
He didn’t take it. He never drank much, and when he did drink, it was only the best. Expensive wines and champagnes. Jeez, the guy loved his champagne. When they’d gotten their master’s degrees, she remembered the way he’d gone out and bought that fancy bottle of—
“Why would someone want to frame that guy?” His quiet question jerked her from the memory of their past.
She rolled her shoulders. “Because Allan was convenient.” Duh. Wait, duh? Maybe she did need to slow down on the drinks. “An easy target. The custodian who kept to himself. The widower with no close friends. Maybe the perp I’m after wanted the attention off his back, so he tossed Allan into the mix.”
Cameron frowned. “Allan...he killed himself.”
“That’s the part I haven’t worked out yet.” But she would. “I don’t understand that bit. I swear, I actually thought the guy was going to shoot me, but then he turned the gun on himself. Weird as hell.” She reached for another shot glass. The bartender had done such a lovely job of lining them up for her. “Maybe he had a deal with the killer. I mean, Allan had a daughter, after all. One that needs money for college, money for life. And Allan didn’t have any money. He barely had anything at all. Maybe the killer offered Allan money to take the fall. Maybe he was supposed to go out in a blaze of glory.” Her eyes narrowed as she considered this new angle. If Allan had gotten a payoff, then perhaps she could find the paper trail. Follow the money. “But...Allan was a caretaker.” Her voice dropped as Allan’s profile spun in her head. “His nature was protective, so in the end, he couldn’t shoot me. Couldn’t shoot at Blake. That wasn’t who he was.” Her lashes lifted as realization hit her. “He couldn’t attack us because Allan March wasn’t a killer. Instead of shooting us, he turned the gun on himself. The only person he hurt was himself.” Excitement had her heart racing.
But Cameron just shook his head. His hair—blond and perfectly styled, as always—gleamed for a moment when he leaned forward beneath the faint light over her table. “Normally, you know I love it when you bounce your ideas off me...”
Her temples were throbbing.
“But the man had a dead woman at his feet. That part made the news, too.”
“And no blood on him,” she mumbled. Because that had been bothering her. That was why the scene had been wrong. When they’d first arrived, Allan had been sweating in his white shirt—and there had been no blood on the shirt. Not until Blake shot him. “The vic’s throat was slit—ear to ear—and Allan didn’t have a drop of blood on him. He should’ve had her blood on him.” She pushed to her feet. “I have to make Justin listen to me. I’m not wrong. Allan was just a fall guy. The real killer—”
Cameron surged to his feet. His hand wrapped around her arm. “You can’t go to your FBI boss with alcohol on your breath and a wild theory spilling from your lips.” His voice was grim. “You want more than a suspension? You want to lose the job forever?”
“I want to stop the killer!” Okay, maybe her voice was too loud. Good thing the bar was deserted.
“How many shots did you take?”
She tried to pull away from him.
“No, damn it, let me help you.” And then they were walking to the door—together. His car was at the curb. That fancy Benz. He had such a plush job. Good for him... He’d gone to Princeton on a scholarship, same as her. Two kids with brains who’d fought their way to the top of the class rank. “I’ll take you home. You sleep this off, and tomorrow, tomorrow, I will hear your theory, okay? Tomorrow, I will help you.”
Nausea rolled in her belly. She didn’t think she’d eaten that day, and she really didn’t want to vomit all over his plush leather interior. So Samantha sank back into the seat and closed her eyes. She didn’t speak while he drove, but all too soon, Cameron was stopping the vehicle. Her eyes cracked open as she peered through the window. “This isn’t my house.”
“No...because while you were sleeping—”
She hadn’t been, had she?
“I drove by your place. Reporters were camped out on your doorstep. So I brought you here.”
Her hand lifted and slid over his cheek. She smiled at him. “See, when you want to be, you can be nice.”
He laughed, the sound almost harsh. “I know you go for the good-guy type, but that isn’t me.” He jumped out of the car. Cameron hurried to her side, but she’d already let herself out, thank you very much. A light dusting of snow fell onto her as she stood on the sidewalk. Winters in DC. So very different from her time growing up in the Deep South.
“You can stay in the guest room,” Cameron said as they walked toward his front door. He unlocked it and ushered her into the warmth of his house. “Unless, of course...”
She stopped and glanced up at him.
“Unless you want to sleep with me.”
Samantha blinked at those words. She hadn’t been with Cameron—not intimately—in over a year. Not since I met Blake. She and Cameron were safely in the friend zone. A zone she intended to keep occupying. They’d always been better friends than lovers. “I’ll take that guest room.”
His jaw tightened. He pointed down the hallway. “You know where it is.”
Right. Because she knew his place, inside and out, just as he knew hers. “Thanks for being a friend, Cam. I don’t have many of those left.” She turned from him and began to shuffle her way down the hall.
“Blake Gamble is your friend.”
His words stopped her. “I don’t know what Blake is,” she said honestly. “He was my partner—”
“Come on, Sam. He’s just your type. The good kind.”
She looked over her shoulder. Was that an annoyed tone in his voice? Odd, Cameron never sounded angry. Not with her.
“Maybe you don’t really want someone good, though,” he continued, voice nearly growling. “Did you ever think that? You spend so much time profiling others...you should take a long, hard look at yourself. Why do you think you belong with a true-blue sort?”
I know why... “Good night, Cameron.”
“We both know you like the dark. Nothing wrong with that. After all...” His lips curved in a mocking smile. “Isn’t that your name?”
She hurried down the hallway. Shut the guest room door. And—
The bed was already made, the covers pulled back, and a glass of water even sat on the bedside, as if Cameron had known she’d be there that night.
But he said he only brought me here because reporters were at my house.
Samantha hesitated.
Or maybe...maybe Cameron—in his ever-so-controlling way—had always intended for her to stay at his place after he’d learned about the bloody details of her day. She knew his protective instincts had a tendency to kick into overdrive where she was concerned.
She yanked open the door. Cameron was across the hall—about to enter his bedroom. “You know I hate being manipulated.” Her hands were on her hips. Her eyes narrowed on him.
“I do.” He nodded. “And I hate for my only friend to suffer alone.”
“I’m not your only friend.” Cameron had a freaking entourage of women following him around. “Tomorrow, I am so going to kick your ass.”
His lips hitched into a half smile. “No, you aren’t. But thanks for the warning.”
She stepped back and slammed the door shut. Samantha toed off her shoes, ditched her pants, draine
d that glass of water and fell asleep—wearing just her shirt, her bra and her panties.
* * *
IT WAS THE thirst that woke her later. Always a side effect of whiskey shots. Samantha’s eyes cracked open, and she climbed out of bed, her throat absolutely parched. The empty glass sat by the side of the bed, seeming to mock her. She stumbled to the door, then made her way—as quietly as possible—down the hallway and into the kitchen. After guzzling two glasses of water, she propped back against the counter.
The clock on the microwave told her it was nearing 4:00 a.m. Far too early. Or late, depending on how you wanted to look at it. Unfortunately, now that she was awake, her mind was already spinning, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to shut down again and go back to bed.
No blood on Allan. That was why the scene was so wrong. He had a dead woman at his feet, blood splatter all around her, but no blood was on him.
Not until he’d been shot by Blake. And then—once the guy had killed himself, Allan’s blood had been everywhere. So by the time all of the other agents had swarmed to the scene, the place had looked like a bloodbath.
She put her empty glass in the dishwasher and padded into Cameron’s office. She sat down in his leather chair, and it squeaked softly beneath her weight. She didn’t bother with a light but just moved his mouse so that his computer would wake up. Illumination immediately flooded out from his screen. His two screens. What an ego.
A faint smile curved her lips as she typed in the password for his system. Cameron was such a Greek mythology junkie. She knew that Hades was his password of choice—for pretty much everything.
The password got her access, but before she could click the internet icon...
Another file opened on his desk. A file that must have still been in use when Cameron last operated the computer. And that file...
It’s the dead girl. A close-up shot of Amber Lyle, the girl who’d been sprawled at Allan’s feet. Her eyes were closed, the wound at her neck gaping, and the blood...
Samantha leaned closer to the screen even as every muscle in her body clenched. Cameron shouldn’t have that picture. It looked like a crime scene photo. It should be classified. It shouldn’t be—
A trophy.
“Samantha?” Cameron’s raspy voice came from the doorway. “You okay?”
Her head snapped up. She was behind the computer screens—his desk faced the door. So he couldn’t see what she was looking at on the monitors.
But he could see her face. Right there, in the glow of the light, and whatever he saw on her face must have given her away because Cameron sighed. “Found out, did you?”
Her profile for the Sorority Slasher ran through her mind.
Highly intelligent... Cameron was a freaking genius, and he had the paperwork to prove it.
Strong. Fit. Cameron worked out every single day. Not just some light gym work. He was into martial arts, boxing. Hell, he’d even taken up Krav Maga in the last year.
Attractive. His features were absolutely perfect. Sharp cheekbones, deep, dark eyes, sensual lips.
In his late twenties or early thirties... Cameron was twenty-eight.
“I left in a rush before,” Cameron mused. “I shut down the computer, but I didn’t stop to think that you’d possibly get up in the middle of the damn night and come snooping on me.” He gave a low hum. “Figured out my password, did you?”
Her lips felt numb as she said, “I’ve always known your password.”
“The Lord of the Underworld.”
Her hands inched toward his desk drawer. It was open, just an inch, and she’d caught the gleam of a letter opener in there.
“How will this end, Sam?” Cameron asked her. “Am I really supposed to kill you now?”
It’s him. It’s him. It’s him. Inside, she was screaming.
Cameron took a step toward her. “What do you see on the screen?” Now he sounded curious, not angry. “Is it her? The last one? And she was going to be my last one, by the way. My experiment was over.”
“Experiment?” Her left hand had slid into the drawer and curled around the letter opener.
“Um. Yes.” He took another step toward her. He hadn’t turned on the lights in the room, so he was just a big, dark shadow. “I wanted to see if I could do it, you see. If I could kill. If I could get away with the crimes. And I wanted to see...what are people like...in that last terrible moment? What is it like when they know that hope is gone and they’re dying?”
Nausea rolled in her stomach. “Cameron?” She said his name as if he were a stranger, and right then, he was. Not the man she knew. Not her ex-lover. Not her friend. Cameron was a respected professional. He was on the fast track to become the head of his department at Georgetown—after only two years there. He charmed his way past everyone’s guard.
He was...a killer.
He took yet another step toward her. She couldn’t see his hands. She wished that she could just see his hands.
“There were some surprising results. Would you like to hear them?”
Cameron always enjoyed bouncing ideas off her.
“I felt alive when I killed those women. Interesting, don’t you think? That death finally made me feel alive? Until that point, I’d only felt that way, well...when I was fucking you. But that ended when you met Blake Gamble.”
She flinched. “Blake and I are just...partners. Nothing more. We haven’t been together.”
His smile was cold. “Not yet. But I know you, Sam. I know what you want.”
This couldn’t be happening.
“It was easy to kill.” Now his voice was almost musing. “I never hesitated. I mean, I always suspected I was a bit of a psychopath, but as we all know...psychopaths aren’t necessarily monsters. They’re just...unemotional. Detached. Able to become such great surgeons, CEOs, lawyers...even profilers for the FBI...”
Her phone was in the guest bedroom, and Cameron didn’t have a landline. She needed to call Blake. Call Bass. Call the cops.
“Covering up the crimes—well, that was easy, too. All so easy. The hardest part? That was staying two steps ahead of you. Because that profile you made up? The one that your boss called shit?” He was in front of the desk now. “It was dead-on.”
She could hear the frantic drumbeat of her heart. Every. Single. Beat. “Show me your hands.”
He laughed. “You think I’ll hurt you?”
“Show me your hands.”
“You were right about Allan.” He watched her with a predatory stare. “Allan did need the money and...the guy was sick, too. Dying. I was really just speeding up the process for him. It was all going to work so perfectly.” For a moment, he almost sounded sad. Almost. “But even when you were drunk...you were figuring shit out.”
“I wasn’t drunk.”
“Yeah, you were.” Another sigh. “I think you might have been better at profiling than you realized. But then, I always said you had that killer instinct.”
“Show me your hands.” It sounded as if she were begging, and Samantha hated that. “Cameron...”
His left hand came up—
And she surged to her feet because she knew he was going to kill her. She swung out with her letter opener, and it caught his hand, sending a wet spray of blood flying.
Cameron bellowed, and then he launched across the desk, coming right at her. They fell back together, slamming into the floor, and that impact was hard enough to knock the breath from her. But she didn’t let go of the letter opener. She kept it locked tight with her fingers, and Samantha shoved it right against his throat.
* * *
“DROP THE WEAPON! Drop the fucking weapon and put your hands up!”
Samantha blinked at that shout, and she realized that she was still holding the letter opener in her left hand. She opened her hand an
d let it fall—the blood-soaked letter opener fell from her bloodstained fingers.
Blood. Blood everywhere. On the floor. On the desk. On me.
“Samantha?”
That wasn’t the voice of an angry cop. That was a voice she knew. She squinted, and she saw Blake pushing his way past the first responders as he hurried to her. Her body started to shake.
His gaze raked over her, taking in her bare legs, her shirt—the blood.
“Samantha? What happened?”
Slowly, she shook her head. She hurt. Because a lot of that blood...it was hers.
“Samantha!” Blake’s hand closed over her shoulder. “What in the hell happened here?”
She licked her lips. “He...he got away...”
CHAPTER TWO
Four Months Later...
ONCE YOU KNEW that monsters lived in plain sight, it was pretty hard to trust anyone.
Samantha Dark’s feet pounded along the wooden pier. Her breath heaved in and out of her lungs as she ran. The sun was just rising—starting to slide across the morning sky. This was her routine. This was her sanity. Every day was started with a three-mile run that took her along the Fairhope Pier.
Fairhope, Alabama. Her small-town sanctuary. Her haven.
Her hiding spot.
She reached the end of the pier and stopped, her heartbeat drumming in her chest, as she stared out at the bay. The water appeared so dark today—dark and flat. Across the bay, far in the distance, she could see the skyline of Mobile. That city would be coming alive soon enough.
But she wouldn’t be a part of it. She wasn’t in for crowds these days. She avoided contact with others like the plague.
Footsteps beat on the wooden pier behind her. Samantha tensed even as she looked over her shoulder. It was just another runner. A woman with a bobbing blond ponytail. She gave Samantha a friendly wave, then turned and headed back down the pier.
Samantha’s gaze slid toward the water once more. A yacht was out there, anchored in the bay. Had to be about a forty-footer. It had arrived yesterday. Stayed the night. The owner would probably clear out soon. Head on to a new adventure.
