“Do you still feel alone?”

He was surprised by how much he didn’t feel alone at this moment, with her hand warm on his arm and her sharp green eyes gazing straight into his soul. “Not at the moment.”

The air between them grew heavy and heated, as if a storm were brewing, thick with unleashed fury. The need to touch her overwhelmed him, until the only way he could quiet the thrumming in his ears was to lift his hands to cradle her face.

Her lips trembling apart, she lifted her other hand to his forearm, her fingers gripping tightly. “J.D.—”

He kissed her before his caution could kick in to stop him. He didn’t want to be the careful man, the responsible man that life and circumstance had forced him to be. He wanted to feel something again. Fire. Hunger. Excitement. Even regret. Anything besides the numbing anger, grief and guilt that had driven him for twelve long years….

Cooper Vengeance
Paula Graves

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Amanda and Alicia,

two of my most loyal readers, and my good friends.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Alabama native Paula Graves wrote her first book, a mystery starring herself and her neighborhood friends, at the age of six. A voracious reader, Paula loves books that pair tantalizing mystery with compelling romance. When she’s not reading or writing, she works as a creative director for a Birmingham advertising agency and spends time with her family and friends. She is a member of Southern Magic Romance Writers, Heart of Dixie Romance Writers and Romance Writers of America.

Paula invites readers to visit her website, www.paulagraves.com.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Natalie Becker—When her sister Carrie is murdered, Natalie’s sure her brother-in-law did it. But when a stranger insists the killer is really a serial murderer he’s been tracking for years, will she trust her instincts—or his evidence?

J. D. Cooper—A widower still mourning his murdered wife twelve years after her death, he’s come to Terrebonne in search of the man who killed her, the same man he believes killed Natalie’s sister Carrie.

Hamilton Gray—Natalie’s brother-in-law has an alibi for the night of his wife’s murder. But Natalie’s not so sure it’s as airtight as the police think.

Mike Cooper—J.D.’s teenaged son is in Terrebonne visiting his grandparents. But once he learns his father’s secretly in town, Mike will take any risk to find out what he’s up to.

Doyle Massey—Natalie’s colleague in the Sheriff’s Department has always given her a hard time. Is there a hidden agenda behind his sudden friendliness?

Travis Rayburn—The young deputy is one of Natalie’s only friends on the force. But is she foolish to trust anyone with her sister’s murderer still at large?

Eladio Cordero—The South American drug lord has the Coopers in his crosshairs, thanks to a blood vendetta against J.D.’s brother Luke. Just how far does his reach extend—all the way to Terrebonne?

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

Natalie Becker crouched beside the new headstone, her eyes dry but burning. Seeing the name etched into the marble marker—Carrie Becker Gray—only amplified the anger burning a hole in Natalie’s chest.

You shouldn’t bear his name for eternity, she thought.

She stood up, finally, glad for the shade of the ancient oak, with its outstretched limbs creating a Spanish-moss-draped-canopy for her sister’s grave. July and August would be hotter, but June was nothing to laugh at here in Terrebonne, Alabama. Unless you were right on the river or the bay, there weren’t enough cool breezes blowing up from the Gulf to temper the sweltering heat and humidity. Even the shade offered only moderate relief from the heat and no relief at all from the mosquitoes and flies.

She batted at a large green bottle fly buzzing around her, ducking her head to one side to avoid the insect’s dive at her face. As she did, she caught movement in her peripheral vision.

She whipped her gaze in that direction, the fly forgotten. In the pit of her gut, she was certain she’d see Hamilton Gray standing there, watching her.

She was wrong. It wasn’t Hamilton. Not even close.

The dark-haired stranger standing a few yards away was a giant of a man, six foot four or taller, towering over even the larger of the granite markers surrounding him. He had broad shoulders, a massive chest, narrow hips and muscular legs. And his short, military-style haircut only amplified the aura of strength and authority.

Soldier? Maybe a cop, although being a sheriff’s deputy herself, she knew most of the lawmen in this area and he definitely wasn’t one of them.

Out on the access road, a horn honked, making her jump. She turned her head toward the sound, laughing a little at herself for being so tightly strung.

When she looked back at the stranger, he was gone.

She scanned the graveyard until she spotted him walking briskly toward the other side of the cemetery. His long legs had covered a surprising amount of ground in the few seconds her attention had drifted toward the sound of the horn.

Who was he?

Stop it, she admonished herself silently. Stop seeing suspects everywhere you look. You know who killed your sister.

The stranger was probably just an out-of-towner, here to visit the grave of a friend or relative. Out of curiosity, she crossed to the spot where he’d stood just a few moments earlier, growing more sure with each step that she’d find the explanation for his presence etched into the nearest marker.

But when she reached the marker, it was an unlikely source of enlightenment. The gravestone marked the final resting place of Mary Beth Geddie, who’d died a week after birth nearly a hundred years earlier. Not exactly what she’d expected to find.

She gazed toward the edge of the cemetery, where she spotted the large man walking through the front gates and straight toward a large black truck parked at the curb.

Illegally parked, she thought. She could ticket him and see who he was and what he was up to.

Her feet were moving before she finished the thought, pounding over the sun-baked ground of the graveyard. But by the time she neared the gates, the black truck was out of sight.

She skidded to a stop and bent at the waist, breathing harder than she liked. She’d let her workouts go over the past two weeks while dealing with Carrie’s death and the aftermath. Between the piles of food the good folks of Terrebonne had brought by before the funeral and the stress-eating opportunities that were part and parcel of dealing with her parents, Natalie had probably gained five pounds in the two weeks.

She had to get control of her life. Now.

She trudged back to her sister’s grave, trying to feel something besides bitter anger and guilt. “I told you not to marry him,” she said softly to the stone.

“I’m grateful she didn’t listen,” Hamilton Gray murmured, his voice equally soft.

Natalie whirled around to face her brother-in-law, who had stepped from behind the sheltering tree. Had he lain in wait for her? “What are you doing here?”

Hamilton’s voice hardened in an instant. “Visiting my wife’s grave.” His eyes narrowed, giving his lean face a feral aspect. “The one I paid for, if you insist on becoming territorial.”

You haven’t paid yet, Natalie thought, seething at his tone. As if Carrie had been an object to cherish or discard at his whim.

“I know you think I had something to do with her murder, but I can assure you I did not. As can the authorities, as you well know.” Hamilton’s voice grew more conciliatory. “Natalie, I loved your sister. She loved me. I may not like to share my feelings with the world, but they exist nonetheless.”

There it was. That convincing air of sincerity he threw on and off like an overcoat. It seemed to fool everyone she knew, including her father, who prided himself on judgment and his knack for reading people. But Darden Becker had one enormous blind spot—money. And if there was any family in South Alabama richer than the Beckers, it was the Grays.

“I don’t expect you’ll ever think of me as a friend, Natalie. You’re hard to impress and even harder to know.”

Natalie tried not to bristle at his words, not because he was wrong but because he was right. She wasn’t easy to impress, and now that Carrie was dead, there probably wasn’t a soul in the world who really knew her at all.

“I’ve accepted that you’ll never consider me part of your family. But I’d like to give you brotherly advice, nonetheless. You should start listening to your therapist.”

“My therapist?” She knew what he was talking about; the Ridley County Sheriff’s Department had decreed that she see a therapist after her sister’s murder. A nice lady, Diana Sprayberry, who spoke in a soft, calm voice that reminded Natalie of her first grade teacher. Dr. Sprayberry was a big fan of the stages-of-grief theory.

Natalie was not.

She wasn’t in denial. She sure as hell wasn’t bargaining. And if she was stuck on anger, there was a damned good reason. A sick son of a bitch had murdered her sister and, so far, had gotten away with it.

But how in the world had Hamilton learned about her private sessions with her therapist?

“It’s not something that can stay secret in a town this small,” he said, answering the unspoken question. “I know about your sessions. I hope they’re helping.”

She met Hamilton Gray’s gentle gaze and hated him for the contempt in his voice, masquerading as pity. But she wasn’t going to stand here like some sort of movie heroine and swear to God and anyone in earshot that she was going to bring him down for killing her sister no matter what it took.

He was right when he said the authorities would affirm his innocence. He had an alibi, of sorts—he’d made a call from his cell phone the night of Carrie’s murder, and the cell tower signal showed he’d been three counties away. On business, or so he claimed. And since the sheriff’s department had no other evidence suggesting Hamilton had killed his wife, or even had a motive to do so, they’d moved on to other suspects. Thanks to her father’s business dealings, her family had plenty of enemies.

Natalie hadn’t moved on, however. Even if they could prove to her satisfaction that Hamilton had been in Monroe County as he’d claimed, over an hour’s drive from Terrebonne and outside the timeframe of Carrie’s murder, it didn’t mean he hadn’t hired someone to kill his wife.

“I don’t understand why you think I had a motive to kill your sister.” Hamilton’s plaintive comment tracked so closely to Natalie’s thoughts that a chill skittered up her spine. He had a way of looking at her, his dark eyes so focused and piercing, that she sometimes wondered if he could read her mind.

Carrie had found his intensity exciting. Natalie had always found it disturbing.

“You know why,” she answered in a voice strangled with barely contained fury.

“I was not having an affair.”

“You were always gone—”

“On business.”

“You didn’t pay the same amount of attention to her as before,” she added. “You were distant and brooding.”

“And Carrie was spoiled and at times needy.” His tone suggested he found those traits charming rather than annoying. “But honeymoons have to end sometime, Natalie. The family business requires much of my attention. I couldn’t ignore it forever.” His voice dropped a notch. “Maybe if you ever marry, you’ll understand the situation better.”

Her nostrils flared but she remained silent. After what he’d done to her sister, if he thought insulting her ability to maintain a relationship was going to make her lose her cool, he was right about one thing—he didn’t know her at all.

Hamilton extended his hand toward her. “Can’t we call a truce? At least for today, so we can both mourn your sister the way she deserves?”

She stared at his outstretched hand, loathing him so much she could barely contain the howl of rage burning like acid in her chest. “I’m done here,” she said. “Carrie knows how I feel.”

She walked away from him, forcing herself not to run, though every instinct she possessed was screaming at her to get away as fast as she could. She made it safely to her Lexus and slid behind the wheel, locking the doors. She leaned back against the sun-baked leather seat, shaking with a chaos of emotions.

“You’re going to explode if you don’t deal.” Diana Sprayberry’s gentle words drifted into her mental maelstrom. As if the therapist were physically there, methodically picking apart the tangle of Natalie’s emotions and moving them to their proper places, Natalie felt the tension seep away, leaving her enervated. Only the blistering heat of the car’s interior drove her to insert the key in the ignition and start it up so the air conditioner could dissipate the hellish swelter inside the Lexus.

She was off duty today, but the sheriff himself had called her at home early that morning and asked her to come in for a 2:00 p.m. meeting. Natalie knew Sheriff Tatum had asked Dr. Sprayberry to give him an evaluation of her mental state, but she’d been seeing the counselor for just under a week now. Surely that wasn’t long enough to assess her state of mind.

As it turned out, apparently Dr. Sprayberry thought it was plenty long enough. The therapist herself was waiting in Sheriff Roy Tatum’s office when Natalie arrived. Dressed in a steel blue variation of her usual prim business suit, Dr. Sprayberry was perched on one of the two armchairs in front of the sheriff’s wide mahogany desk when Natalie entered. She met Natalie’s wary gaze with a mixture of regret and steely certainty.

“Administrative leave?” Natalie asked in disbelief when the sheriff got straight to the point. “You’re taking me off the force completely? I don’t even get desk duty?”

Tatum’s expression revealed the same mixture of regret and certainty Natalie had seen in the counselor’s eyes. “Dr. Sprayberry believes your inability to move past your anger at your sister’s death poses a threat to the people of the county as well as your fellow deputies.”

“And to yourself,” Dr. Sprayberry added gently.

Natalie whipped her head around to look at the doctor. “So this is about taking away my weapon, not my badge. You think I’m either going to go on a shooting spree down at Gray Industries or I’m going to eat my gun?”

“Natalie,” Tatum warned.

She looked at the sheriff. “I have another gun. I have a license to carry it. And as far as I know, we still have a Second Amendment in this country. You solve nothing by doing this.”

The fire in Tatum’s eyes told her she’d pushed the sheriff too far. “If you plan to ever step foot back in this department again, you will give me your weapon and your shield and keep the lip to yourself, Deputy.”

She tamped down a retort and handed her duty weapon and her badge to the sheriff, slanting a look at Dr. Sprayberry. The therapist met her gaze, unflinching. Natalie headed for the door.

“And stay the hell away from Hamilton Gray,” the sheriff added as a parting shot.

Natalie closed the door behind her and paused there for a moment, acutely aware of the curious gazes of her fellow deputies. She doubted any of them gave a damn whether or not she was suspended. Well, maybe Travis Rayburn, the rookie cop who seemed to have a little crush on her. And Lieutenant Barrow was always pretty nice to her.

But the attitudes of the rest of her fellow deputies matched those of her parents: what on God’s green earth was Natalie Becker of the Bayside Oil Beckers doing working as a deputy sheriff?

She didn’t care. She hadn’t taken this job to make friends with her fellow deputies.

She kept her head high as she walked out, ignoring the stares following her out. She trudged to her Lexus and found, to her dismay, that she’d been in the sheriff’s office just long enough for the brutal sun to heat the car’s interior to a toasty 140 degrees. She lowered the windows to let out the hot, stale air and cranked the air conditioner up to high.

As she drove south, heading toward her house on the bay, the neon-studded facade of Millie’s Pub visible in the distance drew her into a quick detour east. Millie’s was a small place, little more than a hole in the wall, but the local law enforcement loved the place. For Natalie, the bar was more a curiosity than a home away from home, but she’d become accustomed to going there after work with the other deputies—her attempt, she supposed, to fit in with the others.

Why she was stopping here now, of all days—when she could call herself a deputy only on the technicality that Roy Tatum had suspended her, not fired her—she wasn’t sure. God knew, it was too early in the day to drink.

But compelled by an emotion she couldn’t define, she parked her car in a spot near the end of the building, stepped back into the fiery afternoon heat and went inside the bar.

J. D. COOPER SAW THE redhead from the cemetery enter the pub and stride straight to the bar, her long legs eating up real estate like a pissed-off thoroughbred. She bellied up to the bar and ordered a shot of Tennessee whiskey, downing it in one gulp. J.D. watched in fascination, wondering if she’d tell the bartender to hit her again, like a cowboy in one of those old Westerns his son, Mike, liked to watch on the classic movies channel.

She ruined the effect by taking a napkin from the metal holder and delicately blotting leftover drops of whiskey from her pink lips. She ordered a ginger ale chaser and settled onto a bar stool, drinking the soda from a straw and scanning the bar’s murky interior with the eyes of a woman who knew she was completely out of place, which she was.

A woman like Natalie Becker didn’t walk into a place like Millie’s every day.

She was a deputy sheriff. Sister of the deceased. Daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the South. That much information had been easy to glean, even for a stranger in town.

Although technically, he wasn’t a stranger. His connection to Brenda had opened a few mouths; all he’d had to do was mention his wife’s name to some of Millie’s customers to find out what he’d needed to know. Of course, he’d also had to suffer through the looks of pain and pity at the mention of her name. Brenda had been as well loved here, in her hometown of Terrebonne, as she’d been back home in Gossamer Ridge.

Stopping at Millie’s had been a pure guess. At the cemetery, he’d seen the bulge of a weapon hidden beneath the lightweight jacket of the redhead’s summer suit. Yes, this was Alabama, and a lot of women in the state carried concealed weapon licenses, but damned few of them wore lightweight summer suits in this unholy heat. That left law enforcement. Cops got used to wearing uniforms of one sort or another, regardless of the weather.

J.D. had considered going straight to the Ridley County Sheriff’s Department and asking if they employed any redheads, but that was a little too direct for his purposes. So he’d done the next best thing—he’d found the only bar in town that looked like a place where cops would hang out.

“Another Sprite? Or would you like something stronger now?” The ponytailed waitress stopped at J.D.’s table, her tone a little more friendly than it had been earlier, when he’d ordered a soda instead of liquor.

“I’m good,” he said, earning a frown. The waitress drifted off toward more lucrative tables.

For a Wednesday mid-afternoon, the place was doing decent business. Some of the customers were farmers taking a beer break during the heat of the day, while others were workers coming off a seven-to-three shift at the chicken-processing plant a couple of miles away. No police had dropped by yet.

None but Natalie Becker.

Her wandering gaze finally drifted J.D.’s way. Her clear green eyes met his and she gave a start of surprise.

What would she do? he wondered, seeing a flicker of indecision in those pretty eyes. Pretend she hadn’t seen him before? Come over and ask him his business?

Since he was trying to keep a low profile while he was here in Terrebonne, he should be hoping for the former. But Natalie Becker had information he needed—more information, probably, than anyone else on the police force—given her relationship to Carrie Gray. So he felt a thrill of satisfaction when she got up from her stool at the bar and walked slowly in his direction.

He stood as she came near, his sudden movement catching her off guard, halting her forward movement. Her watchful gaze made J.D. reconsider his earlier comparison to a thoroughbred. This Natalie Becker was a feral cat, all wary green eyes and sinewy-muscles bunched, ready for flight.

“Who are you?” Her low, cultured voice rose over the twang of a George Strait ballad on the corner jukebox.

“J. D. Cooper.” He extended his hand politely.

She ignored his outstretched hand, moving forward slowly until she was even with his table. “You were at the cemetery.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Visiting a grave.”

“Mary Beth Geddie?”

He frowned, confused. “Who?”

“That’s the name on the gravestone where you were standing.”

“Oh.”

“You weren’t visiting her grave?”

“No. I was visiting your sister’s.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Who the hell are you?”

“J. D. Cooper.”

She winced with frustration. “Is that supposed to mean something to me? What did you want? Why were you visiting my sister’s grave?”

He cocked his head, wondering why she hadn’t jumped to the obvious conclusion. “You aren’t wondering if I’m the one who killed her?”

Her mouth dropped open, but she didn’t speak for a moment as if he’d rendered her speechless. Finally, she asked in a strangled voice, “Did you kill my sister?”

“No,” J.D. answered. “But I think I know who did.”

Natalie closed her hand over the back of an empty chair nearby and pulled it around so she could sit down.

J.D. scooted his chair closer to her and sat as well. Reaching across, he placed his hand over hers where it lay on the table. “Are you okay?”

She jerked her hand from beneath his. “I’m fine.”

He raised both hands to reassure her he meant no harm. “I could get you some water—”

“I said I’m fine.” The words came out in a sharp snap. She flushed, looking embarrassed. He guessed Beckers didn’t make scenes in bars. “Thank you,” she added.

He saw her studying him closely, as if trying to take his measure. He wondered what she saw. At a distance, he knew he looked younger than his forty-four years, thanks to keeping up with his Navy fitness regime even after he retired. But up close, the years of grief and obsession showed around his eyes and mouth. Someone had once told him he had old eyes.

“What do you know about my sister’s murder?” she asked. “How do you even know about it? Where are you from?”

He reached into his pocket. She tensed immediately, her hand automatically sliding down to her waist, as if she expected to find a weapon there. Her lips flattened with anger.

J. D. Cooper finished pulling out his wallet to give her his Cooper Cove Marina business card.

“You work as a boat mechanic?” she asked.

“My folks own a marina up in Gossamer Ridge,” he said. “It’s a little place in the northeastern part of the state. When I got out of the Navy, I went to work for them doing boat repair and maintenance.”

She flashed a quick smile. He wondered why.

She laid the card in the middle of the table between them. “That doesn’t explain how you know about Carrie’s murder. Did it make the news up there or something?”

“You’re from a rich, influential family. One of you gets murdered, it makes news everywhere in the state.” He folded his wallet shut and put it back into his pocket. “The Gossamer Ridge paper didn’t give many details about the murder. Neither did The Birmingham News. But I know some folks around here, so I did a little digging.”

“Why?”

“Because I think the man who killed your sister is the same man who killed my wife.”

Chapter Two

Natalie sat back in her chair, watching him through narrowed eyes. “Your wife?”

He nodded. “She was murdered twelve-and-a-half years ago. Late at night while working alone at a secluded office building. Nothing else around for at least a half mile.”

The air in the bar seemed to grow chill. Natalie hugged her jacket more tightly around her. “Late at night—”

“Just like your sister.”

She swallowed hard. “What do you want?”

“Do you know anyone named Alex?”

The question threw her. “Alex?”

“That’s the name he uses. I don’t think it’s his real name, but it could be a nickname.”

“You know his name but you don’t know what he looks like?”

J. D. Cooper’s only answer was to pick up the business card and pull a pen from his shirt pocket. He wrote something on the back of the card and shoved it back toward her. “I’m going to be hanging around town a few days. Here’s where I’m staying. My cell number’s on the front of the card. I figure you’ll want to look into what I’m telling you, so I’ll leave you to do that.”

He unfolded his long legs until he towered over her like a giant tree, casting a shadow across the table. “I’m going to keep looking into your sister’s murder, whatever you decide. I just think it’ll be easier if we didn’t butt heads about it.”

He pulled out his wallet, laid a ten dollar bill on the table for the waitress and walked out of the bar.

It took a couple of seconds for Natalie’s legs to cooperate enough to go after him. By the time she burst outside the bar, he was driving away in the same black truck she’d seen at the cemetery earlier in the day. She noted the make and model—a Ford F-250—but couldn’t make out the license plate.

Torn between irritation and curiosity, she returned to the bar and retrieved his business card from the table.

J. D. Cooper, she read silently, her fingers tingling with the memory of his big, warm hand closing over hers.

She had a feeling he was going to be a boatload of trouble.

J.D. CALLED THE MARINA as soon as he reached the blessed coolness of his motel room. The place was cheap but clean, and the bed was big enough to look inviting to a man his size.

Waiting for someone to answer, he picked up the files he’d brought with him. It was twelve years’ worth of notes, police files and newspaper clippings he’d compiled since Brenda’s murder. Most of the pages were dog-eared and fading, while others were fresh photocopies of papers that had already started to fall apart.

He’d handled them all, at least once a day, for over a decade. An obsession, he supposed, but he couldn’t stop now. He was closer than he’d ever been, thanks to his brother Gabe’s recent trip to a college town three hours north of Terrebonne.

Ironic, that. Gabe being the one to blow the case wide open, since he was the one who blamed himself most for letting Brenda down the one night she really needed him.

His brother Luke answered the marina’s office phone, catching J.D. by surprise. Luke ran a riding stable and wouldn’t usually be there at this hour. “What are you doing there?” J.D. asked.

“I turned the stable over to Trevor and Kenny, and I’m meeting Abby here for dinner with the folks.”

God, he sounded happy, even though he had plenty of reasons not to be. Eladio Cordero, the South American drug lord who’d put a price on Luke’s life—and the life of anyone he loved—was still out there, biding his time. But at least Luke was home with his family now. The Coopers were pretty tough, always ready to guard each other’s backs. And Luke had that beautiful wife and kid of his to come home to every night.

J.D. tried not to envy his brother—all his brothers, really, who’d now found the kind of happiness J.D. hadn’t known in over twelve years. Even Gabe and Aaron had been bitten in the backside by the love bug. Aaron and Melissa were getting married in a couple of weeks, and Gabe had come home from his trip last month to Millbridge with a cute little college professor named Alicia Solano in tow. She still hadn’t said she’d marry him, but anyone could see she was crazy about him, too. And Gabe could be a bloody damned nuisance when he wanted something. J.D.’s money was on him.

“Have you picked up Mike yet?” Luke asked.

“No, not yet.” His thirteen-year-old son, Mike, had spent the last couple of weeks with his grandparents, right after his graduation from eighth grade. Brenda’s parents had come up to Chickasaw County to see their only grandson’s graduation and ended up taking Mike back with them to spend a few weeks.

J.D. had used Mike as an excuse to head south to Terrebonne, but Mike wasn’t due to come back home until just before Aaron’s wedding. J.D. hadn’t wanted his family to know his real reason for coming here until he found out more about Carrie Gray’s murder. They’d worry about him, and J.D. was tired of being the object of everyone’s concern.

“How’s Stevie?” he asked aloud to change the subject.

“He’s great!” Luke answered. “Abby’s been teaching him to speak Spanish, and he’s starting to get better at it than I am.”

J.D. laughed. “Well, tell him hola from his Tio J.D. I’m going to hang down here a little longer. Tell Dad he can get Jasper Noble to take care of any boat maintenance issues that come up while I’m gone. Jasper loves being useful since he retired—”

“How much longer?” Luke couldn’t hide the surprise in his voice. Though Luke had been away from the family for ten years before his recent return to the fold, he’d apparently heard enough family gossip to know J.D. rarely visited Terrebonne anymore.

“A few days. No more than a week.” He hoped.

“Okay. I’ll tell everyone.”

“Thanks. Hey, is Gabe anywhere around?”

“He’s out unloading his boat. Just came in from a guiding job. You want me to have him call you?”

“Yeah, do that.” J.D. might not want the rest of his family to worry about him, but he wanted Gabe to know what he was really up to. After all, Gabe had put his life on the line to solve Brenda’s murder just a few weeks earlier, taking on a psychopath who’d been holding Alicia hostage.

A psychopath J.D. intended to visit in the Okaloosa County Jail up in Millbridge as soon as the visit could be arranged. Because Marlon Dyson wasn’t just a crazy stalker. He’d been partners with the man J.D. believed had killed his wife.

Gabe called a few minutes later, and J.D. gave him a quick rundown on his reason for heading south to Terrebonne in the first place. “I wanted to get the local view of things, just to be sure,” he told his younger brother.

“And what did you find out?”

“It’s our guy. I’m almost positive.”

Gabe was silent for a long moment. “Do you think he’s picked up a new partner?”

“That’s a question for your girl, I guess.” Gabe’s new girlfriend, Alicia, was close to getting her doctorate in criminal psychology, and she’d been the one who’d figured out there were two killers at work in the series of murders J.D. and his family had been trying to solve. Over the course of those years, the “alpha” killer, as Alicia termed him, had worked with at least two partners that they knew of—Victor Logan, who’d died in a mysterious house explosion a couple of months earlier, and Marlon Dyson. “And while you’re at it, I want you to have her call up her friend in the Millbridge Police Department and get me in to see Dyson.”

“J.D., are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I think it’s a damned good idea,” J.D. answered firmly, ignoring the wriggling sensation in his gut that belied the confidence in his voice. “Dyson helped that son of a bitch kill three women in the past year. Maybe more.”

“Even the FBI can’t get him to talk. What makes you think you can?”

“I’m motivated,” J.D. answered flatly.

“Yeah, I’m a little worried about just how motivated you are,” Gabe responded.

“Don’t try to stop me. You’re already on my bad side for keeping this information from me as long as you did.” His little brother had a bad habit of trying to protect J.D. when it came to this murder investigation. Some sort of misplaced guilt for having screwed up and gotten to Brenda’s place of work later than he’d agreed, J.D. knew. Gabe blamed himself, as if he could have stopped what happened to Brenda if he’d just been on time.

But he couldn’t know that. Nobody could. The cold air that November night had slowed decomposition, making it hard to be sure when she’d died. Could have been a few minutes before Gabe arrived. Could have been as much as an hour. He could have been on time and still been too late.

On the other hand, if J.D. had left the Navy when she’d wanted him to, she probably wouldn’t have been working at the trucking company in the first place—

“Maybe I should meet you in Millbridge,” Gabe suggested. “I could go in with you to see him—”

J.D. snorted. “Like you could stop me if I went after him.”

“I figure the guards would take care of that,” Gabe shot back flatly. “I’d be there to pay the bail.”

J.D. grinned at the phone. “I’ll be fine, Gabe. I promise.” His grin faded. “I’m this close to finding the son of a bitch who killed Brenda. I’m not going to screw it up by losing my head.”

Gabe’s answering silence was an unwanted reminder of just how close to the edge J.D. had gone over the past twelve years. Wild-goose chases, con artists trying to earn a buck off his grief, the emotional roller-coaster ride of chasing leads that never panned out—they’d all worked together to crush his fading hope and lead him to some very dark places over the past few years.

His family had worked overtime to keep him from falling apart. At times, they’d been all that kept him sane.

He broke the silence. “Will you see if Alicia can set it up? And call me back with when and where?”

“Of course,” Gabe agreed. “J.D., Luke said you haven’t even seen Mike yet. You left town two days ago. What’s the holdup?”

J.D. looked down at the files in front of him. “I don’t like him to see me this way.”

“Obsessed?”

“Focused,” J.D. corrected. “I’m looking at files I don’t want him to see.”

“You’ve been doing that for a lot of years now. Looking at things you don’t want him to see.” Gabe’s voice held no censure, only a bleak sadness that resonated in J.D.’s own heart.

J.D. knew he’d let his grief and rage steal too much time from his kids, not seeing until too late that he was throwing away moments, hours and experiences he could never get back. Thank God for his parents, who’d given his children the time, attention and unconditional love he’d been too broken to offer.

He was trying to repair the damage, one step at a time. But Cissy was nearly grown up now, heading into her junior year of college, and Mike would be entering high school this fall, taking giant steps toward an independent life of his own.

J.D. was running out of time to fix things with his kids.

“Alicia’s down in Millbridge this week, tying up some loose ends,” Gabe said when J.D. didn’t answer. “I’ll get her to talk to her friend Tony about arranging for you to visit Dyson.”

“That’s the cop ex-boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” Gabe said wryly. “He’s not happy about her leaving Millbridge to be with me, but he’s a decent guy. He’ll help you out if he can.”

“Thanks, Gabe. I owe you.”

“Not in a million years.” Emotion tinted Gabe’s voice, and J.D. knew he was thinking about how he’d let Brenda down. J.D. didn’t bother trying to talk him out of his guilt. He’d told his brother that he didn’t blame him. He’d said what needed saying. Now it was up to Gabe to work through his own guilt whatever way he needed to.

J.D. knew a lot about dealing with guilt.

He said goodbye to Gabe and hung up, his mind already fast-forwarding to what he’d say when he finally saw Marlon Dyson face-to-face. He’d wanted to visit Dyson in jail as soon as Gabe had told him the whole story behind the man’s involvement with the alpha killer.

Dyson had slipped up once and called him Alex to Alicia’s face before clamming up. J.D. wanted to see if he could use that small chink in the armor to get Dyson to open up some more. But to this point, the Millbridge Police had been stingy with Dyson, refusing to let J.D. visit the man in jail.

Dyson had been the alpha’s partner, apparently tasked with hunting and culling victims for the man he called Alex to stalk and kill. He’d been caught last month, attempting to go rogue by stalking and killing his own choice of victim—Alicia, with whom Dyson had worked as lab instructors at Mill Valley University.

So far, he hadn’t admitted to anything but the attempt on Alicia’s life, although police and prosecutors were gathering circumstantial evidence to build a case against him for the three coed murders committed in Millbridge over the last six months.

But J.D. hadn’t had a crack at him yet.

For now, however, it was dinnertime and he was starving. He’d seen a little hole-in-the-wall diner down the road that had looked like a good bet for some home cooking.

At the diner, he ordered a barbecue-pork sandwich and beer-battered onion rings from a woman he quickly learned was the diner’s owner, Margo, a bottle-blonde in her late forties. She’d pegged J.D. as new to town immediately and, like a lot of Southerners when strangers came to their small towns, Margo was friendly but wary—until she heard J.D.’s slow, Southern drawl and realized he was Alabama born-and-bred. She quickly warmed to him, sitting with him at his solitary table while he ate and telling him everything she knew about everyone in the diner.

By the time he polished off a bowl of peach cobbler and vanilla ice cream, he felt as if he knew the business of everyone in town.

He turned the discussion to Carrie Gray’s murder, certain Margo probably knew more about what was going on in Terrebonne, Alabama, than even the cops knew. “I ran into her sister—Natalie, I think her name is.”

Margo’s eyes lit up at the mention of the name. “Oh, lord, that girl sure knows how to stir up a mess. When she decided not to go into the family business, you could hear old Darden Becker whoopin’ and hollerin’ all the way to Mobile.”

“He didn’t think she should be a deputy sheriff?”

“Good grief, no. The girl went to Yale, for pity’s sake. Can you imagine sending your girl to a place like that for four years, only to see her up and join the sheriff’s department after all that schooling? I’m surprised he didn’t ask for his money back!” Margo laughed with delight. “Oh, Natalie’s a fine enough deputy. She was promoted to investigator just this past spring. Don’t reckon old Roy Tatum would’ve done so if she wasn’t pulling her weight around there.”

“Is she married?” J.D. asked, though he wasn’t sure why. It didn’t really matter, did it? He hadn’t even thought to ask about her marital status earlier, when he’d been asking people in Millie’s Pub about her.

But that was before you got an up-close look at those big green eyes, Cooper.

Margo’s gaze fell to the wedding band on his left hand, then snapped up to look him in the eyes. “Why do you ask?” Her voice was suddenly wary.

He felt a flush warm his face, as if she’d caught him at something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. He forced himself not to cover the ring with his other hand. He wasn’t pumping Margo for information about Natalie Becker so he could ask her out on a date, after all. He had nothing to feel guilty about. “No reason, really. Just wondered if her daddy disapproved of her choice in men, too.”

“Suppose it would depend on the man.”

“What did they think of Carrie’s husband?”

“That she was lucky to catch him. Hamilton Gray’s slipped the noose more than once since he was a boy, though God knows every girl in town’s been after him at some point.”

“Even Natalie?”

“No, not Natalie. She never has liked him much.” Margo lowered her voice. “I hear she thinks he had something to do with her sister’s murder.”

“What do you think?” J.D. asked.

“I can’t see the motive. He wouldn’t get her money—old Darden Becker made sure there was an airtight prenup. And I don’t reckon he’d have tired of a pretty little thing like Carrie so soon after the wedding. Besides, I heard he had an alibi.”

Alibis could be deceiving. “Say, do you know anyone around town named Alex?”

Margo’s forehead bunched with thought. “I think Ruby Stiller over on Beacon Road has a grandson named Alex. Why?”

He couldn’t tell her the truth, so he improvised. “I ran into a guy at the gas station yesterday. Said his name was Alex. We got to talking about fishing and he said he could show me some good spots, but I forgot to get his phone number.”

“That’s definitely not Ruby’s grandson—that kid’s in kindergarten.”

“Maybe I’m remembering the name wrong.”

“Well, if it’s fishing you’re after, you should hunt down Rudy Lawler. He lives up the road a ways—just out past Annabelle’s, in fact, maybe a mile or so.”

“Annabelle’s—that’s the place where Carrie Gray was murdered?” he asked, even though he knew very well it was.

“That’s right. Carrie bought the restaurant a few months ago and was trying to get it ready to reopen.” Margo pointed right, toward the west. “It’s about a half mile up the road.”

J.D. gently pushed his plate away. “It’s been a real pleasure meeting you, Margo. I’ll be back, I’m sure.”

Margo smiled brightly at him. “You just tell your friends about Margo’s, okay?”

She walked him out, waiting in the door while he slid behind the steering wheel. J.D. waved goodbye, then pulled out on the highway. But he didn’t head back to the motel.

He headed up the road to Annabelle’s.

AT 6:00 P.M., THE SUN was only just reaching the horizon, still hot enough to make Natalie wish she’d left her jacket in the Lexus. But she’d stopped off at her house to get her spare weapon, and she didn’t like walking around with her holster showing, not even at a place as secluded as Annabelle’s.

The restaurant had once been a favorite among Terrebonne locals, one of the few nice restaurants in the sleepy little bayside town. Then Annabelle Saveau and her husband, Marcel, had moved back to New Orleans to take care of Marcel’s aging parents after Hurricane Katrina, selling the property to a real estate speculator who’d thought the restaurant and surrounding acres of scenic woods would be an easy sell.

Years later, it was still for sale when Carrie decided she was tired of running the Human Resources Department at Bayside Oil and wanted a different career. Natalie’s sister had bought the place a couple of months ago.

It had become the place of her death.

“Oh, Carrie, why were you so fearless?” she murmured, walking around the low-slung building until she could see the back door. Carrie’s body had been found in the kitchen, laid out supine, as if she were merely asleep. Of course, the slashing stab wounds in her abdomen, and the blood pooling around her body gave the real story away.

The sound of tires crunching on the asphalt parking lot in front of the restaurant set Natalie’s nerves humming. Unsheathing her Glock 19, she eased her way back to the front and flattened her body against the side of the building to avoid being seen as long as possible.

The engine cut off and she heard a car door open. She darted a quick look around the corner of the building.

There was no mistaking the tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired man walking to the front of the building. J. D. Cooper stopped in front of the door and tested the lock. The handle rattled in his hand but didn’t open.

Trespassing son of a—

Natalie eased away from the building, edging into the darkening woods behind her. She’d left her car down the road, not wanting to be seen snooping around what was, technically, still a crime scene, since she was on administrative leave.

But if she didn’t get to look around, she’d be damned if J. D. Cooper got to, either.

When she reached her car, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911. “I’m calling from Sedge Road, near Annabelle’s. I just saw a man trying to break into the restaurant.”

Chapter Three

“Look, if you’ll just call the Chickasaw County Sheriff’s Department and ask for Aaron Cooper, he’ll vouch for me.” J.D. winced as the handcuffs around his wrists bit into his flesh, glad Gabe couldn’t see him now. Although he might have need of the bail Gabe had mentioned any minute now.

“We tried. He wasn’t in the office.” Deputy Doyle Massey, one of the department’s investigators, had taken custody of him once he reached the station. Massey was a broad-shouldered man in his mid-thirties, with sandy brown hair and eyes the color of tree moss. He looked impatient, making J.D. wonder just how much work an investigator got in a department this size.

“Then ask for Riley Patterson. Or call the Gossamer Ridge Police Department and ask for Kristen Cooper.”

Massey glanced at J.D. “How many cops are you related to?”

“Do auxiliary deputies count, too?”

Massey grinned. “You must be the black sheep of the family.”

“Funny.”

“What were you doing snooping around there, anyway?” Massey unlocked the cuffs behind his back.

J.D. rubbed his sore wrists. “Am I under arrest?” Nobody had read him his rights, but clearly he wasn’t free to go.

Massey led him to a small interview room. “Take a seat.”

J.D. sat across from the deputy, wondering how much he should say about his real reason for being at Annabelle’s. His own family was sympathetic to his quest for justice, but he’d found over the years that the local cops would prefer he just butt out.

“At the scene, you said you were just curious about the place because it had been a murder scene. How did you know that, you being a newcomer to town and all?”

Oh, what the hell. If he lied, he’d just look as though he was hiding things. “Twelve years ago, my wife was murdered in Gossamer Ridge, in a secluded area, late at night. She was raped and stabbed to death. The killer left no evidence behind.”

The deputy’s eyes gave a small flicker. “Go on.”

“There’ve been similar murders. In Mississippi five or six years ago. Up in Millbridge, Alabama, in the last six months—”

“Are you talking about the murders that college kid committed? He was already in jail when Carrie Gray was killed.”

This must be how Alicia felt, J.D. thought, trying to explain her theory about the serial killer pair to Gabe the first time. “There are two people involved. Marlon Dyson—the college student—was only one of the two killers. The other one is the guy who actually does the stabbings.”

Massey frowned. “So the kid was just along for the ride?”

“The theory is, he procured the victims. Followed them, scouted out their schedules, getting to know them so that he and the alpha killer could get the drop on them more easily—”

“Alpha killer?”

“That’s the theory. The alpha killer wields the knife. The beta does the legwork beforehand.”

“Whose theory?”

Here we go, J.D. thought. “A criminal psychology doctoral student figured it out.”

“A student?” Massey sounded skeptical.

J.D. pressed his lips together tightly, growing annoyed. “A doctoral student. An instructor, really. And she’s a hell of a lot smarter than—”

“She?”

“Yes, she.”

“Let me guess—new girlfriend? Got you a pretty little young thing who comes up with this fancy idea, so you thought you’d snoop around to impress her by handing her a new case to ponder?”

J.D. stared at Massey, repulsed. “The girl’s barely six years older than my daughter.”

“And you’re listening to her theories?” Massey snapped back.

This interview clearly wasn’t getting J.D. anywhere. Maybe he should play the apology card and see if he could get them to just let him go without any further trouble.

“Fine—you don’t buy the serial killer pair theory. But do you at least get that I wasn’t there to cause any trouble or do anything illegal?” he asked Deputy Massey.

“You were already doing something illegal—trespassing.”

“How did you know?” J.D. asked.

“Know what?”

“That I was trespassing.”

Massey’s eyes narrowed. “A 911 call.”

J.D. tried to hide his surprise. Who would have called 911? The place was in the middle of nowhere, on a road that had seen absolutely no traffic in the short time J.D. was there looking around, at least until the deputies rolled up, sirens blaring.

Unless—

“Don’t suppose you know who called it in?”

Massey looked suspicious. “What does it matter? Was she wrong—?” He stopped, flushing as he realized he had just spilled more than he’d intended.

So a woman had called it in. A woman who’d apparently been sneaking around the restaurant herself, if she’d been in position to see J.D. looking around the property.

Now, who did he know who had a reason to be at the restaurant—and who’d probably be more than happy to call in a prowler report just to get J.D. out of her way?

“Doesn’t matter,” he told Massey aloud. “You’re right, she saw what she saw.”

“Why do you carry a gun?” Massey asked.

J.D. was surprised the deputy hadn’t asked that question first. “I have a permit for concealed carry.”

“I know. We looked it up. But why the CCW permit?”

“Last November, some drug enforcers came gunning for my brother. They were sent by a drug lord named Eladio Cordero—”

Massey spat out a profanity. “Luke Cooper’s your brother?”

“Yeah,” J.D. said with a nod. “I carry the SIG for my own protection.”

“Way I heard it, your family took out most of the bad guys by yourselves before the law arrived.” Massey’s smile was grim but satisfied. “I’d have liked to have a piece of that.”

“Am I free to go now?” J.D. asked. “You won’t catch me trespassing again.”

“Leaving town?”

“Not right away,” J.D. answered honestly. “I have to wait until my kid’s finished visiting his grandparents.”

“They live in the area?” Massey asked.

“Yeah,” J.D. answered, realizing he should have dropped his in-laws’ names from the beginning. “George and Lois Teague. Do you know them?”

Massey’s eyes lit up. “Why sure, everybody around here knows Doc Teague. He’s been treating most of the town since we were kids. You’re Doc Teague’s—” The deputy’s voice faltered as he put the clues together. “You’re Brenda’s husband. The sailor.”

“Yes.”

The deputy’s expression grew grim. “I went to school a few years behind Brenda, but I knew her. Nicest person you’d ever want to know.”

J.D.’s heart contracted. “Yeah, she was.”

“I guess I can’t blame you for going to extremes to find the bastard who killed her,” Massey said, his demeanor completely changed. “But I can’t really have you out there interfering with an ongoing murder investigation, Mr. Cooper. You understand?”

J.D. nodded. “I understand.” He hadn’t really figured the local lawmen would buy into Alicia Solano’s two-killer theory without a lot more evidence. He’d just wanted to make the deputy understand he wasn’t a threat to law and order in Terrebonne.

“I’m going to let you go now, but you can’t just be going around trespassing on private property, you hear? Let us handle it. I promise you, if there’s any chance at all the perp we’re looking for was behind Brenda’s murder, I’ll personally bring the son of a bitch down. All right?”

The tight sensation in J.D.’s chest spread to his gut. Everybody really had loved Brenda. She was one of those people who just made life better. She should have died in her nineties, after a long, full and happy life, not at the painfully young age of twenty-eight in the parking lot of an Alabama trucking company.

“All right,” he said aloud.

Massey walked J.D. out to his truck, which another deputy had brought to the station. He returned J.D.’s weapon and holster to him. “Take care, Mr. Cooper. No offense, but I’d rather not see you in here again.”

Same here, J.D. thought as he climbed into the truck.

He’d just be a lot more careful next time.

His cell phone rang before he reached the motel. He thumbed it on and answered.

It was Gabe. “You’re set to talk to Dyson tomorrow morning at ten. You’ll have to set out early—it’s a three-hour drive.”

J.D.’s stomach dropped. He’d been pushing for a face-to-face with Dyson for a month, but now that the time was imminent, he wasn’t sure he knew what to ask. “I’ll be there,” he told Gabe and hung up, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel.

The Millbridge police had already checked Dyson’s background, on Alicia’s request. Dyson had been a teenager, living with his mother in North Carolina, at the time of Brenda’s murder. He didn’t have any long, unexplained absences in his history. The kid wasn’t in on Brenda’s murder.

But J.D. was pretty sure Dyson knew about all the murders. When he’d been stalking Alicia, he’d left her a note warning her she’d be victim number twenty-two. Fortunately, thanks to Alicia’s level head and killer swing with a crowbar, Dyson hadn’t been able to keep that promise.

Apparently it had been Carrie Gray’s tragic misfortune to become the twenty-second victim instead.

Back at the motel, he decided not to overthink what he would say to Dyson the next day. Instead, he took his mind off the trip to Millbridge with a phone call to his daughter, Cissy, who was staying at his parents’ place while he was down here in Terrebonne. She’d wanted to stay alone at the house; but with Eladio Cordero still gunning for Luke and anyone he loved, he didn’t like the idea of his nineteen-year-old daughter staying alone, even though she was as good a shot as he was these days.

She answered on the second ring, a little out of breath. “Hi, Daddy. Are you and Mike on your way home?”

“Miss us?”

“Well, you, maybe. Not the brat.” But her voice was affectionate, belying her words. “Actually, it’s kind of fun hanging with Grandma and Daddy Mike. I’ve really missed them while I was at college.” Cissy was a student at Mill Valley University in Millbridge, renting a place in the same apartment complex where Alicia Solano had lived when she was in Millbridge—which was rare these days, as Alicia was actively seeking a job closer to Gossamer Ridge in anticipation of earning her doctorate later this summer.

“You can always transfer to a college closer to home,” J.D. reminded her, hoping she’d agree.

Of course, his independent-minded girl-child didn’t. “No, I like it in Millbridge. I have friends there. Besides, it’s a three-hour drive—I’ll be home all the time.”

“Like you were the last two years?”

“You’re such a dad.”

J.D. grinned. Although there was a guilty little niggle in the center of his chest more than happy to remind him he hadn’t been much of a good dad after Brenda died: spending more time chasing elusive justice than comforting his children. “I’m going to be out of pocket awhile tomorrow, so I thought I’d check in tonight and let you know.”

“Alicia got you set up to visit Marlon Dyson?”

He sighed. “Does she tell you everything?”

“Better than telling me nothing.” She softened her sharp retort by adding, “You ready for it? You want me to drive down?”

He didn’t know whether to be touched by the concern in her voice or insulted. He was a grown man—her father—and his daughter shouldn’t feel he needed her to hold his hand. “I’m ready. You stay up there and keep an eye on old Rowdy.”

His old mixed-hound was getting on up in years now. He’d still been a puppy when Brenda died, but these days, he was starting to slow down. He was really more Mike’s dog than J.D.’s these days, although there’d been nights right after Brenda’s murder when J.D. hadn’t been sure he could get through the long, bleak hours without that pup by his side.

“Call me if you need me. I can be in Millbridge in three hours. Terrebonne in six.”

“I’ll call you if I need you,” he promised. “Ciss?”

“Yeah?”

“You know I love you, don’t you?”

Her voice cracked a little. “Of course I do.”

“Good. ’Cause I do.”

“I love you, too. Call me when you get done, okay?”

“Will do.” He hung up the phone and laid his head back against the pillows of the motel bed, staring at the ceiling above, where waning daylight painted a crisscross of lengthening shadows over the sheetrock.

He’d spent half the afternoon, it seemed, assuring everyone he knew that he was fine, ready to visit Marlon Dyson and see if he could get information the police had, so far, been unable to obtain.

But he wasn’t fine. He wasn’t sure he was ready.

And he was lonely as hell.

MORNING CAME ENTIRELY too early for Natalie, in no small part because her sleep had consisted of one long nightmare, a relentless replay of the same harrowing image: she was Carrie, and she was trapped in the cluttered kitchen of Annabelle’s, the back door blocked by a junk pile of old appliances stored there for eventual removal, and the front door blocked by a darkened silhouette wielding a sharp, deadly knife.

She ran and ran and never got anywhere, and still the dark figure came toward her, in calm, unhurried paces. He knew she was trapped. He knew he could do what he wanted to her, and nobody would be close enough to hear her screams.

Waking for good at 5:30 a.m., she dragged herself from bed and showered, then contemplated what to do with the rest of her day, now that she didn’t have a job to go to. Her mother had told her she should come by the house more often, but by now, the town grapevine would surely have made its way to her parents, and the last thing she wanted to do with her day was spend it listening to her father’s litany of I-told-you-sos.

Roy Tatum had also told her to stay away from Hamilton Gray, which she didn’t intend to do, but it would be smart to keep her distance for the next couple of days, at least.

That left J. D. Cooper.

She’d hung around Annabelle’s long enough to see him taken into custody. She’d been surprised the deputies had gone that far on a simple trespass, but she supposed in a place as small as Terrebonne, a brutal murder could put law enforcement on edge.

She’d followed the squad car to the police station, parking far enough away to avoid detection but close enough to see Massey walk J. D. Cooper to his truck about an hour after he arrived at the sheriff’s station, sparing her the need to intervene.

After all, Annabelle’s was her property now. Carrie had left it to her in the will. All that was left was the paperwork. She had a say in who was trespassing and who wasn’t.

She ended up at Margo’s Diner for breakfast. Margo herself was behind the counter, entirely too energetic for such an early hour. She poured Natalie strong, black coffee without waiting for the order and set the cup on the counter in front of her. “There was a man here yesterday who seemed mighty interested in you.”

Natalie glanced up from the steaming coffee. “Dark hair, blue eyes, about the size of a grizzly?”

Margo grinned. “So you’ve met him?”

She answered with a low growling noise. So, now J. D. Cooper was asking around town about her. “What did he want to know?”

“Not that much, really.” Margo blushed under a layer of makeup, and Natalie got the feeling she’d done most of the talking. She did love to gossip. “He asked if you were married.”

Natalie arched an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“I wouldn’t think much of it. He’s married.”

“Actually, he’s a widower,” Natalie corrected, though she wasn’t sure why she bothered. Margo would probably latch on to that piece of information and turn it into a big deal. She didn’t give Margo time to ask any more questions. “Did he ask anything about Carrie’s murder?”

“You know, he did. He wanted to know if I thought Hamilton Gray could have killed her.”

Interesting. So he was open to her theory of what happened to Carrie. “What did you tell him?”

Margo blushed again. “I know you think it’s Hamilton, honey, but I just can’t see why he’d do it. It’s not like your sister would get any of his money if they just divorced. And he’s not going to inherit anything from her because of that prenup.”

Natalie should have guessed Margo knew about the prenuptial agreement. “You know everything that goes on in this town.”

Margo grinned. “I suppose maybe I do.” Another customer entered the diner and drew Margo’s attention away, leaving Natalie to drink her coffee in silence.

So, J. D. Cooper wanted to know if she was married. Why hadn’t he just asked her directly?

J.D. WASN’T SURPRISED to see his brother Gabe waiting in the Millbridge Police Department when he arrived. “I drove down last night and stayed at Alicia’s,” Gabe explained, shaking his brother’s hand. “Dad’s taking my fishing clients this morning.”

“You didn’t have to come,” J.D. said, although he was glad Gabe was there. The drive from Terrebonne had seemed to fly by, not giving him nearly enough time to prepare himself to see Dyson.

“I came for my girl, not for you,” Gabe said with a grin. “But while I’m here—”

J.D. squeezed his brother’s shoulder. “Any word from the university about her dissertation?”

Gabe’s grin widened. “The last revision passed and she has her oral defense in three weeks.” Alicia’s dissertation on the psychology of serial-killer pairs had included her personal notes on Marlon Dyson and Victor Logan. “Her advisor thinks she’ll do a bang-up job on the defense. In a month, I’ll be dating a doctor.”

“Mom will be so proud,” J.D. murmured.

A man about Gabe’s age with wavy dark hair and brown eyes emerged from a door down the hall and walked toward them. He smiled at Gabe and extended his hand. “I thought you were back home at the lake.”

“I thought I’d drive down to see Alicia.” Gabe shook the man’s hand. “Tony, this is my brother J.D. J.D., this is Tony Evans, Alicia’s friend.”

“I like to think I’m your friend, too, Cooper.” Tony shook J.D.’s hand. “I’ve got Dyson cooling his heels in an interview room down the hall. I figured you wouldn’t want to do this at the jail. I’ll have to stay with you, and there’ll be two guards there, too. Plus, he’s cuffed to the table. You ready for this?”

J.D. nodded. “Let’s do it.”

His stomach knotting with tension, he followed Tony to the interview room.

Chapter Four

J.D. recognized Marlon Dyson’s boyish face from the photograph that had run in the Millbridge paper the day after his arrest. Tony Evans had emailed Alicia a copy of the article the day it ran, and she’d shared it with J.D. for his case files.

But the last four weeks hadn’t been kind to Dyson. His cheeks were leaner, and his eyes warier, as he watched J.D. and Tony enter the interview room. He’d been shot by accident while struggling with Alicia. Lost a lot of blood—probably explained his paleness as well.

“Mr. Dyson, this is J. D. Cooper.” Tony sat in one of the two seats across the table from Dyson. J.D. took the other chair.

“The widower.” Dyson smiled. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“From Alex?” J.D. asked, disturbed by Dyson’s hungry gaze. Dyson seemed to feed off the tension filling the interview room.

“Alex?” Dyson replied innocently.

“The man you worked with. The man who killed those coeds here in Millbridge. And the women in Mississippi and Louisiana.”

“That was Victor Logan, wasn’t it?” Dyson asked, still smiling. “That’s what I heard. Good thing he died, huh? Saves taxpayers the cost of keeping him in jail the rest of his life.”

“You rigged a gas explosion to save taxpayer money?”

Tony had asked the question, but Dyson’s gaze never left J.D.’s face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Who is Alex?” J.D. pressed.

“I don’t know.” Dyson’s hard face softened until he looked like an overgrown, scared kid. “How would I? I just made a stupid mistake. I let my feelings for a coworker push me to do stupid, terrible things. That’s all. I swear.”

“Stupid things like killing a janitor who got in your way?”

“It was an accident!”

“You shot him in the head.”

“The gun just went off,” Marlon moaned, starting to rock back and forth. “I didn’t mean for it to happen! I don’t know much about guns—I should never have had it with me—”

J.D. stared at him in growing horror as he realized the sociopath was actually on the verge of tears. Tony made a low groaning sound beside him, but the sound barely registered over the buzz of rage filling J.D.’s ears. It could really happen, he realized as Marlon stared back at him, blinking back what looked to all the world like tears of fear.

Put this guy before a gullible jury, let him turn on the little boy lost act and he might get away with a minimal sentence for killing the janitor and trying to kill Alicia Solano in the bowels of the Mill Valley University’s Behavioral Sciences building.

J.D. bit back a growl of frustration and pushed away from the table. “This guy’s small potatoes. He probably doesn’t even know Alex’s real name anyway.”

Dyson’s smug gaze faltered for a second.

“The guy who killed those women doesn’t make stupid mistakes. Alex wouldn’t trust a half-wit like Marlon here with his name.”

“You can’t trick me into telling you his real name.” Dyson’s chin came up defiantly.

“So you do know it?” Tony asked.

Dyson clamped his mouth shut.

He didn’t, J.D. realized. Dyson truly didn’t know the killer’s real name, for exactly the reason J.D. had said. A guy who’d gotten away with murder for over a decade wouldn’t chance revealing his true identity to someone who could testify against him later.

J.D. was back to square one.

BESIDES A HANDFUL OF bed-and-breakfasts, the only place for travelers to stay in Terrebonne was the Bay View Inn, a twenty-unit motel that, despite its name, was at least a mile from the water. On a clear day, from a second-floor room, it was theoretically possible to see the bay from the motel, Natalie supposed; but from J. D. Cooper’s ground-floor room all she could see was the parking lot.

It hadn’t been hard to beat the lock on the motel room door, which probably explained why she had found almost nothing of value in J.D.’s room after nearly a half hour of searching. He’d be foolish to leave money or anything of worth in a place like this. Not out in the open, anyway.

She stopped in the middle of the room and looked around, trying to clear her mind of distractions. Such as the distinctive masculine scent that seemed to permeate every corner of the motel room, a blend of soap, aftershave and—she took another quick sniff—gun oil. So he was carrying a weapon? She hadn’t found one anywhere in the room, so he probably had it on him. And if he’d been carrying a concealed weapon, the deputies who’d picked him up last night would have already checked his CCW permit. He’d clearly passed muster, or he’d still be cooling his heels in jail.

She forced her gaze around the room one more time. If she were going to hide something in a motel room, something she didn’t want anyone else to find, where would she hide it?

Her eyes gravitated toward the bed. The bedcovers were neatly in place, the pillows symmetrically positioned. Shipshape, even. What were the odds the giggling teens Bay View Inn employed as housekeeping staff could make a bed so neatly?

After checking out the window to make sure nobody was heading toward the room, Natalie pulled back the bedcovers. The pillows sat side by side, positioned perfectly across the bed. But there was something odd-looking about the pillow closest to her. She grabbed it and discovered it was heavier than a pillow should be.

She opened the case and looked inside. Below the fluffy foam-filled pillow lay a thick file folder full of papers.

She pulled out the folder and opened it. The papers inside were photocopies of police reports, crime-scene photos, witness testimony transcripts, autopsy reports, even newspaper clippings—a treasure trove of information about a series of murders dating back over a decade. The deeper she delved, the more her stomach tightened, nausea rising up her throat in cold waves.

There was no photo of her sister’s crime scene in this folder, though the top-most sheet of paper was a photocopy of the article about the murder that had run in the Terrebonne Banner the day after. But Natalie didn’t need a photo; she’d been the person who’d found Carrie’s body. She remembered exactly how she had looked—lying on her back, as if she were merely sleeping, with her hands flat to the floor next to her. A series of knife wounds across her abdomen had spilled blood onto the pale yellow blouse she’d worn that day, turning it crimson.

Every woman’s body in this file could have been Carrie’s. The position was the same. The women were curvy brunettes like her sister, and, in the handful of photos where the victim’s eyes were open, their eyes were brown like Carrie’s.

No wonder J. D. Cooper thought Carrie’s death was connected.

Forgetting all about covering her tracks, Natalie pulled out all of the photos in the file and laid them across the motel bed, beginning to tremble as she saw the sheer number of photos involved. Sixteen women, once alive, now dead at the hands of what clearly was a serial killer.

Or two killers, if J.D.’s theory was correct.

The rattle of the doorknob made her jump. Her first instinct was to scramble to return the photos to the folder, but she quickly realized she’d never put things back the way he’d left them. She left the photos where they were and pulled her Glock from the holster at her waist. If it was J.D., she’d explain herself and hope he understood the desperation that drove her. And if it was an intruder, she was armed.

It wasn’t an intruder. It was J. D. Cooper, carrying a newspaper in one hand and a dark gray gun case in the other.

He jerked to a stop in the doorway, instantly focused on the Glock in her hand. His eyes widened a notch.

She put her weapon away. “Sorry.”

J.D.’s gaze swept over the scene, taking in the haphazardly placed pillows, the turned back bedcover and the photos laid out across the bed. His eyes blazed with anger. “What the hell do you think you’re doing in here?”

“Trying to find out if you’re for real,” she answered, keeping her voice steady, although inside, she was cringing with shame at being caught breaking and entering. What on earth had she been thinking?

“Do you have a warrant?”

She licked her lips. “No.”

“Then get the hell out of my room.”

She couldn’t get out of the motel room without moving past him, and right now, he was filling the doorway completely, blocking her exit. But she couldn’t just stand where she was, so she started forward, her knees trembling as the full impact of her foolish decision hit her.

It wasn’t enough that she’d broken the law by picking the lock and tossing his room. She’d done so without any thought of what would happen if he caught her. What did she know about him, really? He’d told her some sob story about his dead wife, and he’d talked up Margo, the town gossip, but how much of what he’d told either of them was the truth?

He made no attempt to move out of her way. She faltered to a stop in front of him, drawing herself up to her full five feet nine inches, and he was still several inches taller than she was.

“You couldn’t look me up on your computers at the station?”

She lifted her chin. “I’m on administrative leave.”

“For breaking and entering?” he shot drily.

She supposed she deserved that. “Because apparently the department-ordered psychologist thinks I’m a danger to myself, my fellow deputies and the public.”

“Are you?”

“No.” Though she couldn’t muster much conviction in the denial, considering he’d just caught her snooping in his motel room without permission.

His lips curved, as if he could read her mind. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

She glanced over at the photos on the bed. “Maybe more than I was looking for.”

“Your sister looked like those women.” He wasn’t asking a question, just making an observation. Carrie’s picture had been included in the Banner article. He must have seen the similarities between her and the victims in those photos. It was probably what had drawn him here in the first place.

“I found her body,” she confessed in a reed-thin voice, wishing in vain that she could be stronger and more professional at this moment. “She was lying on the kitchen floor at Annabelle’s. Stretched out straight. On her back, with her arms by her sides. Palms down. You’d have thought she was asleep.”

“Except for the blood.”

Her gaze snapped up to find him looking at her, his expression soft with sympathy. “Except for the blood,” she agreed. “Twelve puncture wounds. Deep. Tore up her insides.”

“He twists the knife.” J.D.’s words came out in a growl.

Her chest ached in response. “Yes.”

J.D. finally moved out of the way, crossing to the bed. Setting the newspaper and gun case on the bedside table, he silently gathered the photographs and returned them to the folder. He put them back in correct order—the way she’d found them before she had spread the photos out on the bed—apparently, he knew the folder contents by heart. He tucked it against his chest, holding it with one arm as he might hold a child.

The door in front of her was open. There was no reason she shouldn’t leave while she had the chance. But a question that had nagged at her since the day before wouldn’t remain unasked. “How did you know to come here?”

His head snapped up, as if he had forgotten she was still there. “You mean to Terrebonne?”

She nodded. “What made you think Carrie’s murder matched the others you’ve been looking into?”

“She looks like Brenda.”

“Your wife?”

“Your sister looks more like her, in some ways, than any of the other victims.” His faraway gaze focused on Natalie. “Not much like you, though.”

“Carrie looked like my mother,” Natalie explained. “I take after my father.”

“Brenda was from here. She grew up right here in Terrebonne.” He set the folder on the bedside table and sat on the unmade bed, one hand smoothing the wrinkles she’d left. “Her parents still live here—George and Lois Teague—”

“No wonder Carrie looks like your wife. She’s a distant cousin. Her mother and mine, I think—we didn’t really socialize much.” Natalie felt strange just standing in the open doorway, so she closed the door behind her and crossed to the chair by the bed. She paused before sitting, silently requesting permission. She took his slight nod as an invitation and dropped into the chair, her wobbly knees grateful for the respite.

J.D. glanced toward the file folder he’d laid by the bed. “What did you think?”

“I think those murders definitely seem to be connected.”

“And your sister’s murder?”

“Body position was similar. She fits the profile. But—”

“But you already have a suspect—your brother-in-law.”

She knew everyone in town thought she was crazy. Or jealous of her sister’s marriage. Or both. But Hamilton Gray was not the grieving widower he portrayed. He didn’t even try hard to pretend with Natalie, as if he enjoyed toying with her, making her seem a fool in front of her family and colleagues.

“Have you ever known, in your gut, that you were right? Even if everybody else in the world said otherwise?” she asked.

“That’s exactly how I feel right now. I know in my gut that the same guy who murdered my wife also murdered your sister.”

“Then I guess we’ll just have to disagree. Because I know Hamilton killed Carrie. He may not have done it with his own hands, but he was involved.” Natalie leveled her gaze with his, making sure he understood her meaning. “Nothing’s going to stop me from proving it. Not the sheriff, not Hamilton—”

“Not me?” When she didn’t answer immediately, he added, “You called the police on me yesterday, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” No point in pretending she hadn’t.

“Because you thought I was doing something illegal? Or because you wanted me away from the crime scene?”

“You were doing something illegal—”

“And you broke into my motel room. Let’s call it even.”

She sighed. “It’s going to be hard enough for me to keep investigating my sister’s murder under the radar without having to deal with you dogging my every move. I don’t need that. So if you’re going to play follow the leader with me—”

“I didn’t follow you to the restaurant last night.”

“Nevertheless, there you were. In my way.”

“What were you going to do there?” he asked.

“Look around. See if we missed something.”

He leaned forward, the movement bringing his muscular torso that much closer to where she sat. She caught a stronger whiff of the masculine scent that had haunted her earlier while she was searching the room. “Maybe we should work together.”

It was the last thing she’d expected him to say. “Together? On the investigation?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not a cop.”

“At the moment, you’re not really, either. And I know these murder cases better than anyone else.”

“You’re assuming they’re connected. I don’t assume anything of the sort.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’ll investigate your way, I’ll investigate mine. I’ll watch your back. You watch mine.”

She frowned at him, hating herself for finding the suggestion even the smallest bit tempting.

His voice deepened to a velvety growl. “We want the same thing, Natalie. You want to stop the man who killed your sister. I do, too. I don’t think it matters that we don’t agree who he is. Maybe that’s a good thing. It’ll keep us honest.”

He was making sense. She didn’t want him to make sense. She wanted him to go away and leave her to investigate in peace.

But he clearly didn’t intend to go away. So why not agree to work with him? She could make him think they were partners while she investigated around him. At least she wouldn’t have to conduct her investigation while checking over her shoulder all the time to see if he was there.

“You’re right,” she said aloud. “We do want the same thing. So let’s do it. Let’s work together on this case.”

His eyes narrowed a fraction, as if he found her capitulation a little too easy. She schooled her features, determined to appear transparent.

“Okay,” he said finally, leaning back again, taking away that spicy, tempting scent that had damn near mesmerized her for the last few minutes.

She resisted the urge to lean toward him for another whiff, extending her hand toward him instead. “Okay.”

His fingers engulfed her, his grip firm but gentle. A tingling warmth in her palm caught her by surprise, making her feel like a teenager with her first crush, giddy and light-headed.

It passed quickly and she released his hand, scooting her chair back to put more distance between them. “I should go—”

“What are you doing tonight?” J.D. asked.

She looked up at him, quelling a sudden nervous ripple in her belly. Was he going to ask her out to dinner or something? “I don’t know—I mean—” She stuttered to a stop, her cheeks burning. For God’s sake, Becker, get a hold of yourself. “I don’t have any plans. Why?”

His face creased with a slow smile. “Because we have some investigating to do.”

Chapter Five

“This is investigating?” Natalie’s voice sharpened with impatience. Her half profile was taut with irritation.

J.D. saw all the symptoms. She was where he’d been years ago, raw with fresh grief and driven to action to take his mind off the pain and the senselessness of it all.

But action wasn’t always the answer.

“Just wait.”

“Your Zen master act is annoying. And cryptic. Why don’t you just tell me why you wanted to come back here in the middle of the night?” She gazed at the darkened facade of Annabelle’s. The rising moon shed pale light over the building’s whitewashed clapboard siding, making it glow faintly in the dark. The dashboard clock read seven thirty-five, hardly the middle of the night.

“Your sister’s time of death was clocked somewhere between 7:00 p.m. and midnight, when you found her body.” He glanced at her. “What were you doing here at midnight?”

Her brow furrowed. “How do you know her time of death?” she countered suspiciously.

“My brother, the sheriff’s deputy, requested the report.” J.D. had called Aaron this morning after the meeting with Marlon Dyson ended fruitlessly. Aaron had called J.D. back with the details before he reached the motel.

He could see the moment his strategy dawned on her. “You’re trying to re-create the situation, aren’t you?”

He nodded. “Have you ever sat here since the murder to see what goes on out here this time of night?”

He saw dismay in her eyes, as if she realized the idea should have occurred to her without his help. “No. But I should have.”

“You’re a little distracted by your emotions.”

She bristled. “And you’re not?”

“Constantly,” he replied. “I’ve just had twelve years of practice keeping them in check.”

She settled back against the seat, looking ashamed for snapping at him. Silence wrapped around them like a cocoon until J.D. thought the tension would smother him. When he spoke, it sounded like a cannon going off, even though he kept his voice even and low. “Do you have someone to talk to—”

Before she could answer, a sharp crack of gunfire split the air outside the Lexus. J.D. flinched, dropping lower in the car for cover. On instinct, he reached out and dragged Natalie down with him.

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