Dedication
For Leigh and Lena
Thanks for always being there when I need you.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Carey Baldwin
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
Twilight
Somewhere in the Rocky Mountains
Consciousness was the enemy and Laura Chaucer its captive. No matter how badly she wanted to flee into a dark, unseeing void, the menacing chill of the knife pressed against her neck forced her to keep her chin high and her eyes open. As her pulse raged, pounding against the deadly blade, she wondered, horrified, if it was possible for her throat to slit itself.
If only her mind would drop into an abyss. If only she could crawl into a black hole and escape awareness, at least then she wouldn’t suffer. Cowardice dragged her eyelids shut.
Stop running away.
From deep within, a voice demanded she bear witness to her own death.
Like broken wings beating against a gale, her eyelids fluttered up. Evil had been swirling around her for as long as she could remember, but she’d never had the courage to face it. Now, in her last moments, she must find the will. Before she left this twisted world, she needed to know the truth.
Who are you?
The answer she’d been running from her entire life loomed right behind her.
But the knife prevented her from swiveling her head to confront the bastard. A defiant move like that would surely cost her whatever precious seconds she had left. His breath, warm on her cheek reeked of booze, its stench curdling in her already woozy stomach.
Careful not to move her head, she braved a glance down and noted a wood floor.
Where am I?
A candle nub flickered in the dark, its yellow light illuminating patches of dust caked on an uneven plank tabletop. Bare log walls surrounded her. Eager for more clues, she sniffed. The scent of rain and earth hung heavily in the air. He must’ve stolen her from her room and brought her to a cabin—a primitive one.
Who was he?
You know, the voice within insisted. Stop pretending you don’t.
“I—I don’t know anything,” she answered, as if he and her thoughts were one and the same. “P-please, just let me go.”
The knife slipped across her throat, leaving fire trailing in its wake. Blood, warm and sticky, dribbled down her chest. Her head became heavy. The room spun. It would be so easy to let her chin fall, to drift into blessed unconsciousness, to leave it all behind.
But that would mean dying the same way she’d lived: running from the truth.
It’s not too late. As long as you have one breath left, there’s still time to change your craven ways.
Watching the blood, already darkening from contact with the air, snake between her breasts, she took it all in, and a gasp agonized its way up her throat.
She was naked.
Bound around the waist, chest, and ankles to a chair.
It all seemed so . . . unreal. But the scrape of splintered wood beneath her bottom, the shivers that wracked her body from the frigid air, told her this was no dream. This wasn’t another one of her ubiquitous nightmares.
If she closed her eyes now, she’d never wake up.
Her throat burned with the urge to scream. But sensing that might give him pleasure, she clamped her teeth together, stuffing her fear down deep. She inhaled a fortifying breath through her nose. Wiggled her freezing fingers. But when she tried to shift her arms into a more comfortable position, she found that they, too, were tied to the chair, just up to the elbows. He’d left her hands and lower arms free, giving her enough slack to cross her palms in her lap and cover herself. Tears of gratitude for this small kindness welled in her eyes.
Maybe he of the knife had a tiny, shriveled semblance of a heart.
He proved he did not by dragging the jagged blade across her neck again—a shallow retracing of its former path that produced exquisite pain and more hot red blood. The need to cry out shook her body so hard the legs of the chair rattled against the floor. Then he pressed the knife’s point into the hollow of her neck—that spot that ought to be reserved for a lover’s kiss. It was as if this monster could not decide whether he wanted to kill her with a long, decimating swipe or by a swift, stabbing impalement. She didn’t know whether he was deliberately prolonging her agony or working up his nerve.
A spasm of fear knotted her toes. Her vocal cords trembled from the impossible effort of restraint. Finally, she opened her mouth, releasing a hysterical noise.
He wanted to hear her scream? Let him hear her laugh instead. Her pulse bounded harder against the blade, but she no longer feared the consequence.
Whether he revealed himself to her or not, she suddenly didn’t care. It didn’t matter who he was. It only mattered who she was. Relief flooded her entire being, drenching her in joy.
Her death would be a victory.
Because it answered, once and for all, the question that had haunted her since the age of eight.
She was not a murderer.
Chapter 2
Thursday, October 24
12:00 P.M.
Denver, Colorado
The jolt of touchdown, the roar of the plane’s wheels grinding against asphalt, and the oily smell of exhaust woke FBI Special Agent Atticus Spenser. But it was the sound of a soft, familiar voice murmuring beside him that made him want to open his eyes. Savoring the anticipation, he resisted the temptation.
“‘In wildness is the preservation of the world,’” Caity whispered.
“You’ve sure got a way with words,” he said appreciatively, stirring in his seat.
“Not me. Henry David Thoreau.”
“‘He’d be a poorer man if he never saw an eagle fly.’” Spense would never be as classy as Caity, but he did his best to impress.
“Walt Whitman?” She sounded pleased with him.
Too bad he had to let her down. But hey, it was still a classic. “Nah. It’s a line from ‘Rocky Mountain High.’”
Her laugh sounded like a pretty bell. “The John Denver song?”
“Best I could do off the cuff.” He’d waited as long as he could stand it to open his eyes. Now, from beneath sleepy lids, he took in the profile that made him feel like he was nineteen again and just about to dive off Acapulco’
s famed La Quebrada cliffs—only for that, he’d been prepared. The waves beneath the rocks rose to a safe depth mere seconds at a time, which is why he’d studied and practiced a full year before taking that life-and-death leap. But when it had come to Caity . . . he’d just jumped.
With her exotic dark hair, surprising blue eyes, and sexy, full lips, Dr. Caitlin Cassidy was beautiful by anyone’s standards. But he’d known plenty of smoking hot women, and none of them had ever mesmerized him the way she did. He couldn’t explain why he was willing to risk anything to be with her. What he did know was that so far the fall was exhilarating.
Though he could hardly take his eyes off her, Caity’s attention seemed fixed elsewhere. She stared out the window, fingers pressed against the scratched, plastic pane as a terminal, topped with white fabric peaks, came into full view. The Denver airport had been designed to remind visitors of both the snow-capped Rockies and Colorado’s Native American history. No doubt Caity had been recalling her beloved mountains when she’d quoted Thoreau.
Hard to believe how much things had changed in just a few short weeks. The last time Spense and Caity had flown into Denver, she’d sat with her back ramrod straight, her jaw clamped, and her hands fisted miserably in her lap—anticipating a tense reunion with her mother. Today, her eyes were bright, her body relaxed, and her smile eager. This time, Caity had things all squared away with her mom. Now he was the one with a black cloud hovering above his head—a devastating piece of family news he had yet to deliver.
At the Bureau’s behest, he and Caity had boarded the first flight from Dallas to Denver, and that meant he hadn’t had a chance to touch base with his mother in Arizona after finishing up their last case. But that was his problem. He didn’t want anything to diminish the gleam of happiness in Caity’s eyes. “You glad to be home?”
“I wish it weren’t under these circumstances, but yes.”
Said circumstances were another assignment—an important one. But fortuitously, Caity’s mother lived in Boulder, just about thirty minutes down the road from Denver. So they hoped to sneak in a short visit or two while they were here.
Her gaze lighting on him at last, Caity said, “The year we moved to Colorado was the worst year of my life.”
Not hard to figure why. That was the year she’d turned eighteen—the same year her father had been executed for a murder he didn’t commit. She and her mom had fled from Phoenix to Boulder to escape the gossip and the harsh memories, but her father’s ghost had dogged their steps. Caity’s mother, Arlene, had coped with his death by denial—whereas Caity had raged against the injustice, creating a distance between them that had once seemed too far to bridge. But now, thanks to Caity, and yes, thanks to him, too, her father’s name had been cleared. The Cassidy women had finally put their differences aside and were hoping to forge a new and improved relationship.
“It’s the first time in years I’ve felt as though I’m coming home. I can’t wait to see Mom.”
The sincerity in Caity’s voice made his throat grow tight, reminding him that the news he must deliver to his own mother would change her world forever. The prospect sat like a concrete block on his chest.
Perhaps sensing his thoughts, Caity reached over and squeezed his hand. “Spense, I’ve been thinking . . .” Her voice died out as though she was reluctant to broach the subject. “Since you can’t go to her, why don’t we fly your mom out here? She can stay with mine in Boulder.”
He hated to intrude on Caity’s family reunion, but he’d feel a hell of a lot better delivering his news to his mother in person. Hesitating only a moment, he said, “You sure? I know you need time with your mom . . .”
“I’m positive.”
No doubt his mother’s visit would mean less chance for Caity and her own mother to regroup, but Caity’s smile was genuine. This wasn’t Caity grudgingly making a sacrifice. This was Caity looking out for him, because that was just how she was.
“I’ll bet they’ll have a blast together.”
“It’s a deal. You clear it with Arlene, and I’ll book Mom’s flight.”
Interrupting their conversation, a tanned, toned, feminine arm reached across the aisle, flapping a pen and a piece of paper at him. His shoulders jumped. Oh yeah. There were other people on this bird. Reluctantly, Spense turned away from Caity toward the overly enthusiastic limb. It belonged to an attractive woman, about late twenties.
She beamed at him with bright green eyes, her cheeks flushing. “Can I have your autograph?”
“You talking to me?” He started to say ma’am but stopped himself. According to Caity, women hated to be called ma’am. “You must’ve mistaken me for someone else. I’m not a celebrity.”
She waved what looked to be her boarding pass harder. “Oh yes you are. I recognize you both.” She smiled, though less vivaciously, at Caity. “She can sign, too, I guess.”
Spense tried to straighten and stretch his legs, but the seat was too damn small for his six-foot-four frame. Too bad real life wasn’t like television where the FBI profilers flew to every crime scene on a luxury jet. As he lamented his lot, a charley horse galloped up his leg. He winced. How long was this plane going to taxi?
“Ladies and gentlemen, thanks for your patience. We’re stacked up a bit. Please keep your seat belts on until the captain turns off the fasten seat belt sign and gives you the all clear to stampede,” an irritatingly cheery voice announced.
Spense rubbed his tight calf muscles.
The green-eyed woman thumped him on the chest with her pen.
“Ma’am, please . . .”
The irritated expression on her face made him wish he’d heeded Caity’s warning. And it wasn’t the woman’s fault these seats were designed for Tom Thumb. He should’ve been nicer. “Sorry. We’ll sign.” He handed the woman’s boarding pass to Caity who smiled big and autographed it with a flourish before giving it back to Spense.
He signed, then looked up to find the woman in the row ahead peering curiously over her seat back at them. “Who are you?”
He handed the paper back to its owner. “Nobody, ma’am.”
Another devastated look. Someday he’d learn.
“That’s Atticus Spenser and Caitlin Cassidy—the FBI agents who caught all those serial killers,” Green Eyes said. She ticked off several monikers from their recent cases.
Impressive. This woman knew her psychopaths. Though they hadn’t granted any interviews, Forensic Facts had featured Spense and Caity yesterday. Maybe the woman had caught the broadcast.
“I’m not an FBI agent.” Caity hurried to correct the woman’s misconception. Caity didn’t like to take any extra credit. She wasn’t a glory basker. Though to his way of thinking, her credentials were every bit as impressive as his—more so in fact. “I’m a psychiatrist,” she explained.
“But I saw it on TV. Kourtney Kennedy from SLY news went on and on about how you solved that Angel case in Hollywood.”
Kourtney.
That pain-in-his-ass celebrity newscaster, not Forensic Facts, had been to blame. “Dr. Cassidy may not be an FBI agent, but she’s a very important part of the team,” Spense supplied.
Still, the woman continued to side-eye Caity as if she’d hoodwinked her into accepting a worthless autograph. “I don’t get it. Are you FBI or not?”
An unpleasant itch developed on the back of his neck, but Caity smiled, apparently not the least bit annoyed. “I’m a civilian, a private citizen contracted with the FBI to help with specific cases. Agent Spenser is a criminal investigative analyst with the BAU—the Bureau’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.”
The plane hung a left, and Spense groaned aloud. The “snowcapped peaks” of the terminal were getting farther away. Apparently they were going to take another turn around the runway.
The woman thrust her hand over her heart. “I just realized what this means. There’s a serial killer in Denver!”
The plane changed its mind and turned back toward the terminal. Thank goodness.
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br /> “Not that I know of.” The first hint of impatience finally crept into Caity’s voice. Her initial approach to others was always warm and respectful, but Spense knew from experience that however lightly Caity treaded, she was a force to be reckoned with when challenged. It was best not to mess with her.
“There’s a serial killer in Denver! You’re just not allowed to tell me! I know I’m right!”
Spense heard a number of gasps and saw heads turning. All neighboring eyes fixed on them.
Caity raised her palm in a stop sign. “We don’t know of any serial killers in the area.” Then, keeping a remarkably straight face, she added in a low voice meant just for Green Eyes, “But if you’re keen on meeting one, I can always put you in touch.”
The woman’s jaw went slack.
The plane rolled to a stop. A bell dinged, diffusing the tension in the air, and the race to de-board was on. It appeared the threat from crazed killers was nothing compared to that of other passengers getting ahead in line. Spense stood up and popped open the overhead bins on either side. He passed Caity her carry-on and then asked their “fan,” “May I get your bag?”
“Oh, no. I checked mine. But can I have your phone number?”
Spense made his voice polite but firm. “No can do.”
“I don’t see a wedding ring,” she insisted.
Spense threw Caity a wink. “I’m taken just the same.”
The woman’s lips became puffy . . . make that puffier. “If you won’t give me your number, the least you can do is tell me why you’re in Denver. Serial killer or no serial killer, there must be something big going on for the two of you to get called in.”
Chapter 3
Thursday, October 24
12:20 P.M.
Denver, Colorado
“Do you think she’s still alive?” Caity whispered as they rushed toward the gate’s exit.
“Don’t know,” Spense said. Now that they’d cleared a space between themselves and the big ears of surrounding passengers they could speak freely, but to be safe, he kept his voice low. Discretion had never been more vital.
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