Praise for the novels of Brenda Novak

“The Perfect Couple was fast-paced and extremely engaging from the very first page…. Once I started, I couldn’t stop! Definitely, most definitely add The Perfect Couple to your reading list.”

—True Crime Book Reviews

“Novak delivers another expertly crafted work of suspenseful intrigue heightened by white-knuckle danger and realistically complicated romance.”

—Booklist on The Perfect Couple

“I guarantee The Perfect Couple will keep readers on the edge of their seats…The story line sizzles.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“Realistic and gritty, this story grabs the reader by the throat on the first page and never lets go.”

—RT Book Reviews on Watch Me

“Gripping, frightening and intense…a compelling romance as well as a riveting and suspenseful mystery…Novak delivers another winner.”

—Library Journal on The Perfect Liar

“[A] chilling, sensual tale that features a host of skillfully developed characters and intricate, multilayered plotting. Sacramento-based Novak (The Perfect Liar) writes gripping romantic thrillers.”

—Library Journal on The Perfect Murder

“As always, Novak’s plotting is flawless, and her characterizations are rich and multilayered. What sets this story apart from the rest is the intensity of the romance…A keeper.” (4.5 stars, Top Pick)

—RT Book Reviews on The Perfect Murder

BRENDA NOVAK
KILLER HEAT

To Gail, one of my new B.F.F.s. You’re a generous soul.

May all your good karma come back to you….

Dear Reader,

Not long ago I was invited to speak in front of a writers’ group in Prescott, Arizona. Because I love Arizona, I accepted. I also agreed to stay with one of the group’s members so they wouldn’t have to put me up in a motel.

Once I arrived, I learned that this member didn’t actually live in Prescott, where I’d be speaking. She lived in a place called Skull Valley. I didn’t recognize the name so I had no idea it would be remote. I was driven into the desert and sheltered in this wonderful woman’s guesthouse, but she was a stranger to me at that time and I arrived in the middle of the night, already disoriented as to where, exactly, I was. The main house, which I visited briefly, didn’t feel very close to the guesthouse (which they had to drive me to). If you’ve read any of my suspense books, you know I can have a rather dark imagination. That night the wind blew constantly, rattling the door on the screened porch. It sounded just like someone trying to break in. I lay awake listening and feeling very vulnerable because there was no phone service, internet—or even cellular coverage. I was completely cut off in a strange and lonely place. What would I do if something terrible were to happen to me? I didn’t even know which direction to run should I need help—I could easily have ended up wandering lost in the desert.

Needless to say, that proved to be a very long night, especially when I began spinning a story in my head about the bones of several murdered women being found not far from where I was staying. I tried not to allow such ideas to flow, but the setting was just too perfect. A serial killer began to take shape in my mind…the serial killer in this book. So as you read, think of me huddled alone beneath the covers of a stranger’s bed on a cold night in January, somewhere in the middle of the desert, without so much as a cell phone….

I’d like to extend a special thank-you to Vincent J. Abbatiello and his wife, Jill (Jillsy to her friends) Abbatiello, a lovely couple who live on the gold coast of Long Island and winter in Palm Beach and St. Thomas. Vince is a periodontist and implant surgeon who graduated from Harvard Dental School. Jillsy is an active fundraiser for various charities who loves her show horses and two Maltese, Maxie and Suzzie. You’ll see Jill and Vince’s names pop up in this novel as characters, a privilege they purchased to help me raise money to fight diabetes.

I love to hear from my readers. Please snail mail me at P.O. Box 3781, Citrus Heights, CA, 95611 or visit me on the web at www.brendanovak.com, where you can read about my other books, enter various drawings, sign up for my newsletter, download a free 3-D screensaver (that moves), or check out the results of my latest online auction for diabetes research (something I hold every May on my website). To date, my donors, shoppers and I have raised more than $1 million!

Here’s to love and to life!

Brenda

“Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.”

—Carrie Fisher, American writer and actress

Contents

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

Epilogue

1

Francesca Moretti thought she couldn’t be seeing what she was seeing. So much junk cluttered the salvage yard that it could be any number of things, right? She wasn’t that close. And it was wrapped in a painter’s tarp and partially hidden behind some wood pallets, sawhorses and stacks of roofing material. But the longer she examined the size and dimensions of that shape, the more convinced she became. It was a human body.

Filled with revulsion, she shrank back into the shade of the closest outbuilding. The blazing July sun, bouncing off the sea of car carcasses, bent bicycle frames, even obsolete farm equipment, made her feel as if she was trapped in an oven instead of running down a lead on the outskirts of Prescott, Arizona. But it was panic and not heat that threatened to suffocate her.

Could this really be happening? Again? In her last big case, she’d located what was left of the missing wife and mother she’d been hired to find. The discovery had made national headlines; Janice Grey’s murder probably would’ve gone unsolved without Francesca. She’d provided the missing piece of the puzzle that confirmed a murder had taken place, which allowed investigators to go ahead and prosecute their prime suspect. But that type of thing didn’t happen very often and certainly not to the same private investigator. Francesca had pretty much decided it would never happen again. Not to her, anyway. And then…this.

Trying to ignore the Doberman who’d started barking like crazy the moment she set foot in the yard—fortunately, the dog was chained to the back of the house—she stared at what appeared to be a shock of brown hair spilling out from under that paint-speckled tarp. She wanted to identify the body, make sure it was her client’s sister, as she suspected.

But that could wait. She thought she smelled decomposition. And, judging by the stiffness of the corpse, apparent from the odd angles underneath the tarp, the body was in full rigor. There was no reason to look any more closely; the memory would only keep her up at night. Better to let the county homicide investigator handle the situation from here on.

Yes, get help. That was what she needed to do. Immediately. She didn’t want to ruin any forensic evidence linking April Bonner to the man who’d killed her.

Hands shaking, she fumbled in the purse slung across her body, searching for her iPhone. She was breathing shallowly. Try as she might she couldn’t override her body’s automatic response.

Calm down. You’re okay. Everything will be fine. You wanted to add missing persons to your list of services, remember?

She’d wanted to solve some difficult cases.

But that was just it. Locating people who’d gone missing wasn’t supposed to be this easy. And the goal was to find them alive.

Finally, her fingers encountered the phone. She was scrolling through her address book for Investigator Finch’s phone number when she heard footsteps—the purposeful stride of a man wearing boots from the sound of it—and brought her head up fast. She wasn’t alone? There’d been no answer when she knocked at the old wood-frame house facing the road, and she hadn’t heard a vehicle. But that didn’t mean anything. This was a big property, ten acres.

So weak she doubted she could run even if she had to, she peered around the corner of the building. She couldn’t see whoever was approaching.

Sweat, rolling from her hairline, dripped into her eyes. She blinked to clear her vision and prayed for a burst of adrenaline to stop her knees from turning to jelly. What was wrong with her? In her line of work, the threat of physical injury—or death—came with the territory. She’d known that from the beginning. But she’d always imagined herself as so much tougher, so much calmer in the face of danger. She hadn’t reacted like this when she was a cop, or when she’d found Janice’s remains scattered in that gully, had she?

No. But she’d worked property crimes when she was with Phoenix P.D. and, after that, the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office. And the day she found Janice, she’d been with a group of search-and-rescue guys she’d hired to scour land the police had decided was too far out. They’d stumbled across bones, which distanced her from the violence that had taken Janice’s life.

This was different. Francesca had just discovered a recent kill. She was alone in a relatively remote location. And no one else had any idea where she was. She hadn’t even notified Heather, her assistant, other than to say she’d be out most of the day running down leads. She’d driven from her home in Chandler two hours to the south and didn’t know anyone in the area.

“Who’s there? And what do you want?”

It was a man, all right, and he didn’t sound pleased to have a visitor. His harsh voice set the dog barking at a far more feverish pitch.

Unwilling to answer, and afraid to poke her head around the shed again for fear he’d see her, she pressed her back against the rough wood of the building. The bartender at the Pour House had told her he’d spotted a woman resembling April getting into a truck driven by the guy who owned this salvage yard: Butch Vaughn. She’d come out here hoping to speak to Vaughn. But after finding the figure beneath the tarp, she knew it wasn’t the time or the place to confront a possible killer. Especially a killer with a Doberman that could easily be released. The police could deal with it.

“I know you’re there,” he said. “Demon’s making damn sure of it.”

Demon had to be the dog. What an appropriate name…

“What are you doing trespassing on my property?” His footsteps had grown less decisive. He wasn’t quite sure where she was. “Don’t you have any manners?”

Her actions said more about her nerve than her manners. Pushing, even when others didn’t want to be pushed, and looking, even when they didn’t want certain things to be seen, was part of her job. Although she hadn’t always been so assertive, her desire to succeed had forced her to overcome her natural reluctance to pry. Timid private investigators weren’t going to help anyone. If the owner of this property hadn’t been seen with April, who’d been missing for three days, Francesca would never have considered intruding on his privacy.

Glancing behind her, she wondered if she should make a break for her car. Could she get around the house and all the way to the road before he caught her?

If her heart wasn’t already racing, she thought she might have a chance. Five years ago, she’d taken up running as a way to relieve stress and stay in shape. She prided herself on her athletic ability. But a quarter mile had never seemed as far as it did at this moment. And she had no illusion that she could outsprint a man who was in top physical condition. She’d seen this guy’s profile on the dating Web site where April had first come across him. If Harry Statham was really Butch Vaughn, as she now believed, and the muscular picture he’d posted was anywhere close to accurate, he was definitely fit….

“What’s the matter?” he called out. “Cat got your tongue?”

Her other option was pepper spray. Just after she’d been accepted into the police academy, her father had accidentally been shot by his own partner during a drug bust and been confined to a wheelchair ever since. Seeing him struggle with the loss of his mobility day after day, year after year, left an impression she wasn’t likely to forget. As soon as she quit the force to open her own investigative agency, she’d stopped carrying a gun. She no longer even owned one. But she needed some protection.

“I want to know why you’re snooping around,” he called out.

Was this Butch? It had to be. He’d said “my property.” Did he realize what she’d found? He had to at least suspect, didn’t he?

Doubting she’d be able to outrun him, she thrust a hand into her purse. He was coming up on the other side of the building; he must have guessed where she was hiding. The crunch of his soles striking the rocky desert soil ratcheted up her tension as if he had an external crank that stretched every nerve taut and tightened every muscle.

Where was her pepper spray? Had she lost it? She’d never really had to use it. She kept it with her as a precaution…

Shit! It wasn’t there.

She still had her phone in her hand. She dialed 911 but dared not speak into the receiver. He’d be on her before she could say two words. Whatever was going to happen would be over by the time the dispatcher could send a squad car. She had to run.

As she pivoted, her hand finally touched the cool metal of the canister. It’d been lost in the jumble of her belongings.

Thank God. Preparing for the confrontation to come, she withdrew her pepper spray and held it ready. But he didn’t walk around the corner as she expected.

She couldn’t hear his steps anymore. Was it possible that he didn’t know where she was, after all?

Swallowing hard, she held her breath and listened carefully. Where was he? What was he doing?

She didn’t have to wonder for long. Thanks to the dirty window at her elbow, she caught a brief glimpse of movement inside the building and realized it was actually an office and he was coming through it. There was an exit right next to her!

Whipping around, she jumped out of range of the door he flung open and sprayed him. At least, she tried to spray him. Nothing came out. Why, she had no idea. Her actions made him flinch and throw up his arms to protect his face and that was it. But seeing him up close confirmed her suspicions—Harry Statham was indeed Butch Vaughn. The man pictured on that dating profile looked identical to the owner of this salvage yard—the last person, as far as she could determine, who’d seen April alive.

Throwing the can, she heard it hit him but didn’t pause to see where. She was too intent on running. But no matter how hard her arms and legs pumped, she could hear him gaining on her.

The dog barked and yelped and growled as it pulled at its chain. She tried to ignore it. As dangerous as that animal sounded, it couldn’t hurt her. For now…

A second later, the dog became her last concern as Butch grabbed her purse, which was flapping behind her, and used it to jerk her to a stop. Yanking back, she fell when the strap broke. Then she dropped her phone, which bounced out of reach, and because of the sudden release of tension, he fell, too.

“Who are you? What the hell are you doing here?” Gripping her by the ankle, he dragged her toward him.

The hot dirt burned her bare arms and legs. A sleeveless blouse and skirt were probably the worst things she could’ve worn. He was dressed in blue jeans and a muscle shirt, which protected him, to some degree.

“Answer me!” he grated as they rolled around—she wrestling for her freedom, he trying to subdue her—but she was breathing too hard to respond. All she could think about was escape. She had to keep fighting regardless of the scrapes, the bruises and the burning ground.

It wasn’t long before he managed to pin her down. He had her left wrist, but before he could grab her right, she sank her nails into his cheek, gouging him deeply. She knew she’d gotten him good when he cursed and drew back.

His sudden recoil made it possible for her to scramble out from under him. She got hold of her purse but he obviously realized she was about to escape and caught it, too. She had to let go. It fell away, spilling, as she found her feet and darted around the house.

Although her BMW waited on the road ahead of her, her car keys were either in her purse or on the ground with her cell. She couldn’t drive anywhere, but she ran for her car, anyway.

Her sandals slapped her heels, and the smooth hard soles made her skid here and there, so it was a miracle she reached the front yard. Once she did, she hoped to flag down a car, but the road was empty. And Butch didn’t have any neighbors. Her one advantage was the fact that she’d done more damage with her nails than she’d expected. When she glanced over her shoulder, she could see Butch coming after her, but he wasn’t moving too fast. He staggered, wiping at the blood that dripped from his left eye and cheek.

She’d hurt him, which scared her even more. Fury rolled off him in waves.

Her breath rattled in her throat as she fought to make her shaky limbs follow her brain’s commands. If he caught her, she was dead. She could see a steely resolve set in as he shook off the pain and started to jog.

Thank heaven she’d left her car unlocked. It was a bad habit but she could only be grateful in this particular moment. Wrenching open the passenger door, which was closest, she got in and slammed it just as he stretched out his hand to stop her. He had to yank it away to avoid having his fingers crushed. Then he went for the door handle.

Lock! Lock! Lock! Frantically, Francesca swiped at the console and the upholstery, searching for the button that would secure the doors. In her panic, she couldn’t remember where the damn thing was—but she managed to hit it before he could open the door. She’d never heard a sound more comforting than the thunk of the locks snapping into place or the ineffective catch of the lever as he pulled it to no avail.

Closing her eyes, she gulped for air and would’ve been relieved, except that he was more enraged than ever. Glaring down at her, he banged on the window. “Hey!”

Frozen with terror, she stared up at him. If he got in, it would be over in minutes. She didn’t even have her iPhone.

Had emergency services received any indication that she’d tried to call? Were they sending help? Or had they assumed her call had been a misdial or a crank?

“What the hell’s wrong with you, lady?” he yelled. “I just want to talk. I want to know why you’re here.”

He knew she’d found the body. She could see it in his eyes. He was trying to convince her that she hadn’t really seen what she’d seen, that it was safe to trust in the trappings that surrounded them—the swing set in the front yard, the kiddie pool off to the side, the hand-painted welcome sign on the door. But she wasn’t that easily fooled. As much as the domesticity of the scene might tempt her to think she’d leaped to the wrong conclusion, especially when she saw the wounds she’d inflicted on his cheek, she knew killers often looked like the most mundane husbands and dads. She’d studied them in her work; rarely was it obvious that they were monsters.

Rocking forward, she covered her head. He was so close. All he had to do was break the glass. There was no one else around, no one to hear the window shatter or her cry for help.

“Go away!” she sobbed.

Suddenly, he stopped banging.

She sat up to see him using the bottom of his shirt to clean the sweat and blood from his face. Then he checked behind him, apparently searching for something, and stalked off toward the only tree in the yard. A bat leaned against the trunk, next to a ball and glove. Hefting it, he came toward her as if he intended to break the window. Before he could take a swing, however, the sound of a car engine drew their attention to the road. An old Impala chugged up.

Determined to get the driver to help her, Francesca crawled into the other seat and laid on the horn, but the effort proved to be unnecessary. The woman behind the wheel slowed, then turned in and parked as if she owned the place. She’d planned to stop here all along.

Clearly torn, Butch glanced between Francesca and the driver of that car. A little boy also sat in the Impala. Window down, round face sweaty, he waved and yelled from his car seat, excited enough that even Francesca could hear him. “Daddy! Daddy! We’re home!”

Butch’s expression changed instantly. Dropping the bat, he strode over to the Impala.

Now! Francesca let herself out on the side facing the road. She couldn’t expect the Impala’s driver to come to her assistance, as she’d originally hoped. Not if this was Butch’s wife. Francesca had to assume she was still on her own, because chances were she really was.

Locating her spare key beneath the back bumper, she tore it free. At the same time, the child got himself out of his car seat and demanded Butch pull him through the window.

The woman rushed around to join father and son. As Francesca darted back to the driver’s seat, she heard, “What’s going on? What happened to your face?”

Butch’s reply was too low for Francesca to make out, but the woman’s next question carried easily on air already saturated with heat and threat and panic. “What? But why? Who is she?”

This had to be Butch’s wife, as she’d guessed. The timing of her return home had most likely saved Francesca’s life. But Francesca wasn’t planning to stick around long enough to thank her or tell her about the body stashed amid the junk in the salvage yard. She was get ting out of here while she could.

Climbing behind the wheel, she tossed the magnetic container that had held her spare into the passenger seat, started her engine and punched the gas pedal.

2

“Holy shit.” Jonah Young came to a stop so abrupt Investigator Finch, with the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Office, slammed into the back of him.

“What the hell?” he muttered, but Jonah didn’t move. The woman Finch was taking him to meet sat in a chair just inside the entrance to the investigator’s cubicle. Cradling a cup of coffee, she had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders as if it was the middle of winter instead of the height of summer. But he knew she was fighting off more than the chill of the building’s aggressive air conditioner. She’d just been through a harrowing ordeal. When he called, Finch had told him that a P.I. from Chandler had been attacked. Finch’s partner, Hugh Hunsacker, had taken some deputies and gone directly to the salvage yard, where the incident had occurred, but Finch had stayed behind and asked Jonah to come down and have a talk with the victim. He hadn’t mentioned any names.

“I know her,” he said.

With his bald head, goatee and various tattoos, Finch resembled a biker more than a cop. “You do?”

“We attended the academy together.”

Jonah had been careful to keep from being overheard but Finch hadn’t. Francesca Moretti glanced at them over the rim of her coffee cup. Then she lowered it and any question that he could be mistaken about her identity disappeared. Even with her long dark hair mussed, her mascara smeared and her top lip swollen to almost twice its normal size, there was no mistaking the amber-colored eyes that riveted on his—or the contempt that instantly settled over her classic Italian features when she recognized him.

“Oh, boy. Doesn’t look as if she likes you,” Finch said, and skirted past him.

Jonah reluctantly followed. Francesca didn’t like him. And he’d given her good reason. But that was ten years ago. Surely they could put the past behind them now. She seemed to have gotten over him fairly easily, had never returned his calls when he’d attempted to apologize. And from what Finch said, there could be some connection between the missing teacher she’d been searching for and the murders they were hoping to solve. Figuring out who’d killed the women dug up in Dead Mule Canyon mattered more than his personal discomfort. Jonah had never been involved in a case so disturbing.

The investigator gestured toward him. “Ms. Moretti, you might remember—”

“Jonah Young,” she finished, never taking her gaze off him.

Finch hurried on. “Yes. I’m not aware of how familiar you two are with each other since the academy, but these days Jonah works for Department 6, a private security firm out of Los Angeles. They contract with individuals, companies, even different police entities, to consult on or assist with various hard-to-solve cases. I’ve asked him to—”

Her focus still on Jonah, she interrupted again. “I knew you weren’t with Phoenix P.D. anymore, or we would’ve run into each other. I thought maybe you’d been kicked off the force.”

Sure, he’d screwed up all his personal relationships during the short period during which they’d known each other, but he’d never even come close to losing his job. Ever since he was a little boy, he’d wanted to be a detective, and heading up investigations via the private sector was a better deal all around. With Department 6, he faced similar challenges, but he had more freedom and a much bigger paycheck—the best of both worlds.

“Sorry to disappoint you. They promoted me to detective within a year after you left. It was my choice to move on,” he said, but as he made his point, he wished he didn’t sound so damned defensive.

“Yeah, well, I’d accuse you of sleeping your way to the top, but the people above you were all men, and I know very well how much you like the ladies.”

Obviously uncomfortable with the way the meeting was deteriorating, Finch cleared his throat. “Look, I realize there’s some bad blood here. I don’t know what it’s all about, but I don’t need to know. I called Jonah in because I think the case he’s working on might be related to the man who just attacked you. Seeing as we have a big problem, more than one, and very few leads, it’s certainly worth investigating. Maybe this’ll be the break we need.”

At last, she pulled her attention from Jonah. “What are you talking about? Tell me he’s not searching for April Bonner. She lives in Maricopa County. That’s out of your jurisdiction.”

“We haven’t hired him to look for your missing person,” Finch said. “He’s on a much bigger case.”

Lines appeared on her otherwise smooth forehead. “Than murder? I told you, I just found April’s body!”

“And Investigator Hunsacker is out there checking into it.”

“Why aren’t we with him?” she asked. “Her body’s not easy to find, but I can show you where it is.”

“You were shaken up when you got here. I didn’t want to put you through it. Besides, Hunsacker will manage or he’ll call us, and I can drive you out there. This is important.” With his broad back to the opening of his cubicle, Finch began to whisper. “I’ve asked Jonah to speak with you regarding a burial site discovered by a hiker and his dog two weeks ago.”

“A burial site,” she echoed.

The investigator frowned. “It contains the remains of seven women. There may be even more. We’re still looking.”

Francesca’s jaw dropped and, at least for the moment, Jonah got the impression she’d forgotten her resentment toward him. “I heard about that on the news, but it was reported as some ancient Indian burial ground. It’s in Dead Mule Canyon, near that small town—Skull Valley.”

“That’s right. We haven’t corrected that report because…well, because we don’t want to throw the community into a panic until we know what we’re dealing with and can offer some information.”

And they preferred to escape the overwhelming pressure that would go with a public outcry. Jonah guessed that was as close to the truth as anything. No police department announced that they had a serial killer on their hands if they could help it. Many did everything they could to hide the fact, hoping the perpetrator would eventually move out of their jurisdiction. But there was no need to explain this. Francesca had worked in law enforcement long enough to understand the dynamics.

“And when the site was discovered, there was some question as to the age of those bones,” Finch added.

“What’s changed?” she asked.

“It’s since been determined that they’re—” he lowered his voice even further “—recent.”

For the first time, her implacable facade cracked, revealing a hint of vulnerability. “How recent?”

“A couple are as old as five years,” Jonah replied. “The other women have only been dead for a few months.”

Leaning forward, she set her coffee cup on Investigator Finch’s desk. “Are you telling me you think the man who just attacked me might’ve already murdered seven women?”

Jonah wasn’t absolutely convinced of that. What were the odds she’d be able to escape a violent psychopath when she’d encountered him on his own turf? What this guy had done to his victims proved he was utterly ruthless. But if there was one thing police work had taught him, it was to keep an open mind. “It’s a possibility,” he conceded. “Somebody murdered them.”

“Oh, God.” She jumped to her feet, turned to Finch. “And you’re not letting the public know to be cautious? To avoid strangers? Not to take risks?”

Jonah stood in the opening behind Finch while the shorter, stockier man tried to quiet her. “Keep your voice down! We don’t want to disseminate the information prematurely. We could tell pretty quickly that it wasn’t an old Indian burial ground, but we weren’t sure exactly what it was until we got a forensic anthropologist in here. We’ve set her up in the old community center and given Jonah an office there, too, but that kind of work doesn’t go fast, not with such an extensive site.”

“But—”

“We just got her initial report last night,” he went on, refusing to be interrupted. “We were planning to release a statement this afternoon, but then you arrived. Now I figure we might as well wait and see what Hunsacker finds at the salvage yard. Maybe this guy who attacked you, this Butch Vaughn, is our man.”

Having a suspect would certainly go far toward mollifying the public. But Jonah didn’t point that out, either.

Francesca smoothed her skirt. Dirty and wrinkled, it hit her just above the knees, showing calves as tanned and toned as they’d been when he knew her before. The only difference was the abrasions on her knees.

“That would explain why April was still in the yard,” she said. “Maybe, since the discovery of those bodies, Vaughn’s been forced to find a new place to dispose of his victims and hasn’t come up with a location he’s comfortable with.”

Jonah shoved away from the divider, nudging Finch aside. “Or he simply hasn’t had an opportunity to dispose of her in a more permanent fashion.”

The way Francesca suddenly refused to look at him told Jonah she was still having trouble including him in the discussion. Although she’d lowered her defenses for a moment, she’d already raised them again.

“Like I told you,” she said to Finch. “I think he’s married, which would limit his movements. I saw his wife or significant other and his kid. If it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t be here. He was just getting ready to bash in my window when they drove up.”

“Other people live at the property?” Jonah asked.

She didn’t like talking to him; he could tell by her unwillingness to elaborate too much on any one thing. “It looked that way. So why he’s trolling for women on matchmaking sites designed for singles, I don’t know.”

“Plenty of married men do that,” Finch said. “They can troll from the comfort of their own homes while their wife and kids are asleep.”

“Did he use his real name on that profile?” Jonah asked.

She dug at her cuticles while she talked. “No, a pseudonym. Harry Statham.”

“I guess a little insurance never hurt anybody—” Finch started to say but Jonah spoke at the same time.

“How did you connect Harry Statham to Butch Vaughn?”

“Before she left Saturday night, April told her sister, who’s my client, that she was going to meet her new love interest at a bar called the Pour House here in Prescott. Since that was the last time any of her friends or family heard from her, and she didn’t report to work on Monday, I went to the Pour House to see if she ever showed up. The bartender told me that while he was outside having a smoke he saw a woman fitting April’s description getting into a truck with Butch. He knew him as a regular and confirmed that he looked exactly like the guy in the picture I showed him from the dating profile. He said he couldn’t have gotten it wrong—the truck had a Prescott Salvage logo on the door.”

Jonah tried to piece it all together. “Why would he use his own truck?”

“Maybe he wasn’t planning on killing her when he picked her up. At the very least, he wasn’t planning on getting caught, right? A lot of murderers use their own vehicles.”

“But if Butch is married, he wouldn’t kill April and leave her in the salvage yard, where his wife could stumble across her.”

“Actually, if you saw the place, you wouldn’t find that idea so far-fetched,” she said. “The yard is ten acres. And it’s a maze. You could hide a dinosaur in there. I’m not even sure how I spotted the body with all the junk piled around it. He probably still plans on transporting it somewhere else.”

“With ten acres, he wouldn’t necessarily have to transport it off the property,” Finch said.

“True,” Jonah agreed but turned back to her. “So what happened when you first got to the yard?”

She scowled. “I’ve already been through it all with Investigator Finch. If you want to know, just have him debrief you.”

Finch loosened his tie and sat on the edge of his desk, straining the seams of his chinos, which were a little tight on the thighs to begin with, due to the bodybuilding regime he so often talked about. “I realize we’ve been through some of this. But Jonah has a lot of experience with these types of cases. Two months ago he helped Texas authorities bring down a hospice worker responsible for the deaths of six elderly men and women. That’s why we brought him in. I’d like him to hear the details from your own lips, if you don’t mind.”

Her displeasure didn’t ease, but she returned to her seat, crossed her legs and began to explain what he’d missed before he arrived.

The phone rang; Finch answered it while they talked.

“Did you see under the tarp?” Jonah asked when he understood that she’d gone onto the property and started looking around after no one answered her knock. “Were you able to make a positive ID?”

She didn’t seem completely comfortable with her response. Shifting in her chair, she admitted that she’d chosen not to go that far.

The urgency in the investigator’s voice interrupted them. “Son of a bitch. You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“What is it?” Jonah asked.

Finch held up a hand; he wasn’t finished with the call. “No, I’m bringing her and Jonah out there now. Don’t let anyone go anywhere until then.”

Feeling the same alarm he saw in Francesca’s face, Jonah waited for the investigator to slam down the phone. “Well?”

“Vaughn wants us to file charges against Ms. Moretti.”

“For what?”

The gold chain Finch wore around his neck disappeared as he buttoned his collar and tightened his tie. “Assault.”

Francesca came to her feet. “What about the body?”

He grabbed his sports jacket from the back of his chair and herded them out of his cubicle. “Hunsacker can’t find a body.”

3

At Butch’s place, four police cars and an ambulance cluttered the sides of the road. As Investigator Finch slowed to a stop, Francesca caught sight of a young paramedic treating Butch’s injuries right there in the front yard. Already sporting a bandage over his left eye, presumably where she’d hit him with the pepper spray canister, he allowed the medic to dab some antiseptic on his cheek. But Francesca got the distinct impression that he was trying to make her look bad.

Somehow, in the short span of time since she’d driven off, he’d hidden April’s body. Now he was playing up his injuries as if Francesca had attacked him for no reason.

His wife, another man far slighter in build who looked just like his wife, and an older couple stood beside him while his four- or five-year-old son played in the yard. Francesca wasn’t sure if the older people and the smaller man were friends, family or neighbors, but the way they rallied around him made her think they were close, probably family. All the adults glared at her as Finch wedged his sedan into a spot not far from where she’d parked her BMW less than two hours ago. But it was the hatred in Butch’s eyes that unnerved her.

“He’s a murderer,” she muttered.

Finch shoved the gearshift into Park. “Yeah, well, we need proof. So let’s find it.”

Jonah made no comment but, even as upset, distracted and worried as she’d been, Francesca hadn’t been able to forget that he was the man who sat behind her in Finch’s car. She hadn’t seen him in ten years and yet her reaction to him hadn’t changed. It was as if she had some sort of internal radar that pinged at regular intervals when he was within range. Obviously, basic attraction couldn’t be trusted. He wasn’t the type of man she ever wanted to be with. After what he’d done, there was no question about that. So why did her heart skip a beat every time she looked at him?

Refusing to acknowledge the emotions Jonah made her feel, she got out of the car. One situation at a time. She was going to lead Finch to April Bonner’s body, then get the hell out of here. She’d go home, strip off her dirty clothes and sink her scraped and bruised body into a nice hot bath, where she’d soak until she was as wrinkled as a prune before diving into bed. Tomorrow would be another day—hopefully, a day she could spend at her newly remodeled office with the assistance of Heather, her receptionist, as she delved into her work. A day with no dead bodies or homicidal maniacs.

Investigator Hunsacker approached them first, wearing a tan-colored lightweight suit with distinct rings of sweat at the armpits. Although it was nearly five o’clock, the temperature hadn’t dropped more than a degree or two from the high of one hundred and eight; Hunsacker’s weight obviously made it difficult for him to tolerate the heat. Only five foot seven, no taller than Francesca, he had to weigh three hundred pounds. Sporting long Elvisstyle sideburns to go with his slicked-back hair, he wasn’t much to look at. He didn’t move well, either. He’d worn the sides of his mahogany-colored wing tips so far down on the outside edges that his feet appeared deformed.

“There’s no proof of Mr. Vaughn having done anything illegal,” he told Finch as soon as he was close enough to speak. “Certainly no proof of murder.”

“But I saw the body!” Francesca insisted.

Hunsacker’s eyes matched his black hair. They moved in Francesca’s direction, then darted back to Finch. “You didn’t tell her?”

“Not yet.” Finch frowned. “I want to make sure we’re talking about the same figure and the same tarp.”

“Should we take care of that now?”

Finch cast a glance at Butch. At least six feet six inches tall, he towered over everybody else like a giant lumberjack or the wood carving of Daniel Boone Francesca had once seen at a campground. “In a minute. Let me talk to Mr. Vaughn.”

Hunsacker waved them past. “Be my guest.”

“What didn’t you tell me?” Francesca whispered as they circumvented Hunsacker.

“You’ll see.”

There was no opportunity to press him for an answer. She had to deal with Butch, whose animosity stabbed her like a million invisible darts.

Refusing to be intimidated, she held her head high, but found it difficult to remain calm, especially with everyone else studying her, too. The police and paramedics watched her with open curiosity; those who weren’t with the police watched her with hostility. The people clustered around Butch had to be his family.

“Why’d you attack my husband?” Because the paramedic stood between them, Butch’s wife came forward before Butch could, but Jonah intercepted her.

After what she’d already been through, Francesca couldn’t help being grateful for the shield he provided. But she was determined not to show it. A few minutes ago, he was the enemy.

“I was only defending myself,” she replied coolly. “I came here to speak with Mr. Vaughn regarding—”

“You were what?” Butch had overheard. “Did I sneak onto your property? Was I going through your stuff? No. You had no business here.” Stepping past the paramedic, he shifted his attention to Finch and adopted a far more plaintive tone. “I didn’t mean to make her think I was dangerous. I was only trying to figure out if she was stealing from me. Or if she’d come around hoping to sell me something.” He grimaced as he raised a hand to his cheek. “Maybe I surprised her, but there was no call for violence.”

“She gouged him good,” the paramedic volunteered.

Francesca nearly asked the medic to butt out but chose to ignore him instead. “What about the woman you murdered and stashed under that tarp?” she demanded, speaking to Butch. “Have you told your wife about that?”

A pained expression, one that said she must be nuts for even suggesting it, settled over features as big and bold as the rest of him. He looked like a prizefighter, bulky but powerful. His dark hair needed a good trim—the front hung down practically to his eyes, and he had a wide nose that was slightly crooked, as if it’d been broken once or twice in the past. He wouldn’t have been attractive, except that his chin was strong enough to carry off such an intensely masculine face. “There is no body.”

Francesca had no intention of backing down. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

The old lady Francesca had noticed before pulled away from the man who’d been consoling her. “You don’t know what you saw. My son-in-law is a wonderful person. He’d never hurt a soul.”

Only the slight man with a fair complexion and pale blue eyes standing beside Butch’s wife seemed to look on without agitation. What was his take on this? Francesca wondered.

Butch drew the woman back. “Elaine, stay out of it. This lady is crazy. Who else would come onto a man’s land and nearly claw his eyes out?”

Francesca had seen what she’d done to his eye and cheek. The pepper spray can she’d thrown had split his eyebrow and she’d scratched his face. But she hadn’t blinded him, hadn’t even come close. He was exaggerating his injuries, hoping for pity. “You came after me,” she said.

“Give me a break! Do you really think I’d look like this and you’d look as good as you do if I’d wanted to hurt you?”

“How dare you claim I’m the one who’s at fault here!” she cried, but then she felt Jonah’s hand at the small of her back.

“Take it easy.”

Take it easy? She was shaking, from rage and the memory of Butch wielding that bat. He’d intended to smash in her window; he’d been that determined to reach her. What reason could he have for going to such lengths except to hurt her? If he was truly concerned that she might’ve stolen from him, he could’ve jotted down her license plate number and called the cops. He knew she wasn’t getting away with anything. She’d even left her purse behind.

The old lady wrung her hands. “This is so wrong! I don’t understand what’s going on. Everyone knows Butch wouldn’t hurt a soul.”

“Calm down, Elaine,” the elderly man, presumably her husband, said. “All this upset isn’t good for you.”

It wasn’t good for anyone. Struggling to control her emotions, Francesca filtered out everyone and everything except Butch, who was spinning the tale of the afternoon’s events to his own benefit. “What have you done with it?”

His pained expression didn’t change. “With what?”

“With the body. I saw it there. If it’s gone, you must’ve moved it. Where?”

“I didn’t move anything! It was a mannequin. That’s what you saw. This is a junkyard, lady. You never know what you’re gonna find.” A mannequin? Could that be true? There was nothing else remotely similar to a mannequin in the yard. For the most part, Butch collected metal. A mannequin would’ve been an unusual item, even here. But that had to be what he’d shown Hunsacker. Otherwise, Finch’s partner wouldn’t have reacted so oddly when she arrived. You didn’t tell her?

A hard knot formed in the pit of Francesca’s stomach. “No,” she said, shaking her head. She’d smelled death, hadn’t she? Yes. Maybe. Had she imagined it?

Spreading his arms wide, Butch appealed to the cops as if to say, See? She’s irrational.

“Stop it!” she snapped. “You know what happened here as well as I do.”

“And I’ve told the truth. But if you won’t believe me, come on. Let’s go take a look.”

He was too eager to prove himself. The knot in Francesca’s stomach grew bigger.

Investigator Finch caught Butch’s arm as he started off. “Why don’t we let Ms. Moretti do the showing?”

Butch didn’t appreciate being touched. His gaze lowered pointedly to Finch’s hand and a muscle flexed in his cheek. But as soon as Finch released him, he laughed and shrugged. “Fine by me. She likes to make herself comfortable on other people’s property.”

“Spare us the unnecessary commentary,” Jonah growled.

Butch seemed to notice him for the first time. Until that moment, he’d been looking only at Francesca—at least, when he wasn’t pandering to the cops. “Who are you?” he asked with apparent disdain.

Jonah coolly assessed Butch, as he might look at a man with whom he was about to step into the boxing ring. “Jonah Young.”

Butch’s eyes swept over Jonah as if taking note of his smaller but more defined body, assessing him in return. “A cop?”

“A consultant.”

“They bring in consultants for assault cases, do they?”

Jonah’s lips curved into a thin-lipped smile. “I’m not sure this is an assault case.”

That shut Butch up, told him that there might be at least one person present who wasn’t buying his act. When his nostrils flared, Francesca decided he didn’t like having a skeptic, any more than he liked being touched or having to suffer this influx of policemen. Still, he adjusted his expression and, if anything, broadened his insolent grin. “Well, you can always ask Investigator Hunsacker. I’ve given him and the rest of these boys access to the whole yard. They’ve poked through it all. If there was a body here, they would’ve found it.”

Hunsacker joined them just in time to confirm it. “That’s true.”

Francesca could feel Hunsacker’s support of Butch. Finch’s partner regretted being here. But she refused to let that shake her. She couldn’t imagine how Butch had sidestepped what should be coming to him, but…something wasn’t right.

“We appreciate your cooperation,” Finch said. Then he sent her a pleading look and straightened his tie. He was beginning to sweat, too. Small beads gathered on his forehead. She got the impression the weather wasn’t exclusively to blame. She felt a little dizzy, a little nauseous, herself. The only person in her corner seemed to be Jonah, and she guessed he was sticking by her out of guilt, or some crazy notion that doing so might redeem him for his actions of ten years ago.

Would she embarrass herself? Maybe. A mannequin, especially if it was covered and seen from such a distance, could easily be mistaken for a human. Plastic or wooden limbs would even explain the “rigor” she’d noted. But what about the stench? Hadn’t she smelled rotting flesh?

She couldn’t say for sure. She only knew she couldn’t have been wrong about the level of danger she’d sensed when Butch came after her. Just the memory of how he’d looked at her when she managed to lock him out of the car made her skin crawl. He’d wanted vengeance, pure and simple. And she believed he would’ve taken it.

The walk around the house and into the salvage yard seemed to drag on forever. With every step, tension hummed through her like the electricity passing through the high-voltage wires overhead. Butch’s wife carried their son. He and his family trailed behind her, along with Jonah, Finch, Hunsacker, the paramedic and his partner and the deputies. They formed quite a group and would provide quite an audience.

Butch’s confidence and swagger told her this wouldn’t end well, but she was stubborn enough to have to see for herself.

The dog was secured to his usual spot. As soon as they came into view, he barked and strained against the chain that held him as if he’d like to devour one of them, but Butch snapped a command for him to “shut his trap” and he did. He whined and danced instead of acting aggressive, but he watched with razor-sharp interest as they crossed in front of him.

The office where Francesca had hidden earlier wasn’t difficult to locate. Neither was the spot where she’d seen the body—because the body was still there. The sawhorses and pallets had been shoved to one side, making a path, but the tarp-covered figure remained.

Once again, she felt hesitant to approach. It looked so real. But this time she didn’t stop until she stood barely a foot away.

No scent of decay filled her nostrils, only the astringent smell of desert scrub, which grew between the wrecked car bodies and other odds and ends. She told herself this might mean April Bonner was still alive. But she didn’t really believe it.

Stepping forward, Butch pulled back the tarp, showing her exactly what he’d told her she’d see. A mannequin. “I keep it covered to protect it from the sun,” he explained.

Francesca had to squint against the glare of that sun, but now there was no mistaking what she was looking at. She’d jumped to the wrong conclusion earlier. Finding Janice Grey’s remains a year ago had set her up, made her think she’d solved April’s case the same way. But, obviously, this was very different….

Finch fondled his goatee, then dropped his hand. “I’m terribly sorry for the trouble we’ve caused you and your family,” he told Butch. “We’ll get out of here and let you return to whatever you’d be doing if you weren’t entertaining us. Ms. Moretti, shall we go?”

“I told you he was innocent!” Butch’s mother-in-law cried.

“And look what you did to his face!” his wife added. The dog braved a bark and, surrounded by so much animosity, Butch’s son began to cry. But, once again, the slight blond man seemed oddly detached from the whole scene. Did he know something he wasn’t saying? Possibly, but not necessarily. He attracted her attention simply because he was so…placid. “He attacked me,” she repeated, not taking a single step. Was she imagining it or was the color of the mannequin’s hair a little different from what she’d seen earlier?

Squeezing her eyes closed, she quickly corralled that thought. The hair color couldn’t be different. What were the chances that Butch had been able to trade out the real body so fast? Very small. She was grasping for any way to avoid the chagrin and embarrassment of having dragged the police out here with such a wild accusation; that was all. She’d never been in a situation like this, where the integrity of her work was called into question, didn’t even know how to react to it.

“Ms. Moretti?” Finch again.

“Just a minute.” I know you’re there…. What are you doing trespassing on my property? Don’t you have any manners…? Who are you…? What the hell’s wrong with you, lady? I just want to talk…. Butch hadn’t actually threatened her with violence, hadn’t said anything that suggested he might kill her. And yet she’d known she was in serious trouble. Or did her panic all stem from having mistaken this mannequin for a corpse?

Jonah came up beside her. Knowing that he’d had a front-row seat to what had to be her most embarrassing moment ever made her humiliation complete. She’d often dreamed of running into him again, but those fantasies had always included an element of satisfaction, of finding some proof that he’d lived to regret cheating on her. After what he’d witnessed here, he had to be glad they hadn’t ended up together. “You okay?”

Lifting her eyes, she found Butch waiting for her reaction, a victorious smile on his lips. There was something twisted in his expression. Was she the only one who could see it? Dared she trust her own instincts after this?

“I won’t press charges if you’ll give me an apology,” he said.

Part of her agreed she should be big enough to admit her mistake and say she was sorry so they could move on. But another part rebelled at the thought of making any concession. He was dangerous. She should know. She was the one who’d been alone with him. She’d seen what he’d been like, the sudden change that’d come over him when his wife and son returned. Maybe he hadn’t stated his intent, but she’d felt it down to the marrow of her bones.

“You’re still the last person to see April Bonner alive,” she said.

He blinked in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“What did you do to her?”

“I don’t believe this shit!” The veins stood out in his neck as he appealed to Finch. “I’ve been as cooperative as I could possibly be. I’ve let your men parade around my property for almost two hours, treating me like I’m some kind of killer. I’ve proven that all her accusations are false—and you allow her to say this? Get off my property! Now! Every one of you! And don’t ever come back!”

Finch took hold of Francesca’s elbow. “Let’s go.”

She refused to budge. “I’ll leave as soon as he returns my purse.”

Butch’s gaze locked with hers. He hadn’t answered her question about April Bonner. Instead, he’d diverted attention away from the real issue by getting angry and playing the martyr. Why? She thought she knew, but he’d already won this round. There was no chance the police would believe her or act on her suspicions after this debacle.

He finally deigned to break the silence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“My purse.” She spoke slowly, as if he didn’t possess the IQ to understand regular speech. “You grabbed it when you were chasing me and broke the strap. It fell on the ground and spilled—right over there.” She pointed to a bare patch of dirt closer to the back of the house. “What did you do with it?”

“I didn’t do anything with it. You must’ve lost it somewhere else, or had it stolen from your car, because you didn’t leave it here.” He appealed to the uniformed policemen who were waiting to see what would happen next. “Did anyone see a purse lying around?”

Muttering and shaking their heads, they came to a consensus. No one had seen it. Francesca suspected Butch had collected her stuff before the police arrived. He’d hidden it, and now he was punishing her for defying him.

She turned to his wife. “You came home before he had a chance to gather it all up. You must’ve seen it. My iPhone was on the ground, too.”

Butch’s wife had her lips pressed so tightly together she could barely speak. “I didn’t see anything.”

The old lady—Elaine—chimed in, too. “Why are you doing this to us?”

They had no idea that the man they were trying so hard to protect had very likely killed a woman. They didn’t want to believe he was capable of it.

“There will come a day when you’ll be sorry you protected him,” she said.

“Now she’s threatening my family!” Butch complained, and this time when Finch took hold of her arm, she could feel his fingers digging into her flesh. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Again, she resisted his tug. “Not without my purse, my car keys and my phone.”

“You’re sure you don’t have her things?” It was Jonah who stepped in. “Because that could cause you some real problems down the road. And I, for one, would hate to see that happen. You being such a nice guy and all.”

Butch offered him a taunting smile. “The consultant speaks. How much are they paying you for this visit, anyway?”

“That’s none of your business,” Jonah replied. “Just answer the question.”

“I don’t have her purse or anything else that belongs to her.”

Francesca jerked away from Finch. “He’s lying!”

Obviously deliberating, Jonah stared Butch down. But Francesca didn’t like the decision he reached. “Forget it. For now,” he added, but she couldn’t. She was afraid she’d never get that stuff back. And the thought of Butch having her address book, her wallet and her credit cards sent chills down her spine.

“No! It was here. He’s got it. I won’t leave without my purse and phone.”

“He said he doesn’t have it.” Grabbing her again, Finch began dragging her away and, when she fought him, Jonah took her other arm.

“You’re a crazy bitch, you know that?” Butch yelled after her.

Fighting tears of frustration, Francesca twisted to get in one parting shot. “And you’re a monster!” she yelled over the barking of the dog, which was suddenly frantic. “What happened to April Bonner? What did you do with her, huh? And if you’re married, why were you submitting a profile to a dating service?”

“It was a joke,” he said. “My wife knows about it. And, last I heard, that wasn’t illegal.”

“Damn it, Francesca, don’t make things worse.”

Jonah’s mouth moved close to her ear so only she could hear. “Live to fight another day,” he breathed. Then he and Finch shoved her into the car and slammed the door so she couldn’t say anything else.

4

Butch stood at the corner of his property, watching as the police drove away. He was in big trouble now, and he knew it. Maybe this time there’d be no way out.

Paris came up beside him. Fortunately, Elaine and Warren had taken their son inside. Although he lived with his in-laws, they usually minded their own business. It was Paris’s freak of a brother, Dean, who got on his nerves. Dean hovered on the porch behind them, hoping to overhear what they had to say, but for his own safety he didn’t venture any closer. Butch was almost sad about that. Angry as he was, he could’ve used a target.

“Did you go on a dating site?” Paris asked. “Did you submit a profile?”

There was no point in attempting to deceive her. If she wanted the truth, all she had to do was search dating sites. Or go to that Moretti woman, who probably had a copy of his profile. Why give Paris a reason to do that? They had to stick together at all costs.

When he didn’t answer, Paris lowered her head. “That’s what I thought.”

“I didn’t kill her,” he insisted.

She shaded her face, apparently eyeing the little puffs of dust that’d been kicked up by the police cars. “It says quite a bit about you that I’m relieved to hear it.”

The sarcasm bit deep, made him bristle. “It’s not as if you’re perfect, Paris.”

“At least I can be faithful.”

“I can’t help it. Sex is all I think about.”

“And now you were the last person to see a woman who went missing. Don’t you realize what that means? What if she’s dead? What if they find her body and it has your DNA on it? They’ll put you behind bars!”

“I wasn’t the last one to see April Bonner alive. There’s no way. Unless she killed herself, someone else had to be involved.”

When his wife didn’t respond, he looked over and found her watching him carefully. “You believe me, don’t you?” he said.

Sighing, she shook her head. “I don’t know what to believe anymore. All I know is if this Moretti woman keeps digging, our son could lose his father.”

“Don’t talk like that. Moretti’s done here.” He could only hope that was true, that this wouldn’t go in the direction Paris feared. When he was a boy, his stepfather used to punish him by locking him in a box the size of a coffin out in a metal shed. During the summer, he’d nearly suffocate. Small, confined spaces still terrified him. He already knew he could never bear living in a jail cell.

“How do you know she’s done?” she asked.

“Because I’ll make sure of it.”

“Who was she?”

He could tell by the change in her tone that she wasn’t referring to the investigator. “Who are you talking about? April Bonner?”

“Who else?” She sounded weary, as if this incident might get the best of her despite how hard she’d fought to keep their family together.

He could easily recall April’s kind brown eyes, her timid but eager smile, her round cheeks, her body, soft from lack of exercise. They’d exchanged some intriguing e-mails, but she hadn’t turned out to be his type at all. “No one. She was just a…a means to an end. You know that. That’s all it ever is.”

“What happened with her that was so different from all the others?”

“Nothing. The night didn’t end well, I’ll admit that. You know how I get sometimes. But I didn’t kill her.”

Paris shoved her hands in her pockets. “It has to stop, Butch.”

He slipped his arm through hers and was gratified when she leaned into him. He hadn’t lost her yet. And he never would. “It will. I promise. Don’t give up on me. We’ve come so far. We can get through this, too.”

Francesca had canceled her credit cards and cell service. She’d also left a message with a locksmith, asking him to contact her first thing in the morning. Now that she was finished with everything, at least everything she could do after hours, she was lying in bed, pretty sure she’d never had a more miserable afternoon. She’d been involved in some tragic cases—peripherally when she was with Phoenix P.D. and then the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office, and more directly after she’d started her own agency—but never had she experienced anything more enraging than having Butch Vaughn flat out lie to her. It was one thing to have him claim he hadn’t meant to frighten her; she’d expected that. But she’d never dreamed he’d try to keep her purse, or that he’d take so much joy in making her feel powerless. Now he had her iPhone, her car keys—and her house keys because they were on the same ring—her wallet and her ID, all of which he’d basically stolen from her right beneath the noses of ten police officers.

He thought he was clever. But she wasn’t about to let him get away with what he’d done to her or to April Bonner. If he’d killed April, she’d find the proof she needed to put him away. The poor woman had to be somewhere. And what about those other bodies, the ones in the mass grave Finch had told her about? Was Butch responsible for those murders, as well?

It held the remains of seven women….

She believed Butch to be capable of extreme violence. She’d never met an individual who scared her as much.

This was what some of the people she took on as clients went through, she realized. Now she’d become a victim, too. She tried telling herself it was good experience to have, that in future she’d be better able to relate to their feelings of helplessness and frustration. But trying to find something positive in what she’d gone through didn’t make these late-night hours tick by any faster.

Agitated and restless, she stared at the ceiling. Although she tried to avoid it, she kept picturing Butch sitting at his kitchen table going through her purse while the rest of his family slept. Was he holding her driver’s license right now, memorizing her address? Had he checked MapQuest to determine the best route to take to her house?

Surely he wouldn’t be that obvious. Besides, she lived two hours away, which meant he’d need a wide margin in which to be gone. But just knowing how easy tracking her down would be made every creak and rustle—normal noises on any other night—sound like someone was attempting to break in. She was so wound up she could feel her pulse beating in her fingertips. Would morning never come?

Why hadn’t she listened to Jonah? He’d asked her not to go back home tonight. He’d encouraged her to stay with a friend for a few days, give Butch time to cool down. But Butch wasn’t the type to cool down. The way his muscles had contracted when she’d continued to challenge him for her purse made her believe she’d never be completely safe, not as long as he was free. And hiding wouldn’t solve the problem, not when Butch could simply use one of her business cards, a stack of which could be found in her purse, to come up with her office address. He could attack her midday as easily as at night. Crimes took place at all hours. If he really wanted to hurt her, he’d find a way.

“Butch can go to hell as far as I’m concerned,” she muttered. And if he broke in and attacked her, maybe she’d send him there. She’d brought a large carving knife to bed with her. She also had a new can of pepper spray in the top drawer of her nightstand. She’d squirted a little on the sidewalk to make sure it worked—something she’d taken for granted with the old one that she wasn’t willing to do again.

Were those precautions enough? Maybe not. She couldn’t imagine actually having to stab someone. A gun would be a much more practical form of defense. Maybe she should get one…. She’d never been tempted before, but she’d never been so rattled, either.

Her hand was growing sweaty on the handle of the knife. She couldn’t go on like this.

Forcing her fingers to unclench the weapon, she put it on the nightstand. If she did fall asleep, she didn’t want to roll over on top of it. But there was little chance of nodding off. She’d have to relax for that to happen. And she couldn’t relax. When she wasn’t thinking about Butch, she was thinking about Jonah. How ironic that he’d pop up on a day when she was so ill-equipped to deal with his reappearance in her life.

Talk about rotten luck and terrible timing….

Running a finger over each eyebrow as if she could smooth away the anxiety, she replayed the argument that had ensued after Finch had pulled away from the salvage yard.

Jonah: “What the hell’s wrong with you, Francesca? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

Francesca: “Weren’t you listening? I was trying to get my purse. He has the keys to my house, my cell phone, my wallet, everything!”

Jonah: “I understand that. But you had no proof, no basis for accusing him. It was your word against his. Why provoke him?”

Francesca: “You think I should’ve let it all go without a fight?”

Jonah: “I think you don’t take on a man like that unless you know in advance that you’ve got him by the balls. He’d already allowed Hunsacker and his men to search the whole place. It wasn’t as if we could force him to let us look again. That would require a warrant.”

Finch: “And, in case you’re wondering, there’s no way we could get a warrant. You were the one who was trespassing. You’re also the only one who inflicted bodily harm.”

Francesca: “He tackled me! These abrasions and burns don’t mean anything?”

Finch: “They don’t constitute an attack as obvious as the scratches you left on his face.”

Jonah: “He could easily make up an excuse for that, say you flew into a panic when you thought that mannequin was a body and fell while you were running away. How would you prove otherwise?”

Finch: “I’m telling you, any judge I approach would act to protect Vaughn’s rights, to stop a possible lawsuit if for no other reason.”

Francesca: “A lawsuit?”

Finch: “He could sue the city for ‘misconduct.’”

Francesca: “Since when is following up on a lead considered misconduct?”

At that point, the investigator had turned to face her for the first time since they’d left the salvage yard. “We descended on him like flies on shit because you’re an investigator. I believed you when you told me there was a body in that junkyard.” Here, he’d smacked the steering wheel. “Damn it, you hadn’t even looked at it!”

Francesca: “I made a mistake, okay? That doesn’t mean he’s not responsible for April’s disappearance.”

Finch: “No, it doesn’t. But we need proof before we go barging in there again. Solid proof. More than just your word.”

Francesca: “Fine. I’ll get the proof!”

Finch had shot her a sullen look. “You do that.”

Jonah: “Considering what’s happened, the smartest response is to cut your losses and stay out of it. Your life is worth far more than whatever you had in that purse. Let us take it from here.”

This comment had caused her to twist around in her seat. “So you do think he’s dangerous.”

Jonah: “I plan to find out. That much I can promise.”

Francesca: “Well, for the record, I’m not worried about my perfume and my lipstick, okay? I’m worried about him having my personal information.”

Finch: “Cancel your credit cards and change your locks.”

Jonah: “And until you can do that, don’t go home. Rekey your house and your car, put in a security system at your office, if you don’t already have one, and stay with your parents.”

That wasn’t an option. These days, her parents spent their summers in Montana, building their dream house near her brother, Samuel, who was older by six years and had a wife and three children.

Francesca: “In other words, leave my home unprotected.”

Jonah: “Your safety is more important than your house.”

Francesca: “But I can’t leave the house to him. Who knows what he’d do? He could install video cameras in my attic, sabotage the window locks, drill peepholes.”

Jonah: “You can have it inspected before you go back.”

Or she could defend her turf, refuse to let him disrupt her life.

Francesca: “Thanks for the advice, but it never pays to run from a bully. That would only endanger whoever I chose to stay with. All he’d have to do is follow me from the office.”

Finch: “There’s strength in numbers. It certainly beats staying alone.”

Francesca: “Giving him the upper hand won’t make me any safer. I’m not going to run and hide.”

Jonah: “You haven’t changed a bit. You had too much pride for your own good ten years ago, and you’ve got too much now. Don’t you have a boyfriend you can stay with for a few weeks?”

Roland Perenski, her last love interest, had appeared in her mind in that moment, but she hadn’t been with him in two years. She hadn’t even heard from him. She was pretty sure he’d married the woman he’d dated after her.

Francesca: “Just stop. I don’t want to talk to you anymore, especially about my love life.”

Jonah hadn’t spoken again, even to say goodbye when she got out of the car. She’d slammed the door, climbed into her BMW and headed directly home, but she was still thinking about him. Why, she couldn’t say. So what if he looked better than ever? With that thick dark hair falling across his forehead, the slight cleft in his chin and the perennial five-o’clock shadow that was such a marked contrast to his light green eyes and wide sexy smile, he’d always turned heads.

No, it was never his looks she’d had a problem with.

A noise outside her window sent her heart pounding, so she threw off the covers and sat up. Forget trying to sleep; this was torture.

Grabbing the cordless phone from her nightstand, she called her best friend, Adriana Covington, and refused to feel the slightest bit guilty for disturbing her. If anyone deserved to be awakened in the middle of the night as a result of Jonah’s reappearance, it was Adriana.

“Hello?” her friend mumbled.

Grateful that Adriana’s husband hadn’t answered, Francesca toyed with the locket she wore around her neck. “You sleeping?”

“Isn’t that what most people do at three in the morning?” There was no irritation in her voice, only curiosity. “Where are you?”

“Home.”

“What’s going on? I thought maybe you were in trouble.”

Francesca led a very stable life. She wasn’t currently in a relationship so there was no romantic angst. She worked too much to date very often and rarely hung out at bars or other singles’ gatherings unless it was to stop by for a few minutes after work with Heather, her twenty-two-year-old receptionist. That gave Heather a break from the constraints of her single-parent life. Francesca didn’t consider herself a success in the “popular girl” category, but she’d established quite a glowing reputation in the investigative industry, especially after finding Janice Grey’s remains. That investigation hadn’t ended the way anyone would hope, but she’d been able to give Janice’s family resolution and justice. Sometimes that was all a client could ask.

Anyway, it wasn’t as if late-night calls were usual for her. “I ran into Jonah today.”

A long silence ensued. Finally, Adriana muttered, “Hang on. I’m going into the other room.”

Francesca probed her sore lip with her tongue while she waited. When Adriana came back on the line, she noticed that her friend sounded far less sleepy. Funny how the mention of Jonah could do that.

“Where did you see him?”

Even with all the other guys who’d come afterward, for both of them, Adriana hadn’t needed a last name. There’d been only one Jonah. And neither one of them would ever forget him. “In Prescott.”

“He lives there?”

“No, I think he lives in California. He works for a private security contractor based in L.A.”

“What’s Prescott got to do with anything, then?”

“He’s consulting on a case in Yavapai County, which is where my own case took me today.”

“Is he married?”

“I don’t think so. He’s not wearing a ring.”

“Okay. So…what happened? What’d he say?”

“Nothing, really. Our paths sort of…collided, that’s all.” She’d humiliated herself in front of him, but explaining that would only repeat the humiliation.

“I don’t understand. You don’t have anything to say about it?”

She had plenty to say. She just didn’t know how to get it out. “I guess not.”

“Are you telling me this to make me feel terrible again, Fran? To punish me? You think what I did isn’t hard enough to live with?”

Francesca covered her face. Calling Adriana had been a mistake. She’d forgiven her, hadn’t she? She’d told her she had; they’d patched up their friendship and moved on. “No. I’m telling you because…I needed to tell someone. And that’s what best friends are for.”

“What you’re saying is…you still have feelings for him.”

“No! I… It was a shock, that’s all.”

“A shock.”

“Yes.”

“And now you want someone to tell you that whatever you felt was normal.”

She’d felt as if she had an anvil crushing her chest. Could she really expect anyone to tell her that was normal? “Maybe that’s it. I mean, how much could he have meant to me? We were all so young, only what…twenty-three?”

“But you’ve never gotten over him, never fell in love so deeply again.”

“Of course I’ve gotten over him.” As for love, love was overrated.

“I know better.” Adriana blew out a sigh. “God, I made a mess of things, didn’t I?”

Francesca had never felt so torn between wanting to punish and wanting to console. It was true that Adriana had made a terrible mistake. She’d destroyed Francesca’s relationship with Jonah. And she’d nearly destroyed their friendship, too, a friendship that had lasted since preschool. But Jonah deserved his share of the blame. It wasn’t as if Francesca could hold Adriana entirely responsible for the affair. As a matter of fact, during the past several years, she’d found it easier and easier to pin most of the blame on Jonah. That had enabled her and Adriana to go on as though there’d never been a betrayal.

“It’s over,” she said. “It’s behind us. I just…” What? Wanted the pain to go away for good? Couldn’t imagine why seeing Jonah had been so earth-shattering? What was she hoping to accomplish by dragging Adriana back into that vortex of hurt and recrimination?

“I wish I could undo what I did,” Adriana said. “Not a day goes by that I don’t regret hurting you. But…it’s too late, Fran. There’s no way I can change what I did. All I can do is tell you how sorry—”

“Don’t. You’ve apologized enough.” Why torture her? She’d had to give up her baby, hadn’t she? That must’ve been hard. The pregnancy had been hard, too. She’d been sick for five of the eight months it’d lasted and bedridden for the final three.

“I still think about her, you know,” she said.

“Of course you do.” These days Adriana had two little boys with Stan. There had to be moments when she looked at them and couldn’t help remembering the little girl she’d borne before they came into her life. “Do you ever regret your decision to give her up?”

“No. I wasn’t ready to take on a child. I wasn’t even through with school. I had no resources. And it wasn’t as if Jonah and I were planning to be together. We both knew what happened that night was…out of line, nothing we’d ever repeat. He cared too much about you to—”

Francesca jumped to her feet. “Don’t even say that.”

“It’s true. I don’t know why he came on to me. It was…like he was purposely chasing you away, daring you to love him. You know how easily spooked he was. But I could tell he cared by how broken up he was afterward.”

Despite the lump suddenly clogging her throat, Francesca fought to keep her voice level. “We were just stupid kids. We didn’t know what love was, neither of us.”

The tenor of Adriana’s voice changed. “He didn’t want me to give her up. Did I ever tell you that? He offered to raise her. But I wouldn’t agree to it. He wasn’t any more ready to be a parent than I was…. It took a bit of convincing, but he’d finally agreed we should contact a good agency and let them do their thing. They found a great couple who was dying to have a baby and couldn’t. The Williamses.”

“Have you heard from Jonah since he came to the hospital that day?” Francesca already knew Adriana had never communicated with the Williamses. It’d been a closed adoption. But she’d often wondered if Adriana and Jonah had kept in touch, if only occasionally. In her determination to forget, to move on and allow Adriana the same opportunity, she’d never asked.

“No. Not once.”

“I hadn’t heard from him, either.” Not since they’d muddled through the next few months of working for the same police force, avoiding each other. By Christmas, she’d moved from Tempe to Chandler and secured a position with the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office. “Not until he walked into the sheriff’s station today.”

“How’d he treat you?”

She wasn’t sure how to describe the meeting. There’d been a surfeit of negative emotion but, considering their history, that wasn’t unexpected or unusual. “Fine.” She hadn’t waited to see what he’d do; she’d gone on the offensive. I know very well how much you like the ladies….

There was another long pause. “Are you okay, Frannie?”

For the first time since she’d picked up the phone, Francesca thought of Butch Vaughn and her gaze shifted to the knife on her nightstand. The blade gleamed in the light streaming in from the hall. She usually didn’t sleep with lights on, but tonight she’d left almost all of them blazing.

It’d be easier to talk about Butch than Jonah, but why scare Adriana? Then neither of them would be able to sleep.

“Of course. I shouldn’t have called.” She didn’t really understand why she had, not after so long. For a brief moment she’d been angry again and had wanted to lash out, that was all. The memories had crowded too close. “I’ll let you go. We can talk tomorrow.”

Adriana hesitated. “Will we have to talk about Jonah?”

“Damned if I know.” She hung up, but the pain she’d heard in her friend’s voice wouldn’t let her leave it at that. Will we have to talk about Jonah? Although what had happened ten years ago still hurt, especially after seeing Jonah today, Francesca didn’t want Adriana to suffer any more than she already had. What was the point?

Aware that she was the only person who could release her, Francesca picked up the phone. But when she pushed the talk button, she couldn’t get a dial tone. Assuming the phone hadn’t had a chance to reset after she’d disconnected, she waited a few seconds and tried again.

Nothing.

“What the heck,” she complained. It was such a bother not having her iPhone.

Then it dawned on her. She didn’t have her iPhone because Butch had kept it; he’d made her dependent on her home phone. And now…

“No,” she breathed, but in her heart she knew. He’d cut the line.

5

Someone was out late.

Smiling at the fact that he’d caught Butch yet again, Dean stood at the back of the house, scuffing his shoe against the hard patch of dirt where his brother-in-law usually parked his big red truck under a metal carport. He could still smell the exhaust of the diesel fuel, could make out a dark spot on the ground where the engine had leaked oil. In the moonlight, it looked like blood….

So where was Butch this time? The way he’d pawed through Francesca Moretti’s purse after Paris went to bed made it all too easy to guess. He was going to pay the private investigator a visit. Paris had to know he was going, too, but she was turning a blind eye. Again.

The fact that she refused to see what Butch really was drove Dean crazy. Well, crazier than he already was, he thought, and chuckled at his own joke.

“You’re a bad boy, Butch,” he whispered into the darkness. “Such a bad, bad boy.” But Butch definitely made life interesting. Dean had to give him that.

Feeling safer than when his brother-in-law was stalking around the place acting like the king of all he surveyed—his sister’s husband was such a Neanderthal—Dean walked around the front of the house to the gate, took the key from his pocket and let himself into the salvage yard. Ever since he was a child and his parents took him to see a magic act where the magician could escape anything, no matter the lock, he’d been fascinated by the concept and spent hours on the Internet, learning to pick locks himself. But it was trial and error that had made him good. He could’ve picked this lock instead of using a key. He did it all the time, just to keep his skills well-honed. But he wasn’t in the mood for a challenge. It was tougher than any house lock he’d ever encountered.

Demon barked, but only to say hello. The noise wasn’t anything that would rouse the fam. He barked worse than that at a squirrel or a lizard.

“Hey, boy. How are you tonight?” Dean stopped long enough to give the dog a scratch. As friendly as Demon was to him, the sheer power in his body reminded Dean too much of Butch. He didn’t want to think about the damage either of them could cause if they really wanted.

Inhaling the warm night air, he closed his eyes to savor the unique scent of the yard—desert, metal, animals, residual cigarette smoke, motor oil. He liked all those smells. This was where he felt the best. These acres were more exciting to him than Disneyland to a kid, especially when it was late and Butch was gone. Then Dean had the run of the place.

Mentally skimming through the list of the various hidey-holes he’d created over the years, he tried to decide where he wanted to spend his time tonight. But he immediately chose the same thing he’d been doing every night, at least lately—searching for Butch’s cache of women’s underwear. There had to be one here somewhere. He’d seen several pairs under the seat of Butch’s truck or hidden in his office, where Paris was less likely to come across them. If Dean had his guess, they were trophies and went into some sort of collection. And he was dying to see how many there actually were.

So where should he start? The old boxcar? The cellarlike space he’d dug beneath the shed? The cavity he’d tunneled out of the junk heap along the back fence? That pile of oil barrels had been there since Dean was three or four years old….

The yard had so many titillating secrets, didn’t it? And, like the underwear cache he hoped to find, the best of those secrets were thanks to Butch.

Take the body in that old freezer. Julia. The young runaway who’d lived with them for a few months. Dean hated that she was dead. He’d liked her when she was alive. But there was some comfort in knowing she’d never leave him.

He figured he’d keep her company while he waited for Butch to return. The exact time of his brother-in-law’s arrival might be of interest.

Francesca held the knife and the pepper spray in one hand while she closed and locked her bedroom door. Such a flimsy barrier might not stop an intruder, especially an intruder who looked as powerful as Butch. But if he tried to reach her through the hall, he’d have to deal with that locked door and she’d definitely know he was coming.

Every bit as jittery as she’d been in the salvage yard, she drew a steadying breath. She’d been on edge since her last encounter with Mr. Vaughn, which made it all too easy to fly into a panic now. But panicking wouldn’t help. She had to be able to think clearly.

What next? What more could she do?

Setting her weapons aside, she shoved the dresser across the hardwood floor toward the door she’d just locked. Maybe her actions would be pointless—maybe he’d break the slider leading from the porch overlooking her pool. But she had to seal off as many points of entry as possible so she could monitor those that were left. Doing something was better than doing nothing.

After wrestling the dresser over to the door, she crouched against the wall where she could keep an eye on the windows as well as the slider. Now that she’d blocked out the light that had been filtering in from the hall, the darkness felt thick and palpable. She would’ve liked to throw the switch in her bedroom, but she didn’t want to make it any easier for Butch to see in. As counterintuitive as it seemed, darkness was safer.

What a bastard, she thought. Did he really believe he could get away with coming after her?

Apparently, he did. And maybe it was true. As long as he didn’t leave any evidence behind, he could do whatever he wanted without fear of punishment. Clever killers often escaped the consequences of their crimes, didn’t they? Of course they did. But whether or not she came out of this alive, Francesca was determined to make sure he left some proof of his identity.

His blood would work nicely.

A thump outside her window made her heart seize. Was that him?

Trying to differentiate one shadow from another, she studied the murky shapes beyond the glass until they began to blur. She was straining too hard. Blinking to give her eyes a rest, she peered out again.

This time she thought she spotted a man….

No. It was the tree that provided shade for the deck. Fear was causing her imagination to play tricks on her.

Breathe. Briefly letting go of the pepper spray, she wiped her damp palm on her bare leg, then did the same with the other hand, the one holding the knife. She wore a T-shirt and panties, nothing in which she felt comfortable confronting anyone who might try to overpower her.

She considered dressing so she’d feel less exposed, less vulnerable. But then she’d have to set her weapons aside for longer than a millisecond, and she was afraid he’d strike as soon as she did. It felt as if he was watching her already, waiting for the perfect opportunity….

Was he looking in while she was trying to look out? The idea that he could be so close raised the hair on the back of her neck. Had he brought his bat? Would he come crashing through the slider? Or would he bide his time—until the unrelenting tension took its toll on her nerves—and use her key?

As the minutes stretched out and nothing happened, she crept to the closest window and raised her head above the pane. The yard appeared empty. The gardener had been by earlier today. She could smell the fresh-mown grass, see the meticulously trimmed plants in the side yard.

The gate stood open. She remembered closing it when she’d locked up for the night, but the latch didn’t always hold….

She needed to see more.

Through the next window, she could make out the area around the deck and pool. Moonlight glimmered off the water and bathed the lounge chairs in pearly white. But she saw nothing that might—

Wait! At the shallow end. A dark shape sat in one of the chairs. No, he was lying down. She was sure of it. His hands were propped behind his head and he was staring up at her room as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

She jerked her head back. Had he seen her? What was he doing just…lying there?

Heart thumping erratically, she crawled to the slider, which afforded her the best view of all. Sure enough, she had a visitor—a visitor who was doing very little to hide his presence. She got the impression Butch wanted to be seen. While she watched, he leaned over to pick up a small rock and threw it at her window. It missed the glass but hit the side of the house with a crack.

He wasn’t sneaking around, as she’d expected. Clearly he wanted to frighten her.

And he did. Far bolder than she’d thought he’d be, he seemed completely unafraid of the consequences. He was flaunting that lack of fear, letting her know he enjoyed the game he was playing.

What should she do?

She didn’t get the chance to decide. Before she could respond in any way, he rose into a sitting position and cocked his head as if he’d heard a noise that put him on alert.

What was he reacting to? Possibly nothing. He didn’t seem overly concerned. He came to his feet and stood there, gazing at her room from beyond the patio. Then he offered her a mocking salute, as though he knew she could see him, and strode calmly to the fence, which he jumped.

A few seconds later she heard what must’ve chased him off—the crackling of a police radio—and rushed to the front of the house. A cruiser sat at the curb.

Suddenly far less concerned about her state of undress, she unlocked the door and charged through it, down the driveway and right up to the officer’s lowered window.

“How did you know to come?” she asked the cop who sat behind the wheel, writing a report.

He put aside his clipboard. “Professional courtesy. Gentleman by the name of Jonah Young called in, said you were being harassed and asked if we could drive by every once in a while. I’ve been by twice already. Why? Somethin’ wrong?” He glanced around.

Heedless of the tears streaking down her cheeks, she sank onto the blacktop. It was over. For tonight.

But what about the next time? Butch would be back. His brazen behavior made it a certainty.

So? Are you going to answer? Will you do it?

Jonah rubbed his tired eyes, then reread Lori’s text message for probably the fifteenth time in three days. He needed to respond to her at some point. Ex-wife or no, he should be civil. But he wasn’t ready to address the issues her request dredged up. The clock on the wall showed three in the morning. He’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours and was in no frame of mind to formulate an answer that sounded halfway polite. Considering how things had gone down when they were briefly married, which seemed like another life since it was before he’d ever become a cop, he didn’t feel he owed her any special consideration.

On the other hand, he couldn’t see a lot of reason to deny her what she was asking for. It wasn’t that big a sacrifice. And he’d made his own share of mistakes in life. Francesca was proof. Besides, he was over Lori. He believed she’d be a good mother. So why not write the letter? Why not support her attempt to adopt a baby?

Resentment had to be the answer. It’d been more than a decade since he’d learned the truth, yet he still cringed whenever he pictured her sleeping with the partner she’d left him for. All those days and nights when Lori had said she needed some “girl time” he’d thought she and Miranda were seeing a movie or shopping. He’d never dreamed they might be romantically intimate—because he’d been operating under the mistaken belief that he and Lori were, on the whole, happily married. That they had a normal sex life and would someday start a family. Lori had always seemed eager enough to make love. There’d even been times, plenty of them, when she’d initiated it.

But that was before she decided he never had and never would be able to fulfill her needs. It wasn’t until she asked him to move out that she claimed she’d never been turned on by him, that all the moaning and writhing had been for his benefit.

Just the memory of those words made him wince. During that final argument he’d realized she’d been involved with Miranda before she ever met him. If she’d been confused about her sexuality it would’ve been so much easier to forgive her. But, according to her, she’d known since she was a girl. Which meant their whole relationship had been a front, a lie. She hadn’t told him the truth because her family was absolutely opposed to same-sex relationships. She knew they’d never accept her lifestyle or respect her choice, and she was afraid she’d lose her position in the family business as well as her inheritance if they found out. She’d also wanted to have her own children and knew only a man could give her that.

Apparently, she’d seen him as some kind of sperm donor. But that was before she’d learned she couldn’t have children. Jonah was sure that news had made it a whole lot easier to toss him aside.

“Hey, what are you doing here? I thought you were going to your motel.”

Startled, he glanced up to see Dr. Leslie Price, the forensic anthropologist he’d been working with since he’d signed on to help with the Dead Mule Canyon murders. Diminutive and soft-spoken, the doctor was in her early sixties. Her white hair reminded him of his mother. So did her confidence and dedication to her craft. But the similarities ended there. As a successful corporate attorney, Rita Young dressed in bold colors with designer labels and took no time to nurture anyone or anything. She could be combative, even with him, and threw her support behind one worthy cause after another. Dr. Price, on the other hand, settled for plain white lab coats and nurses’ shoes and refused to argue with anyone. She also limited her devotion to one cause—making the dead speak through the evidence left in their bones.

“I could ask the same of you,” he said. “You told me you were going to lie down in the back.”

She offered him a sheepish grin. “I did. For a while. That couch isn’t the most comfortable.”

Lack of comfort wasn’t the real problem. Jonah was willing to bet she was so exhausted she could sleep in a closet standing up. The fine lines age had etched around her eyes and mouth were growing more prominent as the week wore on. She couldn’t rest because she knew they had work to do. The bones lying on the tables that’d been set up for her in this makeshift lab weren’t just bones to her—or to him. They represented victims, victims who deserved justice for what they’d suffered.

Jonah had spent a lot of hours here, trying to help. Without the information only she could provide, he didn’t even have a good place to start the investigation. But that should be changing very soon. Now that they’d arrived at an approximate victim count, which hadn’t been easy due to the number of bones that’d been scattered or broken in two or more pieces, they were busy establishing the biological characteristics, the time since death and the cause and manner of death for each set of remains. The more quickly they learned what these bones could tell them, the more information he’d have with which to direct the investigation.

“I hope you’re letting your girlfriend know that the woman you’ve been spending your nights with is old enough to be your mother.” She nodded toward the phone in his hand. “Handsome guy like you…she’s got to be wondering.”

He grinned. “Fortunately, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Fortunately?” She settled at the next table, where she’d been piecing together pelvic bones most of the evening.

“My job can be tough on close personal relationships. The travel. The hours. You know.” He shoved his phone into his pocket and went back to measuring those femurs and tibias that weren’t broken. Dr. Price would use his allometry measurements to determine the general height of each victim. She’d also examine the thickness of the bones to suggest a body type.

There was a great deal of work to be done yet, and soon she’d be doing it exclusively with the help of the trained assistants who came in during the day. His strength lay on the investigative end, using the information she provided. That information just hadn’t been coming quickly enough, so she’d trained him to do some of the simpler measuring.

“Close personal relationships are what will keep you sane in all this.” She ran her finger over the sciatic notch of a pelvic bone. A broader notch indicated a woman; a narrower notch indicated a man. But some didn’t seem particularly wide or narrow. She’d told him these final few were the tricky ones. That was why she’d taken a short nap. She’d hoped to come back refreshed.

Going by her frown, he wasn’t sure the nap had improved her ability to decide.

“That depends on the relationship,” he said. “The people closest to you can also drive you crazy.”

“My best guess is female.”

“If you’re talking about the person driving me crazy, you’d be right,” he teased, purposely misunderstanding.

She laughed. “I was talking about this victim.” After making a notation, she set the pelvic bone aside. “Anyway, it’s not like that for me. My family is the reason I do what I do. I want to make the world a better place…for them.”

He wondered how eager she’d be to fall into another man’s arms if her husband unexpectedly announced that he’d been in love with his golfing buddy all along. Jonah’s experience with Lori had altered his outlook on relationships, made it difficult for him to trust. Not long after the divorce, he became good at spotting at least one fatal flaw in every woman he dated. That flaw insured his emotional safety, kept him from making any commitments.

He felt his lips twist into a humorless smile as he recalled the argument he’d once had with his mother. She’d told him he needed to stop trying to prove his desirability to every available woman he met, that he should quit thinking with his cock. Offended by her blunt assessment of his behavior and her language—she was his mother, after all—he’d snapped at her to stay out of his business, told her she didn’t know what she was talking about.

But now he could see that she’d been right all along. She usually was. Unfortunately, that didn’t make her any easier to put up with. No one could get on his nerves faster than she could, probably because they were too much alike. Although he wasn’t nearly as high-strung or brutally frank, he was stubborn to a fault and determined to live life on his own terms. That meant he was going to take a few hits, and he had.

“Do you think you’ll ever get married?” Dr. Price asked.

“Maybe someday.” He didn’t mention that he’d already been married. He never told anyone, hadn’t even told Francesca. Tying the knot when he was so young, and for such a short period of time, to a woman who claimed she’d never been attracted to him seemed better forgotten. Only his mother and sister knew he’d been married, and the friends who’d attended the wedding, of course. But even they had no idea of the real reason for the divorce. Terrified that word would leak back to her family, Lori had begged him to keep silent about her homosexuality. How her parents could continue to believe Miranda was her “roommate” he’d never understand. Except…he hadn’t seen it, either, had he? Lori just didn’t fit the stereotype.

“Marriage isn’t easy,” she said. “But if both people go into it with the proper attitude, with real dedication and loyalty, it can work.”

It hadn’t worked for his parents, but as dynamic and talented as his mother was, Jonah didn’t blame his father for bailing. He couldn’t imagine how Wesley had remained in the relationship as long as he had. He’d stayed until Connie, Jonah’s older sister, was in college and Jonah had nearly graduated from high school. That was admirable, considering it was difficult to put up with his mother for a weekend, let alone twenty years. “I’ll take your word for it.”

She’d started to say something else when his phone rang. Covering a yawn, he muttered, “Just a sec,” and dug it out of his pocket. “Hello?”

“Mr. Young?”

“Yes?”

“Sergeant Lowe here, from the Chandler Police Department.”

Immediately conjuring up the image of Francesca sitting in Investigator Finch’s cubicle, scratched and bruised from her confrontation with Vaughn, he stiffened. “Is anything wrong?”

“No, Ms. Moretti is fine, but…I thought you should know…someone cut her phone line tonight.”

Shoving his stool away from the table, Jonah got to his feet. “Someone?”

“I’m afraid we can’t say who. Ms. Moretti definitely has her suspicions, but we canvassed the yard and there wasn’t anyone lurking around. The good news is that we didn’t see any evidence that whoever cut the line tried to enter the house.”

There wouldn’t be evidence. Butch Vaughn had a key. “How’d you find out about the phone line?”

“Officer Burcell was sitting in front of the house when Ms. Moretti came running into the street, clearly upset. He checked out her claims and she was right.”

Jonah felt Dr. Price’s attention but ignored it. “Can I talk to her?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to go by the house. It’ll take some time for the telephone company to fix the line, and I’m calling from the station.”

“What about the officer who’s out there—Officer Burcell? He’s got to have a phone.”

“Burcell is currently responding to another call.”

Jonah curled his free hand into an agitated fist. “You’re telling me she’s all by herself?”

Taking exception to his tone, the sergeant grew brisk. “We’ll continue to drive by periodically, but we can’t camp out there all night. There was no apparent threat—”

“No threat? Her phone line was cut!”

“That could’ve been a prank by some teenage boy. We have a whole community to protect, Mr. Young, not just this one woman,” he said, and hung up.

As Jonah put away his phone, he gazed at all the cracked skulls and jawbones around him. Because teeth followed predictable maturation patterns, they were a fairly reliable indicator of certain biological characteristics, such as age. They could also help in identifying an unknown victim via dental records. Jonah couldn’t wait for these bones to be connected with names, which could then turn into leads pointing to Vaughn—or someone else. He wanted to keep pushing forward here with Dr. Price so he’d have something to run with. He hated to pull out until the job was done.

But he wasn’t about to leave Francesca vulnerable while he measured femurs. He’d seen the glitter in Vaughn’s eyes when he’d been questioned about April Bonner. Maybe Francesca had screwed up and called a mannequin a body, but she claimed Vaughn was the last man to see April alive. It was entirely possible that he’d killed her.

Picking up the tibia he’d recently measured, Jonah turned it over in his hands, noting a fine-line fracture. Maybe Butch was responsible for the death of this poor woman, too.

Purposely avoiding Dr. Price’s curious stare, he raised his eyes to take in the entire room full of bones. Maybe Butch was responsible for all of them. And now that Francesca had drawn his attention, she might be next on his list.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, and jogged out to the car he’d rented when he arrived in Arizona.

6

Jonah found Francesca sitting on her front porch with a butcher knife in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Judging by the weariness that hung on her like an oversize coat and her general dishevelment, she hadn’t slept—or showered. But it was early, only five-thirty. The sun was just creeping over the horizon. None of her neighbors were up, so the windows around them remained dark, the street quiet. The one other person Jonah had spotted so far was the newspaper man.

“You look like hell,” he said while he carried her paper across the lawn. That was a bit harsh as greetings went. But he had to compensate for the sudden jolt the sight of her, so skimpily dressed, gave his system. She wasn’t wearing a bra beneath that baggy T-shirt. He’d clued into that at first glance. Then there were the short cutoffs that made her legs look like they went on forever….

Her eyes narrowed as he reached her. He half expected her to use that knife to chase him off her property. Lord knew he deserved nothing less. But Finch and Hunsacker were so pissed off about the way everything had gone down yesterday, he was her only ally when it came to Vaughn, and she must’ve realized it because she dropped the knife on the round table beside her and took a sip of coffee.

“Rough night, huh?”

She swallowed before answering. “He thinks he can get away with terrorizing me.”

Sitting in the chair across from her, he examined the pepper spray on the table between them. “You’re sure it was Butch?”

“Who else would it be?”

The faint purple of a bruise blossomed on her right knee, and her lip was still swollen, but even at her worst Francesca was classically beautiful. That hadn’t changed. “Are you saying you did or didn’t get a glimpse of him?”

“It was dark and he wasn’t that close to the window. But I saw someone the same size and shape as Butch, no question. After he cut the phone line so I couldn’t call for help, he sat at the pool throwing rocks at my window.”

Stretching out his legs, Jonah crossed them at the ankle. “Not exactly the stealthy approach one might expect from a serial killer.”

“It wasn’t stealthy, but it was effective.” She ran a hand through her hair, combing it with her fingers. “He scared the shit out of me.”

“Ah, just the reaction he was looking for.” Picking up the knife, Jonah pressed his thumb to the blade, which wasn’t that sharp. “Is this your defense? What you use to chop tomatoes?”

“For your information, that’s a carving knife. And it’s the best weapon I’ve got, since I don’t own a gun.”

He knew why she was reluctant to own a firearm. Her father had gotten caught in the cross fire during a drug bust. Jonah might’ve urged her to buy one in spite of all that; he had no confidence that she’d be able to fight Butch off with a kitchen knife. But he didn’t want her to fight; he wanted her to run. “You could’ve stayed someplace else, like I told you to.”

She raised a hand. “Don’t start. I can’t hide out and hope this problem will take care of itself. If I do that, Butch will just be waiting for me when I return—if he doesn’t catch up with me sooner.”

“So how do you solve the problem?” He wanted to add without getting killed, but figured she was traumatized enough.

“By bringing him down, of course.”

He turned over the knife in his hands. “That might be better left to others, Fran.”

She blanched. “Don’t call me that.”

“Isn’t that your name?”

“That’s what my friends call me. It’s Francesca to you.”

“Not Ms. Moretti?”

“I’m feeling generous,” she said with a shrug.

Setting the knife aside, he considered his options and decided to tackle the past. It was the only way she might let him help her. “Look. I know I’m not your favorite person. I don’t blame you for hating me. If you want another apology, I’ll—”

“I don’t want anything from you,” she broke in. “I don’t even want to see you.”

Although he’d expected a harsh response, the vehemence behind her words lacerated some part of him he hadn’t realized was still vulnerable. “I get that, too,” he said. “But let’s not allow the mistakes of the past to make what’s going on now that much worse. If we’re both mixed up in this thing, we might as well pull together, get through it the best we can.”

“And how do you suggest we ‘pull together’?” She hugged her legs to her chest. “By pretending you didn’t do what you did?”

“You could forget about it.”

“What?”

He folded his arms. “Unless there’s some reason you can’t.”

He definitely had her attention now. “Like…”

“Like you’ve never gotten over me.” Knowing she’d rise to that bait, he arched his eyebrows in challenge, and she laughed without mirth.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Then why waste your time hating me? Let bygones be bygones so we can deal with the issue at hand.”

“You’re asking me to forgive you.”

“Nothing that generous. I’m merely asking you to pretend we’re work associates with no history.”

Her dark eyes flashed with emotion. “That won’t change who or what you are.”

The regret he’d suffered for his behavior suddenly felt so fresh it seemed as if he’d betrayed her only yesterday. But there was no taking it back, and if he was going to have any chance of protecting Francesca, they had to get beyond previous hurts and old anger. If Butch and April were connected to the Dead Mule Canyon slayings, they’d have a better shot if everyone cooperated.

“I’m not asking you to fall back into bed with me,” he said.

Her chin went up. “Good thing. You know how far you’d get with that.”

“I do,” he said softly, and the honesty in his admission seemed to defuse her anger.

Slumping in her seat, she stared down at her bare toes, the nails painted a sparkly gold. “Fine. I guess you’re all I’ve got to work with. So we’ll just—” she took a deep breath “—keep it professional until this case is solved.”

“Great. Now that we’ve called a truce—” he indicated the house “—why not go in and get some rest? I’ll keep the big bad wolf from the door while you’re out of commission. And when you get up, you can show me everything you’ve collected on April Bonner. That’s probably the best place to start. At least we know her identity and that she had a connection to Vaughn.”

“You mean…you’re going to stay?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. You’re about to keel over. You need sleep.” He needed sleep, too, but he hoped his fatigue wasn’t quite as apparent. At least he hadn’t been stalked and scared half to death during the night.

She was tempted to accept the offer; he could tell by the way she nibbled at her swollen lip. “If you stay, that doesn’t make us friends.”

“I thought we just established that we’re work associates.”

“Temporary work associates.”

“So…what do you have to lose? Want to get some sleep or not?”

Fatigue won out. “That’d be nice,” she admitted. “For a few hours. But don’t let me sleep too long. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“Check out while you can. If this goes the way I think it might, you’re going to need it,” he said, and opened the newspaper.

Reluctant to see evidence of her life, everything he’d missed in the past ten years, Jonah remained on the porch. But all the little things he’d wondered about since he’d last seen her ran through his mind until he gave up and went inside, where he could study the photographs on her walls and tables and guess at the people in those photographs as well as their significance to her.

One showed her and her mother skiing. In another, she stood in front of the Lincoln Memorial. She had a guy with her, someone important judging by the way they held each other, eyes dancing as they laughed into the camera.

Frowning, Jonah decided the guy looked too…oily for her. But the two of them appeared to be having a great time. Was the mystery man a politician? A lobbyist? What had taken them to Washington, D.C.? And was this person still in her life? If so, why hadn’t she asked him to stay with her last night? For that matter, why hadn’t she gone to his place? Even more curious, where was he this morning, when she really needed him?

Jonah’s eyes flicked to the next picture, which showed the same dude. He must’ve been special to Francesca. Maybe he still was. Maybe he traveled a lot and was out of town….

A photograph of Francesca with her brother and her folks sat on the wet bar. They were in a little bistro that made him think they’d gone to Italy as they’d always wanted. There was a second picture of a younger Francesca with another guy—not the politician; before the politician—posing at the Grand Canyon. All of this suggested she’d spent the past ten years dating and traveling, not just working. She seemed to have gotten along fine without him.

That made him feel slightly better. It also made him feel slightly worse. But he didn’t want to consider why.

He noticed some other photographs on the fireplace mantel, turned to examine them and froze. The first one was of Adriana. It’d been years since he could remember what she looked like. Now that he was reminded, he realized that Summer showed a marked resemblance to her mother. She had the same dark blond hair and blue eyes, the same shape to her nose and face. But even at the age of nine, Summer was tall, and she was rail-thin, like he’d been growing up.

His throat so dry he could hardly swallow, he shifted his gaze to the other people in the picture. A man stood behind and to the right of Adriana, and there were kids—two boys. Obviously, she was married and had a family. In gold embossing along the bottom, it said, “The Covington Family, Adriana, Stan, Levi and Tyler—Merry Christmas, 2009.” Stan was her husband. Only five foot eight or so, he was still quite a bit taller than she was. With a severely receding hairline, he appeared to be a few years older, too. Truth be told, he wasn’t the handsomest guy in the world, but the kids were cute. Jonah hoped Adriana was happy. He hadn’t meant to affect her life to the degree that he had. He’d been so busy self-destructing he hadn’t worried about what the splatter might mean for those around him. And the way she’d always watched him, with those hungry eyes…. She’d thought she hid her feelings well. As far as anyone else was concerned, maybe that was true. But he could sense that she had a crush on him.

Would he have exploited her feelings if he hadn’t been drunk that night? He wanted to believe he wouldn’t have. But who could say? Maybe he really was that big an asshole.

Pulling his eyes away, he forced himself to stop looking at Francesca’s pictures. His past weighed heavily enough on him. Every month, when he wrote a check to the Williamses, he wished he’d been a better person. Not because he begrudged his daughter the money. Paying for items Burt and Sylvia might not be able to afford had been his idea, his way of trying to shoulder the responsibility for his choices. Although Summer’s adoptive parents had at first refused his help, they’d changed their minds once they realized he meant well and would keep his word not to interfere in their lives or try to contact her. So far he’d sent her to band camp, bought her a flute, covered some of her school clothes and paid the hospital bill when she broke her ankle in soccer. He guessed the Williamses pocketed the extra, because he’d sent a lot more than that, but he didn’t care. Every once in a while they rewarded him for his financial support by sending him photographs, copies of her report cards or a picture she’d drawn in school. And that meant a lot to him. He knew the money didn’t make up for what he’d done, but at least he was doing everything he could to compensate.

He wasted too much time mulling over his mistakes, wondering about Summer, how things might’ve been different with Francesca if he’d met her later in life, once he’d gotten his feet firmly underneath him again….

“I need some coffee.” Helping himself to the grounds stored in a kitchen cupboard, he started a pot. He was just getting out a frying pan to cook some eggs when his phone buzzed to tell him he’d received a text message. Hoping it was Investigator Finch or Hunsacker sending word that they had a break in the Dead Mule Canyon case, he pulled it from his pocket. But this text wasn’t about work. It came from Lori.

What a bastard you are! Why won’t you answer me?

Beyond tired, he rubbed a hand over his face. He needed to respond so she’d leave him alone. He understood that it was often difficult for same-sex couples to adopt, which was why she was trying to do it as a single person instead. But, either way, he couldn’t see how his reference would make any difference. It was just so typical of Lori to get some idea in her head she couldn’t shake. Because she worked for her family, she felt her father’s reference would be discounted due to bias and, since Jonah was essentially a cop, his word would make her look particularly appealing. If your ex-husband will recommend you, that’s saying something.

How she expected to continue keeping her lesbianism a secret from her parents once she adopted a baby and that child started growing up and telling everyone he or she had two “moms,” he didn’t know. Lori insisted the child would call Miranda by her first name. Jonah doubted that would work, but he’d already expressed his opinion and she wouldn’t listen to him.

There was no time to go into this again. A quick I’ll get it to you soon would have to suffice for now. He was too busy to mess with writing a letter he wasn’t convinced would have the slightest impact.

Good thing she didn’t know he was in Arizona. She lived in Mesa, which he’d passed through on his way to Chandler. She’d insist on seeing him and wouldn’t be happy when he refused.

The sound of a car door made him pause before he could finish typing in his reply. Someone had pulled into the driveway.

Slipping his phone in his pocket, he went to the window, where he could see the front grille of a blue van. He had his hand on the 9 mm in his shoulder holster when a woman came into view carrying two foam cups.

Not Butch. Adriana. She’d put on a little weight since that Christmas photograph had been taken, but there was no mistaking her identity.

Jonah wondered how she was going to feel about seeing him again and couldn’t imagine she’d be too pleased. But he had to intercept her or she’d wake Francesca.

“Why’d I have to come back to Arizona?” he grumbled, and met her at the door.

At first, she didn’t notice him. She was preoccupied with fixing the lid on one of the drinks she carried. But when she glanced up to reach for the door handle and found it already open, with him standing there, her jaw dropped and so did the hand holding the cups in their cardboard container. The whipped mochas she’d brought would’ve spilled all over the stoop if he hadn’t grabbed them.

“Jonah,” she breathed, and stepped back as if any kind of contact might burn her.

“Adriana.” He offered her a smile but his effort to be friendly did little to calm her.

She gave a shake of her head and self-consciously shoved the strands of hair that’d fallen from her messy ponytail back into place. Not only was she surprised, she didn’t like that he’d caught her at her worst. He knew because that was exactly how his sister would’ve reacted to the same situation.

“I—I didn’t realize Francesca had company. But that’s okay. I can come back later,” she said, and left the drinks behind as she fled to her van.

Jonah hadn’t meant to scare her off. But he let her go. Francesca needed to get some sleep. And he wasn’t eager to entertain Adriana on his own. He’d never expected to see her again. Francesca, either, for that matter.

Francesca could call her later, he decided. The fact that Adriana’s picture was on the mantel and she could walk up to the house as casually as she had indicated the two were still friends. No thanks to him, of course. But that gave him one less thing to feel guilty about.

His phone vibrated with another text message. “Damn it, Lori. When you ask someone for a favor, you’re not allowed to be so demanding.”

He went inside to put down the cups so he could check his phone, but this time it wasn’t Lori. It was Investigator Finch.

If you’re up, call me.

Going into the laundry room, he closed the door so the sound of his voice wouldn’t carry to the bedroom and dialed Finch’s cell.

It rang twice before transferring to voice mail.

Jonah didn’t leave a message. He was about to redial when the lingerie on a small rack above the dryer caught his eye. A see-through lacy black bra and matching thong hung inches from his face. They had to belong to Francesca. But who was she wearing underwear like that for? The man in the D.C. photograph?

The ringing of his phone dragged his attention away from the underwear. It was Finch. “What’s up?”

“We’ve got a body on our hands. A real one this time.”

He gripped the phone tighter. “What did you say?”

“You heard me. Call came in less than five minutes ago. The owner of Skull Valley Chocolate and Handmade Gifts found a corpse slumped against her door when she arrived for work.”

“No one else spotted it?”

“This isn’t your usual downtown. It’s basically four corners with a handful of businesses that are spread out. Not a lot of people out here.”

“I see. Is the victim a man or woman?”

“Woman.”

“Any chance she could’ve died of natural causes?”

“Wishful thinking, Mr. Young? No. It’s a homicide.”

“Do we have an ID?”

“Body was naked, no purse or anything. The shop owner was so hysterical it was tough to get a description. I did get the color of hair. Brown. That’s not much, but it fits the gal Ms. Moretti’s been searching for.”

The one Francesca thought Vaughn had killed. “April Bonner.”

“That’s her.”

“Are there any witnesses who can tell us what happened?”

“None that I’ve heard about. It’s a ranching community, so not a highly populated area. There’s a general store and a gas station, a café, an auto repair shop. That’s it. But I’ll be able to tell you more once I get there. Are you coming yourself?”

“I’m coming, but…I’m two hours away.”

“I thought you had a motel here in Prescott.”

“I’ll explain when I see you.”

“Hurry,” he said.

Jonah punched the end button and let himself out of the laundry room. Francesca had only been sleeping for two and a half hours. But he was confident that she’d want to visit the scene. In any case, he wasn’t going to leave her behind. The timing and placement of the body made him far too nervous that it was connected to the man who’d visited her last night.

7

Francesca rolled over to escape the hand that was shaking her shoulder, but the persistence of the person trying to wake her eventually pulled her through the dense fog of unconsciousness.

“Hmm…what?” Opening her heavy eyelids, she blinked at the blurry face above her, recognized Jonah and smiled. He was so handsome. The strength of his arms and the warmth of his body made her eager for his touch, so eager that she took his hand and pressed it to her cheek. It’d been so long….

Then she remembered what he’d done. They weren’t lovers anymore. They weren’t even friends.

Pushing his hand away, she scrambled up against the headboard, out of reach, and tried to collect her muddled thoughts. The salvage yard. Jonah striding toward her. The mannequin. Investigator Finch’s anger. Butch by her pool. Those weren’t easy memories to confront but they were what reality had waiting for her. Rested or not, she had to deal with the situation she’d fallen into yesterday and find a way out before it was too late.

“It’s time to wake up already?” she mumbled to cover her lapse in judgment.

When he didn’t answer right away, she checked to see if he was gloating over that moment of weakness. But he didn’t seem to be. A stark expression appeared on his face—until he realized she was watching. Then the mask of indifference he’d worn ever since she’d learned about Adriana fell into place. “We’ve got work to do,” he said. “Do you need a shower?”

“Shower?” She yawned. “Wasn’t it you who said I should sleep while I can?”

“That was before Investigator Finch called to tell me there’s been another murder.”

Those words dispelled her fatigue. “Do we know the victim?”

“We don’t have a name yet. But, from the description, it could be April Bonner.”

April’s death was nothing more than Francesca had expected, and yet she didn’t want to believe it. “No…”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And all because she was lonely. All because she took a chance on the wrong guy.”

He said nothing. In a way, Francesca had taken a chance on the wrong guy, too. Him.

“Was it Butch?”

“Might’ve been. The body was found in Skull Valley, which is only fifteen minutes from Prescott, even closer to his place. And we both know he was active last night.”

“How does he do it? How does he slip out of his house without anyone noticing? He’s got a wife, a family. Don’t they wonder where he goes at night?”

“Maybe they’re too afraid to face what he might be.”

“Skull Valley’s near the location of the burial site you’ve been working on, too, isn’t it?” she said. “Don’t tell me he dumped her in Dead Mule Canyon.”

“Not quite. She was discovered on the sidewalk in front of a shop.”

“Butch loses his favorite dumping ground and has to come up with an alternative, so he shoves her out in downtown Skull Valley?”

“That makes it sound like he acted out of desperation or had nowhere else to put her. I don’t think that’s the case. Skull Valley was probably convenient. It’s small and remote, which lowers his chances of being seen. But he had other choices. There’s always the desert, where he’d have even less chance of being seen.”

Jonah was right. Butch had had plenty of choices. So why did he make that one? It wasn’t as if he’d been in a hurry last night. He’d put the body in a public location on purpose.

“He’s angry.” She’d felt it, hadn’t she? He was furious with all of them, especially her. “And he’s trying to make a statement.”

Jonah stood. “What kind of statement?”

“That he’s not afraid of the police.”

“That’s the same message he was trying to send you last night.”

“Exactly.”

He motioned for her to get off the bed. “Come on. We’ve got a two-hour drive ahead of us.”

She scooted past him. “Just give me five minutes to shower.”

Francesca’s eyes felt as if they were filled with sand even after her shower. She didn’t have time for makeup, but she took a few seconds to rub some aloe vera on the backs of her arms and legs where the hot ground had scraped and burned her skin yesterday. She also put up her hair and swiped on some lip gloss. Then she dressed in brown linen capris with a turquoise blouse, got her Gucci sandals and went to the kitchen, where she could smell food.

It’d been a long time since she’d had a man in her house, let alone one who cooked. “Smells good. What’ve you got?”

Jonah stood at the window with his back to her. When he turned, she saw how bloodshot his eyes were and realized he was tired, too. The beard growth on his jaw was more pronounced than usual, but his exhaustion showed even more in a certain lethargy. Such sluggishness wasn’t characteristic of someone who possessed as much energy and athletic grace as Jonah.

“Eggs,” he said. “That’s all you had, unless you count a six-pack of yogurt that expired three months ago. Don’t you ever eat here?”

“I’ve been on the fly.”

“Looks like it. You hungry?”

“Starved.” He’d set her plate on the table across from where he’d obviously eaten. Tossing her shoes beside her chair, she headed to the coffeepot first. “But if I plan to get through this day, I need to start with a jolt of caffeine.”

“You’ve actually got options,” he said.

Although she tried not to pay attention, the pectoral muscles flexing beneath his T-shirt as he moved showed her that his chest hadn’t really changed much. Maybe he was a little more muscular than when they’d dated, but he was still lean. And she had to admire the fit of his jeans. They rode low on his hips, molded perfectly to his butt and legs.

“What options?” she asked.

“You can take a thermos of the coffee I made, or—” he indicated the Starbucks cups on the counter “—have the mocha drink Adriana brought over. Although I’m afraid Adriana’s offering might be melted at this point.”

No longer tempted to admire his body, she stopped before she could reach the counter. He’d just mentioned her best friend, hadn’t he? He’d tried to drop it into the conversation as smoothly as possible, but he was putting her on notice that Adriana knew he was there. “She…came by?”

“About thirty minutes ago.”

“And brought us both a drink.”

“I think the second one was meant to be hers, but…she changed her mind about staying.”

For some reason, the image of Adriana coming face-to-face with Jonah made Francesca sick inside. No matter how many years passed, or how convinced she became that she was finally over him, she couldn’t help imagining him and Adriana together, and that always evoked nausea. “What did she say when she saw you?”

“That she didn’t realize you had company. Then she nearly dropped the drinks and ran away.”

“That must’ve been disappointing.”

“How so?”

She heard the caution in his tone but ignored it. “That’s definitely not the reaction you got the last time you were alone with her,” she said, then poured coffee into her travel mug.

He didn’t try to justify his actions. Neither did he point out that he’d tried, numerous times, to apologize. He accepted the barb without complaint and turned back to the window. But Francesca knew she shouldn’t keep letting her anger get the best of her. She couldn’t berate him every time something struck a nerve. It wasn’t as if he had to be here, had to put up with her insults. He was trying to stop a killer.

Let bygones be bygones. God, if only she could.

Closing her eyes, she drew a deep breath. “Sorry, I won’t mention it again.” She added a dash of cream to her coffee before putting on the lid. “Let’s go.”

He glanced at her breakfast. “You’re not going to eat?”

She eyed the eggs and toast he’d made for her and tried to recover her earlier enthusiasm, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to force it down. “I’m not hungry.”

She’d just told him she was starving, but he didn’t call her on it. Frowning, he retrieved her plate and rinsed the food into the garbage disposal before getting out his keys. “You can ride with me if you want.”

But then they’d be stuck going everywhere together until he drove her home. And her home was two hours away from where he was currently working, so that didn’t make sense. Being professional allies was one thing; spending every minute together was another. He brought what she most wanted to forget to the forefront, made it clear that she’d never loved anyone as much as she’d loved him. “No, thanks. I’ll take my own car.”

With a nod that suggested he was as relieved as she was, he gave her directions and left.

Jonah tried to reach Finch several times, but the investigator wasn’t picking up. He probably had his hands full. No telling what he was dealing with at the crime scene. The details Jonah had already heard were pretty damn gruesome.

But it would’ve been nice to have something besides Francesca to concentrate on. He definitely didn’t want to spend the whole drive thinking about the pictures he’d seen in her house or wondering about that politician fellow she’d been with. Nor did he want to keep reliving that moment when she first woke up and took his hand. That’d brought all the longing he’d felt for her right to the surface. He’d been just about to cup her cheek, to let himself touch her as he’d wanted to touch her all these years, when she’d suddenly realized what she was doing and withdrew.

Maybe she’d assumed he was her Washington, D.C., boyfriend. He’d been foolish to think her receptiveness to him had changed over the course of one nap. He hadn’t believed it, not really. His reaction had been instinctive. Had he taken a second to consider it, he would’ve known better than to respond even if she did reach out to him. He’d never expected to avoid the consequences of what he’d done, didn’t believe he deserved more than he’d earned. He had only himself to blame for losing Francesca. He just wished he could stop wanting her.

He’d thought he had. If someone had asked him yesterday whether seeing her again would affect him like this, he would’ve denied it. But every time he looked at her he felt the same pull that’d scared him a decade ago.

His phone rang. Figuring it was most likely Finch, he checked caller ID on his Bluetooth.

But it was his mother.

He was close enough to Skull Valley that he considered ducking the call. His mother wasn’t really the type of diversion he’d been hoping for. But she’d only call back. So he decided to get it over with. “Hey, Mom.”

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Driving.”

“That doesn’t tell me much.”

“Still in Arizona, working that series of murders. Something wrong?”

“I got a call from Lori this morning.”

Oh, shit. Now she was contacting his mother? “You didn’t tell her I was in Arizona, did you?”

“Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s none of her business, for one.”

“She’s upset, Jonah. She said she’s been trying to get in touch with you but you won’t respond.”

Considering the personal information he kept hidden for Lori’s sake, it took nerve for her to involve his mother. But she’d always had a lot of nerve.

Tempted to tell Rita everything, he wondered how she’d respond if he blurted out that Lori’s roommate wasn’t just a roommate. That Lori had been gay since before she’d married him.

But he didn’t do it. Why bother? Lori didn’t mean anything to him anymore, not even enough for revenge. It was simpler to pretend their problems had been far more mundane. “I’ve been busy,” he said instead.

“Too busy to return her call?”

“Mom, she’s my ex. That doesn’t make her my top priority. Why should I drop everything when she contacts me?”

“Why not? It wouldn’t hurt you to help her out.”

Did she even understand what his ex-wife wanted? What had Lori told his mother that had motivated Rita to jump in with both feet? Lord knew it didn’t take much, but she had to have been given some excuse. “What is it she needs?” he asked, just to see what his mother would say.

“You don’t know?”

He caught a glimpse of Francesca’s BMW in his rearview mirror and sped up. Murder case or no murder case, he could live without the confusion she inspired in him. “Not exactly.”

“It’s some sort of a character reference so she can adopt a child from the foster care system.”

A child from foster care? Hardly. She was competing with other would-be parents for an unborn child. But he didn’t correct her. Sometimes Rita went off half-cocked without knowing all the details. Life was easy for her—all black and white and full of snap judgments. This was a perfect example. “And how’s my character reference going to make a difference?”

“I can’t imagine. But she thinks it will. And it wouldn’t take you more than a few minutes to do her this favor.”

“Have a little faith, Mom. I’ll get to it when I can.”

“How about sooner rather than later, Jonah? Divorced couples don’t have to be enemies, you know. Take me and your father, for instance.”

He switched lanes. “Dad’s remarried, Mom.”

“And your point is?”

“He’s never the one who has to deal with you. His wife runs interference.”

“That’s not true. Anyway, Jolynn and I get along.”

Barely. Because he was close to his father and stepmother, Jonah knew that Jolynn was less than pleased about being Rita’s designated contact. She was just better with people, better with Rita, than his father, so she got stuck with the job. “How does that relate to anything?”

“I’m encouraging you to make peace with Lori, to stop holding a grudge.”

“Right. Got it. Thanks for the advice,” he said dryly.

When she hesitated, he expected her to switch topics, but she didn’t. Evidently, that call from Lori had her thinking about the fact that he was past thirty and still hadn’t remarried. “Lori’s such a good person, so supportive and friendly.”

Yeah. Whenever she wanted something…

“You don’t think the two of you could ever get back together, do you?”

“No. Never.”

She acted surprised by the absoluteness. “Wow, I never would’ve guessed you were so bitter. You seemed like such an ideal couple, and then it was over, just like that. I’m still not sure why you two broke—”

“Irreconcilable differences,” he cut in. “I’ve got to check my GPS, Mom.”

“So check it,” she said.

“My phone won’t let me talk at the same time. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Fine,” she said with a huff. “But don’t forget to contact Lori.”

“I heard you the first time. Thanks again, Mom.” He hung up. After that little stunt, Lori could wait until he got back to California for her damn letter. He didn’t have time to pull over, whip out his laptop and do it now, anyway. According to his GPS, he’d passed Peeples Valley and was coming up on Kirkland. That meant he was only seven miles from Skull Valley, and Francesca wasn’t far behind.

What would they find when they got there? he wondered. But nothing could’ve prepared him.

8

The smell drifted all the way to the car, triggering such revulsion Francesca almost couldn’t force her legs to carry her the short distance to where she saw Finch and Hunsacker. They were with several police officers and a few other people, probably from the Yavapai County Medical Examiner’s Office, judging by the van, working outside the chocolate and gift shop. Once she did get close, she regretted it. She’d hoped to identify April from the picture she had with her; she’d wanted to know for sure that her latest missing person had been found. April’s sister, Jill Abbatiello and her husband, Vince, had been distraught ever since she didn’t report for work on Monday. Of course, murder was the worst possible outcome, but it was at least an answer, which relieved the wondering and the waiting. However, the state of the corpse made visual identification impossible.

“You okay?” Jonah asked.

She hadn’t realized that she’d crowded so close to him. Professional pride demanded she back up, tell him she was fine. But she was trying so hard not to retch that she couldn’t move or speak. Fortunately, Finch whirled around and spotted them, interrupting before her inability to react became obvious.

“What’s she doing here?” He addressed Jonah while hiking a thumb at her as though she wasn’t standing within earshot.

Francesca understood that he was angry about yesterday, but holding a grudge over a little humiliation seemed pointless. How could he worry about something so petty in light of this? Not long ago, the blob of putrefying flesh sitting on the concrete had been a living, breathing human being….

As Jonah’s eyes shifted to the victim, his nostrils flared, which told her he was struggling with what he saw, as well. Still, he kept his voice steady. “I thought she might be able to identify the deceased, but—”

“Actually, I’m glad you brought her,” Finch broke in, and nudged Francesca as he motioned to the victim. “Now this is what a corpse looks like.”

Despite the dizziness that nearly overwhelmed her, she somehow remained standing and managed to give him a dirty look as she found her voice. “No kidding.”

Hunsacker joined them. “So? Do you recognize her?”

Too preoccupied to put him in his place, even when he laughed, Francesca answered without the stinging reprisal that would’ve been part of her response on any other day. “No.”

The victim’s head looked like a jack-o’-lantern that’d softened and caved in on one side. Her right eye was missing and her nose had been so badly pummeled it resembled putty more than human flesh. The features that were still distinguishable were swollen out of all proportion and her tongue protruded in a grotesque fashion.

Jonah’s stoic expression melted into a grimace. “Looks as if she took a severe beating.”

Finch sobered. “Like the others. You can bet she’s got plenty of broken bones to go with that fractured skull.”

Hunsacker rolled his feet to the outside in his habitual way. “So you think this might be the work of the same killer?”

“Dead Mule Canyon’s only a few miles away,” Jonah said. “The victims there were beaten, too.”

“Shit.” Hunsacker spat on the ground.

“Once word of this gets out…” Finch didn’t finish.

Francesca was listening but it felt as if she stood at a distance too removed to participate. Mostly, she could hear her own heart pounding in her ears. The body wasn’t easy to look at, but would’ve been worse if those wounds had been recent. The coagulated blood surrounding the woman’s injuries appeared to have dried a day or two ago, based on the blackish color. It was the dirt that Francesca found curious. Tiny granulated rocks, the kind so characteristic of desert soil, clung to the woman’s hair and her gaping wounds, suggesting she’d been buried and subsequently disinterred.

Why? Why would a man kill a woman, bury her, then dig her up and prop her in such a public place? How could anyone be so morbid?

Francesca didn’t ask this question, but when she tuned in to the conversation again, she realized Finch had inadvertently answered it.

“He’s proud of his work, eh?”

Jonah thrust his hands in his pockets. “He definitely wants it to be seen.”

“What a monster,” she murmured, but was this monster the same man who’d sat in her lawn chair last night throwing rocks at her window? Was it Butch?

The image of him wielding that bat popped into her mind. It was a frightening memory. But his audacity, his lack of fear, provoked her at the same time. He wouldn’t get away with this. She’d make sure of it.

Anger provided some much-needed adrenaline, making it easier to stay on her feet, breathe, think. “A bat could’ve done this.”

Hunsacker didn’t seem impressed with her detective skills. Either that or he wasn’t willing to credit her with much intelligence. “So could plenty of other things.”

“How long do you think she’s been dead?” she asked Finch, but it was Jonah who answered.

“At least thirty-six hours.”

Francesca tried to rub away the goose bumps that’d jumped out on her arms. The temperature was quickly climbing and would likely top yesterday’s high before the day was over, but somehow she felt chilled to the bone. “How do you know?” she asked. Having switched her specialty from employer-solicited background checks to missing persons only a year ago, she hadn’t seen a lot of death.

Obviously warmer than she was, Finch loosened a tie that’d already been loosened once. As usual, he looked uncomfortable in his work clothes. “He knows it’s been at least that long because there’s no rigor. Rigor generally comes on in the first twelve hours, remains unchanged for twelve hours and dissipates in another twelve.”

“From the bloating, I’d say it’s actually been longer,” Jonah added. “See the marbling? Takes a while for that to set in, even in this heat.”

Because Francesca couldn’t think of a worse indignity than being left sprawled on the ground, naked, for the whole world to see, and in such a horrific condition, she hadn’t let her gaze fall any lower than the neck. Now that she had a reason to look, however, she could see that the woman’s stomach had swollen to the size of a large watermelon. Her belly had also taken on a grayish-green cast, much like a bruise, and the inky weblike veins that showed on the torso seemed to be traveling up the neck, toward her face.

This corpse could’ve stepped right out of the movie Zombieland, Francesca thought sadly. No one should have to suffer the way this woman had. No one should be displayed in such a state.

“So how long would you say?” she pressed.

“We’ll let the M.E. determine that,” Finch said, but Jonah spoke at the same time.

“I’d say a good five days.”

Five days… That took the murder back to Sunday, which was awfully close to Saturday, the night April Bonner had met Butch Vaughn at the Pour House.

Francesca sat alone at a table in the Palace Restaurant and Bar in downtown Prescott. Touted as the oldest frontier saloon in Arizona, the Palace had been in operation since 1875 or thereabouts. But, according to the story she’d read on a placard posted here in the historic district, in 1900 a drunken miner kicked over a kerosene lamp and started a fire that destroyed most of the town, including the Palace and a lot of other saloons on what was then called Whiskey Row. Even the state’s first capitol building, a log cabin, had burned to the ground.

Fortunately, some of the men who were there that night were either sober enough or smart enough to drag the highly carved bar, which had come all the way from New Jersey, out of the Palace and into the street. They continued to drink and watch the fire from there, but when the saloon was rebuilt a year later, the bar took its rightful place once again. Now it stretched along the wall to Francesca’s left. Memorabilia, including guns, ammunition, money and other artifacts from the 1800s, as well as bits and pieces of information about Palace regulars like Doc Holliday, the Earp Brothers and Big Nose Kate, hung on the rest of the walls. She studied these relics as she listened to a honky-tonk piano player, who was dressed in period costume, and waited for her burger.

Hungry though she was after skipping breakfast, she doubted she could eat. What she’d witnessed in Skull Valley was too new, too present in her mind. She’d spent an hour with Jonah and the investigators at the sheriff’s station afterward, sharing what she knew about April, but that suddenly seemed like a thimbleful of information compared to what there should have been to adequately represent a life. April had never been married. She’d had just two romantic relationships in her life, only one that lasted a year. She’d been thrilled to finally meet someone when she began e-mailing back and forth with “Harry Statham.” All the other teachers at her school, even the principal, talked about how happy the promise of their “love” had made her. And Francesca could see why. Harry had pretended to be everything a woman could want. Claiming he was a widower who’d lost his wife six months earlier, he’d flattered her with compliments on her picture and the cleverness of her responses, told her he wanted to take care of her for the rest of her life and keep her safe. He’d sent her gifts, too.

Francesca had read the e-mails she’d found on April’s computer, but thinking of them hit her harder today than ever, and she wasn’t ready to drive home yet. After losing her purse, her cell phone, her car and office keys, even the security she’d once enjoyed at her house, she felt she’d been cast adrift, somehow cut off from regular life. She couldn’t even retreat to Adriana’s, which would’ve been natural for her under any other circumstances. Suddenly, after more than a decade, Jonah stood between them again. No way did she want to discuss his presence at her place this morning, but she knew any conversation they had would be awkward if she didn’t.

So she’d chosen to recuperate at the Palace. The old saloon wouldn’t remind her of the years she’d spent in the police academy and, subsequently, as a rookie cop with Jonah, her confrontation with Butch yesterday, the body at the gift shop or the fact that this morning’s find might be connected to April Bonner’s disappearance as well as seven other murders. She loved history, spent at least one weekend a month visiting Arizona’s many ghost towns. But the upbeat music, the chatter of the tourists who streamed through, the high ceilings and wooden floors, didn’t carry her away as she’d hoped. She kept picturing the abused corpse propped outside the gift shop and thinking about the bat Butch had wielded so eagerly.

Whoever had killed that woman had done so in a brutal manner. If it was Butch, he was one sick bastard. And that sick bastard seemed to have become fixated on her. She even wondered if he’d dug April—assuming this was April—out of the ground and placed her in the center of Skull Valley as some sort of message. Why would he provide the police with a body, which could offer so much evidence and other information, unless he had a compelling reason?

Yesterday’s events could’ve given him that compelling reason. She’d gone to his salvage yard to search for April and brought the police down on him. And he’d basically flipped her off by delivering what she wanted in any condition but the way she preferred.

He was the real deal. So why hadn’t he tried to enter her house when he had her in such a vulnerable position last night? Why had he settled for letting her know what he could have done?

Because he thought he could get to her anytime he wanted….

The waitress appeared with her meal.

Francesca managed to smile and offer a brief thanks, and then attempted to eat a French fry or two. But she couldn’t taste the food and her stomach felt too queasy to force it down.

Giving up without touching her burger, she tossed fifteen bucks on the table and left the relative safety of the Palace. As much as she wanted to blend in with the shoppers outside and be anonymous for a while, she needed to get to a pay phone and call her assistant. Heather must be going crazy. She hadn’t heard from Francesca all day. They usually kept in fairly close touch. But then, Francesca usually had a cell phone.

That was what she needed to solve first, she decided. She had to shake off her fatigue and her reaction to the events of the past twenty-four hours and buy a new cell. While she was waiting for her phone to be activated, she could use one of the other phones at the store to call Heather; Heather could make sure her home line was repaired and check in with the locksmith, who hadn’t been able to leave a message because of her severed line.

But in order to buy a new phone, she needed to withdraw some money from the bank. And without her ATM card or her ID that wouldn’t be easy.

Fortunately, she knew the manager of her local branch. She could only hope he’d believe her about her purse being stolen. She’d try to get there before closing and hit the DMV tomorrow. There wouldn’t be enough time to do everything in what was left of today.

Butch had put her in a real bind.

And this might be just the beginning.

“Hey, I’m taking off.”

Jonah blinked, realized where he was and lifted his head off the desk to see Dr. Price at the door. He’d gone into the back office to check his e-mail and contact a forensic profiler he’d used in the past and must’ve fallen asleep. Fatigue still dragged at him, but he was hoping he’d feel better in a few minutes. At least he’d had a nap. “Good. You need a break, a chance to return to regular life,” he told her.

“I don’t really have a choice. It’s my daughter’s birth day and I promised to watch the kids so she and her husband can go to dinner. You can’t let work take over completely, you know? You have to draw a line somewhere.”

He got the impression that pep talk was aimed more at herself than him, but she was right. She needed to be there for her kids, despite the case they were working on. “I agree.”

She arched a motherly eyebrow at him. “I hope you’re going to leave, too.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because a two-hour nap won’t compensate for all the sleep you’ve lost in the past few days. We can’t run ourselves into the ground, Jonah. We’ve got to be fresh in order to do our jobs.”

That was true, too. But in a situation where every minute counted, taking time off felt as if he was putting lives at risk. After this morning, he was more motivated than ever to remain vigilant. “Does that mean you’ll be heading home after you babysit?”

A wry smile curved her lips. “We’ll see what time the lovebirds get back.”

“Right.” He chuckled at her evasive reply, knew that if the “lovebirds” got home early she’d wind up here until midnight or after. “Have you heard from Finch or Hunsacker?” he asked before she could go.

“No.”

“Thanks. Enjoy your grandkids. And be safe.”

“I will. Get some dinner, okay?” She threw those parting words over her shoulder. Then he heard the main door close as she went out and checked his phone for a list of the calls he’d missed while he was asleep.

Nothing from the investigators. Had they heard from the pathologist? Had they been able to identify the body they’d removed from Skull Valley this morning? It was a bit early to hope they had, but Finch had said the M.E. planned to do the autopsy right away. That was exactly what Jonah thought should happen. Because they were looking at such a prolific killer, the wheels of justice needed to move a lot faster than usual.

With a yawn, he scrubbed his face with one hand and continued down the list of missed calls. He hadn’t heard from Francesca, either. Other than leaving a message with her assistant, which he’d already done, he had no way of getting in touch with her.

He should’ve brought her here after their meeting so she could see what they were working with. But she’d left the sheriff’s station rather suddenly, while he was speaking to Finch and Hunsacker about the woman who found the corpse. He hadn’t gone after her because he’d known that what she’d seen had upset her. He’d felt she needed some space.

Now he regretted giving her that space. He had no idea where she was or where she planned to spend the night. He hoped it wasn’t at home again. Maybe Butch had only been playing with her when he showed up next to her pool last night, but a man like that could get serious very fast.

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