SHE CAN’T STOP RELIVING THE TERRIFYING MEMORIES.

Can he protect her from a new threat?

Twelve years ago, Brooke Josephson suffered a horrifying ordeal at the hands of a brutal kidnapper. When her best friend is murdered and a chilling link between the crimes is uncovered, she will do whatever it takes to stop the killer. FBI special agent Justin Sloan can help her. The expert profiler makes Brooke feel safe...and desired. She survived before. With his love, can she put the past to rest at last?

CASSIE MILES, a USA TODAY bestselling author, lives in Colorado. After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Mills & Boon Heroes books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanic Gardens near her high-rise home.

Also by Cassie Miles

Mountain Midwife

Sovereign Sheriff

Baby Battalion

Unforgettable

Midwife Cover

Mommy Midwife

Montana Midwife

Hostage Midwife

Mountain Heiress

Snowed In

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

The Girl Who Couldn’t Forget

Cassie Miles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09372-9

THE GIRL WHO COULDN’T FORGET

© 2019 Kay Bergstrom

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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To all the girls who survive and thrive

in spite of tragedy.

And, as always, to Rick.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

About the Publisher

Chapter One

The petunias were dead. That was the first thing Brooke Josephson noticed when she parked at the curb. Two months ago when she’d planted the flowers, her intention was to brighten up this dull brick building and make it into a more welcoming place for Franny. Instead, the yard had become a petunia graveyard with the tortured faces of faded purple, yellow and pink blooms staring helplessly. Withered leaves reached out in silent entreaty. All they’d needed was a splash of water. August in Denver could be hot and dry, but this wasn’t the blazing Sahara.

Brooke leaped from her SUV and hurried along the sidewalk. The dead petunias were a bad omen—not enough to push her into a panic attack, but close. She had the symptoms: labored breathing, tremors, accelerated pulse and more. She paused. Slow down. Shake it off. At a more controlled pace, she proceeded toward the front door of her friend’s one-bedroom at the end of a one-story, L-shaped apartment complex.

She never should have expected Franny to take care of the plants. Her friend’s life was a wild, erratic whirl, and she’d never change. Why should she? If she was happy with chaos, so be it. Brooke loved her crazy friend like the little sister she’d never had. They even resembled each other. Of course we look alike. He chose us for our black hair and blue eyes.

It had been twelve years, but she remembered every detail. Her past was inescapable.

As she stepped onto the concrete stoop, she checked her precision quartz wristwatch. Twenty-seven minutes ago, she’d gotten Franny’s call and had responded ASAP. She’d logged off her computer, dashed to her car, checked her GPS and adjusted her route to avoid the traffic slowdown for repairs on Alameda.

And here she stood, worried and scared. But ready to save the day if need be.

She punched the doorbell and called out, “Franny, it’s me. Open up.”

Most likely, this was a lot of fuss about nothing. If so, she’d bite her tongue and wouldn’t scold. Extra caution was better than ignoring potential signs of danger, even though Brooke hated to waste time with unnecessary disruptions. Sometimes she could go a full week without leaving her house. Some people—including FBI Agent George Gimbel and her therapist—thought her behavior was borderline agoraphobic, but they didn’t understand the importance of organization. There was no such thing as being too efficient.

From inside the apartment, she heard her friend chattering in a high-pitched jumble of words. She was answered by a man’s rumbling voice. That wasn’t right! Franny didn’t date. She had no male relatives.

Brooke whipped her phone from the pocket of her khaki shorts and hit the emergency call button. Better safe than sorry. She unzipped her fanny pack and wrapped her fingers around the palm-size canister of pepper spray. “Franny, are you okay?”

She heard someone moving across the hardwood floor inside the apartment with a heavy tread; it must be the man. He was coming toward her. The pepper spray trembled in her hand. I can handle this. She had to. Nobody else would protect her and the people she loved. With the screen door open, she balanced on the balls of her feet—ready for action and glad that she’d worn sneakers instead of sandals. She braced herself. The first move would be hers.

The green-painted door was opened by a tall, dark-haired man in a suit.

Her phone squawked as the 911 operator answered, “Hello, what is your emergency?”

“You called the police,” the man said.

Though law enforcement had failed her many times, Brooke needed backup. She shouted Franny’s address at the phone and added, “We need help. Hurry.”

“That’s not necessary,” he said.

“Where’s my friend? What have you done to Franny?”

“Take it easy.” He slid his hand inside his jacket. “Everything is fine.”

Really? Then why are you reaching for a gun? She sprayed a blast of pepper spray. He dodged and threw up his arm for protection, but she knew that she’d scored a partial hit. While he winced and squinted, she darted into the apartment and positioned herself for another, more devastating blow.

“Brooke, stop!” Franny rushed from the back of the apartment. “What are you doing?”

“Taking care of this creep,” she said.

She fired a karate kick at his knee and missed. Her next attempt aimed at his groin.

Her foot shot toward him. Before it connected, he grabbed her ankle and held on. It was all she could do not to lose her balance.

He held a wallet with his credentials toward her. “FBI.”

“Let go of my leg!”

“Are you going to kick at me again?”

“Not if I don’t need to.” She brandished her pepper spray. “Don’t try anything.”

He dropped her ankle. “I ought to arrest you for assaulting a federal officer.”

“Everybody please settle down,” Franny said as she stepped between them. “Agent Sloan, you’re not going to arrest anybody. Brooke, don’t be a brat.”

Oh, this was rich. The wildly irresponsible Franny Hennessey was telling her not to misbehave. As far as Brooke knew, that badge was a fake. If he was really a fed, he should have showed his credentials the minute he opened the door. Okay, maybe that was what he tried to do. Maybe this was as much her fault as his. Still, she said, “I’m not going to apologize.”

“Don’t care.”

He glared at her through his right eye. The left squeezed shut, though the redness that came in reaction to the spray spread across his throat and stopped at his cheekbone. The blotch looked painful. “If you please,” she said, “I’d like a closer look at that badge.”

Without relinquishing his grasp on his wallet, he held his ID inches away from her nose. The documents appeared to be official. She read his name: Special Agent Justin Sloan.

She didn’t usually make mistakes like this. Assaulting a fed? She placed her hand on her chest and felt the drumming of her heartbeat. Her adrenaline was running high, which wasn’t a bad feeling, but not a good one, either. If she’d been home right now, she’d be opening mail and eating her midafternoon snack of fruit and crackers. Instead, everything was up in the air.

She turned to her friend. “Why is he here?”

“I contacted him.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “I was trying to get ahold of Agent Gimbel. Remember him? The guy who handled our case?”

“Of course I remember.” He was a kind man who had taken a genuine interest. She hoped nothing bad had happened to him. “Why couldn’t he come?”

“Gimbel retired. The FBI office sent Sloan instead.”

He pointed to Brooke’s phone, which was still connected to an emergency operator asking questions. “Are you going to talk to her?”

This situation just got worse and worse. She’d requested emergency assistance, and she knew from past experience that nothing would divert the officers from coming to her aid. Rather than wasting time with long explanations to the dispatcher, she disconnected the call. Another rule broken.

Sloan asked, “Franny, do you have milk?”

Her ingenuous blue eyes opened wide. “Are you thirsty?”

“He wants milk to counteract the sting of the capsaicin in the pepper spray,” Brooke explained as she snapped the cover onto the small canister and returned it to her fanny pack, where she also kept a supply of medicated wipes to use in case the pepper spray got onto her fingers. She opened the package, took out a wipe and handed it to Sloan before using one on her own hands. “Water is ineffective in washing off the oil-based propylene glycol.”

“About that milk,” Sloan repeated.

“Come with me,” Franny said as she scampered barefoot toward the arched doorway leading to the kitchen. “I always have milk for the cats. Don’t worry, I don’t give them much. It’s not healthy, you know. But they do love it.”

Brooke trailed behind Special Agent Sloan and Franny, whose curly black hair bounced around her elfin face. For some unfathomable reason, she was wearing a purple sequin tiara. In her paisley-patterned yoga shorts and pink T-shirt with a sparkly unicorn on the front, she looked childlike and vulnerable. Actually, she was only four years younger than Brooke, who was twenty-six but felt like she’d already lived three lifetimes. No tiaras for her. She kept her long hair slicked back in a no-nonsense ponytail, which she twisted into a bun.

Her attention shifted to Sloan. He was tall, approximately seven inches over her five and a half feet, and he appeared to be in good physical condition. His gray suit jacket fit neatly across the wide expanse of his shoulders. There was something disturbing about the way he moved. Athletic and masculine, he seemed to exude confidence. Or was it arrogance? Either way, his presence unnerved her.

When she looked away from him, her gaze ricocheted around Franny’s small apartment, where the decor was based on clutter, half-finished projects and more clutter. Brooke counted no fewer than four cats. The table in the dining area was covered with stacks of unopened mail, multicolored scraps of fabric and a sparkling array of beaded jewelry. Beside the table was a wicker basket of unfolded laundry that a fat gray-and-white cat was using as a bed. A teetering tower of books lurked in the corner. Instead of a curtain, Tibetan prayer flags draped across the dining room window, offering an alarmingly clear view of the sidewalk outside. Any passerby could easily see into the house. The security here was even worse than her last place.

In the kitchen, dirty dishes filled one side of the double sink. Half-eaten meals were scattered across the counter. Brooke couldn’t help herself. She started washing the dishes.

“What are you doing?” Franny asked.

They’d had this conversation a hundred times before. “Left-out food attracts mice. I’ll have this cleaned up in a sec.”

“Don’t bother.” Franny laughed and pointed to a black cat and a calico. “My mousers will protect me from varmints.”

“Do any of these cats actually belong to you?”

“I don’t own them, if that’s what you mean.”

As soon as Franny moved into a neighborhood, she made a point of befriending the local feline population. Brooke never knew from whence the cats came or where they went or why they liked to hang out with her friend. Maybe they recognized a kindred spirit.

“If you’re looking for something to do, take care of him.” Franny pointed to Agent Sloan, who had found a carton of milk in the fridge. “You broke him. You should fix him.”

There was a certain amount of logic in what she said. If Franny is making sense, I must be losing my mind. Brooke directed Agent Sloan toward a straight-back chair beside a table where pots, pans and a basket full of green glass baubles took up most of the space. She took the carton from him, searched the cabinets for a clean bowl and poured the milk. While trying to find a fresh dish towel in the drawers, she said, “Take off your jacket, and be careful where you touch. The left sleeve probably has pepper spray on it.”

He removed the holster clipped to his belt and placed his gun on the table next to the baubles. Then he peeled off his jacket and folded it into a neat package, which he stuck into a paper grocery bag that Franny handed him. The striptease didn’t end there. He loosened his necktie. “I should probably take off my shirt, too.”

Her already-speeding pulse jolted into high gear. “By all means, take off the shirt. Your collar might be...compromised.”

Being careful to avoid handling the collar, he removed the short-sleeved cotton shirt. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath. His nicely muscled chest showed off his tan.

Her fingers itched with an unexpected urge to rake though his black chest hair and slide over those taut pecs. Snap out of it! True, it had been a long time since she’d been this close to a half-naked man, but she wasn’t the type to get all hot and bothered. Self-control was her middle name. With the bowl of milk and dish towel in hand, she approached the chair where he had taken a seat.

“Tilt your head up and to the right,” she said.

His gaze connected with hers and...her heart stopped. Held in suspended animation, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Her ears were ringing. This wasn’t a panic attack; it was something different, something she’d never experienced before. She blinked until her vision was clear and she found herself staring into the most fascinating eyes. They were deep set and gray with glittering facets of silver and green. His angular cheekbones matched a square jaw. His face was saved from severity by an ironic twist of his mouth. He had the kind of lips that were meant for kissing. Not that she was an expert. Her social life was only slightly more interesting than Franny’s.

Her friend spoke up. “I’ll see if I can find something for Sloan to wear.”

“Excellent idea,” Brooke said.

In an uncharacteristically clumsy manner, she swabbed the milk on the red blotches near his left ear. Excess from the dish towel dripped down his chest. She reached out with her bare hand to wipe it away. As soon as her fingers touched his flesh, a jolt of electricity traveled up her hand to her arm, then across her shoulder and down her chest, where it zapped her heart like a cardiovascular defibrillator. She jumped back. The milk spilled.

Breathlessly, she said, “No use crying over that.”

He took the bowl from her. “Maybe I should do this myself.”

“Yes, that would be easier.” Aware that they were alone in the kitchen, she stepped back. This federal agent was a clear and present danger to her mental stability. “Have you spoken to Franny about why she called the FBI?”

“I have.”

“Would you care to share that information?”

“She was trying to contact your mutual friend Layla and couldn’t reach her.” He dabbed at his cheek with the milk. “The text messages to her weren’t answered. The phone calls went straight to voice mail.”

“It’s not unusual for Layla to go off the grid, and it’s hardly a reason to call in the FBI.” Brooke eyed him suspiciously. “You’re not telling me everything, are you?”

“Franny’s fears appear to be connected to what happened twelve years ago.”

She didn’t want to hear about this but had to know. “Tell me.”

“Wait!” Franny dashed into the room with a crocheted poncho that she threw toward Sloan. She turned to Brooke. “Maybe we should forget about this. I’m feeling lots better, and I don’t want you to get all freaked out.”

Too late. Brooke was verging on a full-blown panic attack. She had to get this over with and go home. “You’ve got to tell me.”

“Are you okay? You look kind of feverish.”

“She’s right,” Sloan said. “Maybe you should sit.”

As if she needed advice from a half-naked fed? “Will you excuse us, please?”

Without waiting for an answer, she dragged her friend through the messy front room into the equally cluttered bedroom, where she closed the door. Fearing she might pass out, Brooke lowered herself onto the edge of the unmade bed, trying not to think of this mattress as a breeding ground for bacteria and dust mites. She concentrated on breathing slowly, struggling not to drown in the fierce torrents that churned inside her.

Franny sat beside her. “I was scared about how you might react. That’s why I didn’t call you first. I figured Gimbel could look into stuff and make it all better.”

But Gimbel had retired. Brooke asked, “What kind of stuff?”

“For the past couple of days, maybe a week, I’ve been getting phone calls from a number I didn’t recognize.”

“And?”

“They were weird.”

Extracting information from her was like peeling an artichoke one leaf at a time. Brooke turned her head and focused on the blue of Franny’s eyes—a color that was almost identical to her own. “Why did you think the calls were weird?”

“My voice mail picked up a couple of them. I can play them back.”

“Maybe later.” She didn’t want to spend any more time here than absolutely necessary. Either there was reason for concern or not. “For now, just tell me.”

“His voice was whispery.” Her eyes lowered, and she sucked on her lower lip. “He said that little ladies who didn’t do as they were told would be punished.”

The terrible warning—one she’d heard before—set off a screeching alarm in Brooke’s brain. No, no, no, no, I don’t want to remember. “What else?”

“My finger.” She held up her left hand. The little finger had been severed at the second joint. “He asked if I missed my finger.”

“It wasn’t him,” Brooke said firmly. “Martin Hardy is locked away in prison for life. He can never touch you again.”

“That’s what Sloan said. And he promised to check on the other girls, to make sure they were safe. That’s why I wanted you to come over to meet him.” Though tears swamped her eyes, she forced a wobbly smile. “He’s kind of gorgeous, huh?”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“Yeah, you did. You were blushing.”

Brooke scowled as she rose from the bed and paced on the small portion of floor that wasn’t covered by a jumble of discarded clothing. Recently, she’d experienced a few odd incidents herself. Twice during the past week her car alarm had gone off, even though it was parked in the attached garage. She’d never found an explanation, but it hadn’t seemed particularly threatening until now. “Was there anything other than phone calls?”

“Should I be scared?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think it’s a copycat?” Her voice went high and nervous. “Our case was written up in the newspapers and online. And there’s that movie guy who wants all six of us to get together for a follow-up story.”

“His documentary is never going to happen.” She’d vowed to sue the pants off anybody who tried to take advantage of them. “Until we have some answers, you should stay at my house.”

“Why?”

Not wanting to get Franny riled up with more criticism, Brooke didn’t mention the lack of security in her apartment or the uncurtained windows that were open to public view or the fact that cats could dart in and out at will. This place was unsafe. “If something is truly wrong, we need to stick together.”

The doorbell rang, and she heard Agent Sloan cross the front room. He called out, “I’ll answer it.”

The fact that there was an armed federal agent in the other room reassured her. She pulled Franny to her feet. “Where’s your suitcase?”

“I don’t want to pack. Do I have to?”

“Not a problem. I’ve got everything at my house that you might need.” With a renewed sense of purpose and a laser focus on home, she propelled her friend through the bedroom door. “Grab your keys and let’s get out of here.”

In the front room, Brooke would have preferred to make a beeline for the exit, but Sloan and two uniformed officers blocked the way. With his holster clipped to his belt and Franny’s too-small poncho covering his shoulders, Sloan looked like a deranged outlaw. She wondered how he had explained his outfit to the cops who had arrived in response to her 911 call.

She checked her watch. Thirty-three minutes had elapsed since she’d spoken to the emergency operator. If this had been an attack by a homicidal maniac, they’d all be dead by now. Nonetheless, she thanked the officers for coming and apologized for the false alarm.

To Sloan, she said, “I’m taking Franny to my house. She’ll be safe with me. Do you plan to investigate the phone calls she received?”

“Yes,” he said curtly.

“Please keep me informed.”

Franny popped up beside them holding a black plastic garbage bag filled with the scraps and glitter from the table. Her fears seemed to have disappeared. She was beaming. Brooke envied her friend’s resilience, even though she didn’t completely believe that bubbly smile.

Before they could escape out the door, one of the uniformed officers stepped forward. “I know you,” he said. “Matter of fact, I recognize both of you with the black hair and blue eyes. You’re two of the Hardy Dolls.”

The emotions Brooke had been holding back erupted. Every muscle in her body tensed. Twelve years ago, six girls—all with black hair and sad blue eyes—had been abducted from their foster homes by a psychopath named Martin Hardy. He had held them captive in an isolated house in the mountains where they’d been shackled, drugged, starved and brutalized. He’d done unspeakable things.

“Hardy Dolls,” the cop repeated. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

She despised the demeaning nickname the press had labeled them with. Hardy Dolls sounded like the six of them were a soccer team or a rock group, instead of the cruel truth that nobody wanted to face—they were throwaway foster kids who nobody missed and nobody searched for. They’d had to save themselves.

“We’re not dolls. Not now. Not ever.”

Without another word, she turned on her heel and stormed out the front door. I never should have left my house.

Chapter Two

Yesterday, when Brooke dashed out the door from Franny’s apartment, Sloan hadn’t made the mistake of thinking that she was running away. Fear hadn’t been her motivation. Anger had driven her. She’d left to avoid a fight, and he’d been grateful. Unless he missed his guess, Brooke Josephson was a formidable adversary who might have eviscerated that cop with the big mouth.

In order to verify that opinion and learn more about the victimology of the young women who had been kidnapped, he paid a midmorning visit to George Gimbel. At the retired agent’s home in the foothills west of town, the two men sat on rocking chairs on the front porch, drinking black coffee and watching the pecking chickens outside their coop. A dappled, swayback mare with a big belly that mimicked the girth of her owner grazed in the corral attached to the small barn. Though Sloan could make out the downtown Denver skyline in the faraway distance, the peaceful setting made him feel like he’d gone back in time to the Old West.

Gimbel took off his cowboy hat and dragged his fingers through his unruly gray hair. “There hasn’t been a day in the past twelve years that I haven’t thought about those women. Never felt like we did right by them.”

Sloan had read the files on the case. “From the record, it looks like you were thorough.”

“Oh, yeah, the proper forms were filed. But when it came to an investigation? Nada.” His thumb and forefinger formed a zero. “They were abducted over a period of four or five months. Six girls went missing, one after another. Where were the cops? Where was the FBI? We dropped the ball. And why? Well, these were all foster kids—teenagers or younger. Everybody assumed they were runaways.”

All too often, victims fell between the cracks. These women had been taken from different homes that were as far apart as Colorado Springs to the south and Cheyenne, Wyoming, to the north. They hadn’t known each other, and there hadn’t seemed to be a connection...except for one. Sloan pointed it out. “If someone in law enforcement had lined up their photos and noticed the similarities in appearance, they would have paid more attention.”

“That’s exactly what happened when the public learned about the kidnappings—intense publicity. Some of the victims were traumatized by the spotlight.”

“Like Brooke.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Gimbel said. “She’s hard to read.”

Sloan remembered her trembling hands, rapid breathing and darting gaze. “From the minute we met, it seemed like she was about to have a panic attack.”

“But she didn’t.”

“Oh. Hell. No. She blasted me with pepper spray and tried to kick me in the groin.”

Gimbel chuckled. “Brooke avoids confrontation, but she never backs down.”

“How did the FBI get involved in the case?”

“When the women escaped, they went to the Jefferson County police, who realized that they were dealing with kidnapping. Since two states—Colorado and Wyoming—were involved, JeffCo was only too happy to pass this big, fat, complicated case to us, where it landed in my lap.” He leaned back and folded his hands across his gut. “I’ll never forget the first time I saw all six of them together. Skinny little things with black hair and blue eyes, they looked so much alike that they could have been sisters. Actually, two of them are identical twins.”

“Hardy Dolls,” Sloan said.

“Brooke hated when the media started using that moniker, and I don’t blame her. If that girl is a doll, she’s sure as hell an action figure. To survive in captivity, she had to be tough. To engineer an escape with five other girls, she had to be smart.”

Sloan agreed. In the testimony given by the others, it was obvious how much they respected Brooke. Their descriptions of the escape showed an extreme degree of planning from the fourteen-year-old. Oddly, Brooke had said very little. Her statement was limited to short answers and claims that she didn’t remember. A complex woman, there was something about her that fascinated him. “She took charge, but she wasn’t the oldest.”

“Layla was sixteen.”

“And Layla Tierney is the reason I’m following up. When Franny started getting threatening phone calls, she contacted the others to find out if they’d received similar anonymous contacts. She never reached Layla.”

“She disappears from time to time,” Gimbel said. “Brooke will know how to find her.”

He was glad for another reason to be in touch with her. “I appreciate any advice. Victimology is new to me. My training put more emphasis on the criminals and psychopaths.”

“Three months ago, when you got assigned to the Denver office, they said we were lucky to have you.” There was a hint of bitterness in his tone. “You’re only a few credits short of a PhD in psychology. Is that right?”

Sloan nodded. “I’m working on my dissertation.”

“To tell you the truth, I’m more impressed with the fact that you served in the navy.”

“Which is how I paid for college.” He hadn’t joined the navy out of a sense of duty or patriotism, but he’d gotten more from his service than he ever expected. His dad had told him that the US Navy would teach him to be a man. In this case, Dad might have been right.

“I never enlisted,” Gimbel said, “but I figure I paid my dues with a twenty-seven-year career in the FBI.”

Sloan rose from his chair and went to the banister, where he watched the hens and avoided making direct eye contact with Gimbel. He didn’t want their meeting to turn into a confrontation between the grizzled old veteran and the smart-ass college boy. Not that he was a kid at thirty-two.

“I’ve only got a couple years’ experience in the field,” he said. “Dealing with six different victims who have each developed their own coping behaviors is complicated to say the least. Your insights would really help.”

“Let’s get to it,” he said.

“From your notes, it’s clear they’re all experiencing a degree of post-traumatic stress.”

“You don’t need a PhD to figure that out.” Gimbel was kind enough not to scoff. Instead, he took a sip of his coffee. “Give me your profile of Franny.”

He didn’t like making a snap diagnosis but didn’t have time to analyze his subject. Unlike therapy, profiling drew broad conclusions. “The clutter in her house and immature behavior points to ADD. She hides her feelings behind a bright, happy exterior—shiny enough to deflect close examination. Inside, she’s a drama queen.”

The older man nodded. “You got that right.”

“Not being able to contact Layla for a few days shouldn’t have been a big deal, but Franny was extremely agitated. The anonymous phone calls triggered her fears.”

“Tell me about the calls.”

“There were references to her time in captivity.” Sloan repeated the words verbatim. “Everything the caller said was public knowledge.”

“Did you check out the number?”

“It traced to a burner phone. Even the dumbest perverts use throwaways.”

“But you investigated. Good.”

Sloan was glad he hadn’t immediately dismissed Franny’s complaint. As Gimbel had pointed out, the law enforcement system hadn’t paid enough attention when these women disappeared the first time. He refused to be the guy who failed them again. “I see two possibilities. The first is that Franny is getting targeted by a prison groupie who idolizes Martin Hardy. He’s a copycat and bears watching but probably won’t go further than crank calls. The other, more disturbing scenario suggests unresolved issues from the original crime. In your reports, you listed other men who knew Hardy and might have assisted in the abductions.”

“There’s no shortage of creeps out there,” Gimbel said. “I hope Franny’s fears are nothing but a feather on the wind, but you can’t take that chance. It’s your job to protect them.”

“That’s what you did.”

“Damn right,” Gimbel said. “I had to be sure they weren’t just dumped back into the foster care system. And I got a lawyer to manage their interests. I’ll give you his name.”

Gimbel was turning out to be a valuable resource. Sloan folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the banister. “Tell me about Brooke.”

* * *

AFTER A LATE LUNCH, Sloan parked his SUV outside Brooke’s gleaming white stucco house with a red tile roof. Hers was one of several Spanish Mission-style homes in this architecturally diverse urban neighborhood. The two-story house was surrounded by a tidy lawn, perfectly trimmed shrubs and colorful flower beds. And the place was well protected. He spotted two security cameras. One was mounted over the front door. Another peered down from the attached garage. Wrought iron latticework—in a decorative pattern—shielded the door and the arched windows on the first floor.

As soon as he exited his vehicle, the August heat hit him like a blast furnace. He straightened his striped necktie, smoothed the wrinkles from his linen suit jacket and tried not to sweat. He was eager to see Brooke again. Her personality—an impossible combination of fire and ice—fascinated him.

Not that their relationship could be anything but professional. She was a witness, possibly a victim, and he had to keep his distance. His reason for being here and talking to her was to determine his starting point in this widely disparate investigation. In addition to the anonymous phone calls to Franny, threats had been made to the other women. He needed Brooke’s sensible approach to sort the real from the unreal, ultimately making sense of the situation. And, first and foremost, he needed to locate Layla.

As soon as he rang the bell, Franny yanked the door open and dived into his arms. After a giant hug—so much for professional distance—she bounced away from him. This young woman was as energetic and enthusiastic as a puppy looking for a pat on the head.

“Hey there,” she said brightly. “You did a pretty great job of contacting everybody. They all called me, except for Layla.”

“You said Brooke would know how to find her.”

Franny grabbed his hand and pulled him into a two-story foyer with a terra-cotta floor and a curved staircase on the right. Compared to the hot weather outside, the house was cool and serene. He felt like he’d walked into a shaded glen in a perfectly organized forest.

“Those two, Brooke and Layla, are birdies of a feather,” Franny said. “Both really smart and focused and, you know, tidy.”

He grinned. Franny’s casual description matched Gimbel’s more technical analysis of OCD tendencies brought on by post-traumatic stress. “They like to keep things orderly.”

“And I make them crazy,” she confided.

An alarm shrieked, and Franny ran to a keypad near the door, where she punched random numbers. “I forgot to turn it off. Oh my God, that’s loud. Can you help me?”

Brooke charged into the foyer. “Step away from the keypad.”

Franny leaped backward as Brooke plugged in the numbers to turn off the alarm. She placed a cell phone in Franny’s hand. “The security people are going to call and ask if we need help. Do you remember what you’re supposed to tell them?”

“The code words,” she said. “Happy trails to you.”

“And then?”

“They’ll tell me to repeat, but this time I’ll say, ‘Hi-ho, Silver, and away.’”

When Franny left to handle the call from the security service, Brooke turned toward him. “Good afternoon, Special Agent Sloan. You didn’t mention that you were coming over when you called earlier.”

“I was afraid you’d bar the door.”

A hint of a smile twitched the corner of her rosebud mouth. If she ever actually laughed, he suspected she’d have dimples. “Given our previous encounter,” she said, “I understand.”

This was the cool version of Brooke Josephson. Her raging tension was gone, and she appeared to be completely in control, probably because she was at home. Safely tucked away in her lair, Brooke could relax and be comfortable. She was shoeless and bare-legged, wearing an untucked dark blue shirt and knee-length white shorts. Her black hair tumbled loosely to her shoulders.

Though he could have spent an enjoyable few moments studying her features—the classic nose, sculpted brow, wide forehead and pointed chin—Sloan went straight to business. He reached into the inner pocket of his navy blue blazer and extracted a small spiral notebook. “I know you don’t like to waste time, so I made a list.”

“Efficient.” She gave a small nod of approval. “Would you like something to drink? Water? Juice?”

“A glass of water would be fine.”

Franny bounded back into the foyer and returned the phone to Brooke. “I handled the security call. This is the third time, so I think I’m getting the hang of it.”

He gave her a smile. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.” She mimicked a gunslinger doing a fast draw—an image this little pixie couldn’t really pull off.

“You answered the doorbell as soon as it rang. Were you watching from a window?”

“We’re way more techie than that.” With a giggle, she picked up a computer tablet that was sitting on a rectangular wooden side table below the staircase. Franny tapped in a code and showed him a screen divided into four separate video feeds. “These are live pictures from the three cameras outside the house and the one in the office. I saw you park and watched you walk to the door.”

“Impressive,” he murmured.

“The cameras might seem excessive,” Brooke said, “but I work from home, and I have a lot of very expensive electronic equipment to protect.”

“No need to explain. I like all this tech stuff.”

“And yet you carry a spiral notebook.”

Not exactly a subtle put-down. His attempt to bond with her by pretending they shared an interest in electronics had fallen flat. She wasn’t buying it. He stifled an urge to explain his lousy relationship with computers. Giving her too much information gave her an edge, and he needed to stay in charge. An uncomfortable silence filled the entryway.

“Wow,” Franny said. “There’s some real chemistry between you two. I mean, it’s combustible. And that’s my cue to leave you alone. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

He watched her scamper up the stairs to the second floor. “I understand that she’s marching to her own drummer, but I don’t know this tune.”

“Franny has decided that you and I are some kind of match, and we should start dating. I told her it wasn’t acceptable, not according to the rules.”

“And I’ll bet she doesn’t care.”

“Not a whit.”

He followed Brooke as she bypassed the pristine living room, decorated in earthy Southwestern colors, and went down a corridor to the kitchen. The sleek black cabinets and polished marble countertops were clean and organized. Brooke had her life choreographed down to the smallest detail. “I have a question that isn’t written down in my spiral notebook,” he said. “You and Franny are very different in habit and temperament. How do you put up with her when she stays with you?”

“We have an agreement,” she said. “No cats are allowed in the house. And her clutter is confined to the upstairs guest bedroom and attached bathroom.”

“Does she follow those rules?”

“Not always, but I can’t blame her for living her life the way she wants. Like the clown at the end of the circus procession, it’s my job to follow the Franny parade and sweep up the mess after she rides past on a bejeweled elephant.”

Her comparison surprised him. In no way did he think of Brooke as a clown. Playing the fool might hint at low self-esteem issues, but he was more interested in her willingness to set aside her own requirements for neatness when it came to someone she loved. She liked order but wasn’t rigid about it.

She took two blue glasses from the shelf above the sink and filled them with purified water from a pitcher in the fridge. “What’s first on your list?”

He made a point of consulting his notebook. “When we talked on the phone, you mentioned that your car alarm went off while it was parked in the garage. Now that I’ve seen your security precautions, I’m even more curious about how that could happen.”

“I don’t know.” She stood behind the center island and slid the glass toward him. “I checked at the time. Nothing had fallen and bumped the SUV. All locks were secure.”

“Did your cameras pick up any sign of an intruder?”

She shook her head. “The only explanation I’ve been able to come up with is a glitch of some sort. I’m not an expert in car mechanics.”

When he’d talked to the other women, they had all reported similar issues that amounted to minor annoyances. One of them thought a man had been following her. Another reported personal items that had gone missing from her house, but she wasn’t sure if she’d just misplaced them. The one who had left Denver and moved to Las Vegas mentioned that she was contacted three times by a documentary filmmaker.

He glanced at his list. “Have you had other threats?”

“Not recently. People have always wanted to get close to us, and they act like we’re some kind of notorious celebrities.” Anger wove through her voice. “In the early days after we escaped, there was a great deal of unwanted attention. For some reason, folks thought it was all right to call or write letters or walk up to us on the street as though we were old friends. Not exactly threatening, but I considered their behavior to be intrusive. I hated it.”

“Gimbel said he put you in touch with a lawyer.”

“Tom Lancaster,” she said. “It was handy to have his card to warn people away. And he was useful in other practical ways. He set up a fund for us to handle various donations. There was enough money to fund private school for Franny and the twins.”

“What about you? You didn’t return to high school.”

“There was no way I’d go back and be gawked at. I got my GED and enrolled in community college. Layla did the same, and she continued to law school. She recently graduated and has been studying for the bar exam.”

According to Gimbel, Brooke breezed through college, earning scholarships and completing her course work for a business degree before she was twenty. After an internship with an IT firm, she set up a home-based business doing medical and legal transcriptions. “You and Layla have much in common. Both intelligent. Both ambitious and successful.”

She pushed a wing of black hair away from her face and gave him a smile. “You’re a profiler, aren’t you?”

“Not yet. But I’ve had psychological training.”

“Well, you hit the jackpot with this case. Me and my friends are every shade of crazy.”

Though he didn’t approve of labels, he appreciated her relaxed attitude. Yesterday she’d been as prickly as a cactus. “Do you know how to reach Layla?”

“I tried. Yesterday Franny and I stopped by her apartment, and I tried to contact her on a computer link. I tried the link again, about three hours ago. No Layla.”

“Would you give it another try?”

“Sure, come with me to my office.” She gave him a more genuine smile, and her dimples appeared. “I’ll send out the bat signal.”

Sloan followed her down a corridor into a large room with a wall of file cabinets and three distinct workstations, each equipped with computers and ergonomic chairs. A wide window, covered with wrought iron grillwork, showed a shaded, verdant backyard with two peach trees and a vegetable garden.

He went to the window. “You grow your own food.”

“Gimbel accused me of planting a garden so I wouldn’t ever have to leave my house.” She slid into place behind a computer. “He might be right. I love being able to step outside and pick a salad. My tomatoes this year have been brilliant.”

He stood behind her so he could see the screen as her slender fingers danced across the keyboard, clicking icons and tapping in passcodes. “I’m not very computer savvy,” he said.

“I guessed.”

“Tell me what you’re doing.”

“This program activates a camera that provides a live feed from a one-room mountain cabin that Layla and I share. We’re both reclusive. Sometimes we need a hideout where we can be completely alone.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Layla uses the cabin when she’s studying. After a big work project, I like to go there to decompress.”

“But you don’t want to be completely out of touch,” he said. “That’s why you set up this system. What did you call it? The bat signal?”

“It’s a safety concern,” she said, “only to be used in urgent circumstances. Though I’m not sure this investigation rises to the level of emergency, I’ll feel better after we’ve checked in with her.”

When she tapped the final key, a picture appeared on the screen. He saw a wood-paneled room with a desk, a fireplace and a bed. The only light came from a window.

“There she is,” Brooke said as she pointed to the bed.

He needed confirmation on where Layla had been and if she’d been threatened. “Can you talk to her through the live feed?”

“Sure.” Loudly, she said, “Layla, it’s me. Get up.”

“Zoom in closer?”

“Come on, sleepyhead.” Brooke tapped a few keys.

The screen filled with a close-up of Layla’s image. Though her nightgown reached up to her chin, Sloan noticed the discoloration at her throat. Layla’s face was drained of color. Her cheeks were hollow. She lay unnaturally still.

He’d witnessed enough autopsies to know that this woman would never respond to Brooke’s calls for her to wake up.

Chapter Three

Riveted, Brooke stared at the screen, unwilling to believe what she was seeing. Layla, beautiful Layla, was carefully posed on the bed in the one-room cabin. Her head tilted to the right, toward the door and the kitchenette. Her shiny black hair fanned out on the pillowcase. Her pink gown was buttoned all the way up to her chin. The flowered peach comforter tucked under her arms had been smoothed to perfection, and her long fingers laced together below her breasts. Brooke stared at the plain gold band that gleamed from Layla’s left hand—stared so hard that her eyes strained and began to water. Not again.

Twelve years ago, Layla was forced to be Hardy’s bride. That had been her role in the sick little family he had created. Night after night, he’d come to her, demanding his rights as her husband. At first, Layla had screamed. And she must have struggled, because Brooke had heard the crashing around and had treated Layla’s wounds the following day. Her blood had been literally on Brooke’s hands.

After a while, Layla had given up and quit fighting. Her desperate cries had faded into quiet sobs. At the end of the seven months they were held captive, Layla’s voice had been silent in the night.

Brooke buried her face in her hands. Layla didn’t deserve an early death, not after what she’d survived. She’d worked so hard to get through law school. Her dream had been to defend other victims who had given up hope and had nowhere else to turn. Why had she been taken? Why? Brooke dropped her hands. There was no answer. Sometimes, life didn’t make sense.

In a flat voice, she said, “Layla’s dead.”

“We don’t know for sure.”

Sloan didn’t make the mistake of trying to comfort her with a touch or a pat on the shoulder or a hug. He kept his distance. Smart man. She could already feel her grief transforming into anger, and she might lash out at whatever or whoever was in her path. “I should call the sheriff.”

“I’ll handle it,” he said. “Give me directions to the cabin or an address so I can contact the authorities and the ambulance.”

She wrote the information on a sticky note. Her fingers trembled, but she took care to make her penmanship legible. “We don’t have a spare key hidden at the cabin, and the windows are secure. Still, I’d appreciate if they don’t break down the door.”

“I’ll pass that along.”

He stepped away from the desk but didn’t leave the office. Hovering in the doorway, he kept an eye on her. His voice was a smooth murmur as he made phone calls. She overheard him tell someone to treat the cabin like a crime scene.

The image on the computer screen wavered before her eyes, and she forced herself to inhale a steadying breath before she made a promise to Layla Tierney. “You will have justice, my sister. I will find the bastard who did this to you, and I will make him pay.”

Adrenaline surged through her veins. A wake-up call. This sensation was unlike her panic attacks or the nervous tension that sapped her energy and left her paralyzed. She felt powerful, strong and filled with purpose. There was nothing more she could do for Layla, but she’d make sure the killer was caught and no one else came to harm.

With a few keystrokes, she exited the computer connection to the cabin. If Franny came in here and stumbled across the image of their dead friend, she’d be devastated. Brooke rose from behind her desk and confronted Sloan when he ended his call.

“I’m coming with you,” she said.

“Please sit, Brooke. I need to ask you a few questions.”

Still standing, she said, “We should get going.”

“You tried to reach Layla at the cabin yesterday. What time?”

“It was after Franny and I left her apartment—between four thirty and four forty-five. The cabin was empty.”

“And today?”

“It was three hours ago, before I made lunch. One of the twins contacted me, and I told her I’d check again.” At the time, she hadn’t been worried. Over the years, she’d grown complacent, believing all of them were safe and could lead relatively normal lives. Clearly, a mistake. “This was my fault. If I’d gone to the cabin this morning, I could have prevented Layla’s murder.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Based on the time I contacted her, she must have been killed during the three-hour window between eleven thirty and right now.”

“I advise against making assumptions,” he said in a firm voice that was both aggravating and authoritative. “Until we investigate and have evidence, we can’t draw conclusions.”

“But it’s obvious.”

“Think about it, Brooke.” Rather than handling her with kid gloves, he seemed to be using a direct approach. “Did you see signs of violence in the cabin?”

She appreciated his candor. “There wouldn’t be blood spatters if she was strangled.”

“But she would have struggled,” he said. “I see no defensive wounds on her hands or arms. No bruises or scratches. We don’t know what happened. Or when. To determine the time of death, we need a coroner’s report.”

“You’re right.”

“She might have died elsewhere and been transported to the cabin.”

Brooke was ashamed that she hadn’t considered all those possibilities. Where was her brain? Her intelligence seemed to have deserted her at a moment when she needed to calm down and concentrate. Sloan was right when he told her not to base her thinking on unfounded suppositions, which was precisely why she needed to go to the crime scene and gather information. “Shouldn’t we be going?”

“When was the last time you spoke to Layla?”

“I can check my phone records, but I think it was four days ago, on Monday. She’d made an appointment to look at a property she might lease as an office and wanted me to come.” Brooke sat behind her desk, brought up her digital calendar and pointed to the notation. “See, right there. It was supposed to be tomorrow at ten in the morning. I should call and cancel.”

Verifying a meeting with a property manager seemed trivial, but Brooke knew she’d make that call before the day was over. She was compelled to take care of details. Life went on even when Layla was dead. Oh, God, this was so unfair. Tears threatened, and she tossed her head, shaking them away. “I’m ready. We should go now.”

“I can’t take you with me, Brooke. Bringing a witness to a crime scene is against the rules.”

The clever man already knew her well enough to present the argument that would be most persuasive. He was aware that she hated to disobey normal conventions. But her need to avenge her friend surpassed her habit of coloring inside the lines. She had to convince him.

“Lipstick,” she said.

“What about lipstick?”

“Layla is wearing a particular color—Rosy Posey—that Hardy liked. She’d never choose that disgusting pinkness for herself. And the shiny, narrow wedding band is almost a perfect match for the one that Hardy forced her to wear.” She could be straightforward, too. “I know more about Layla and the things that happened to us than anyone else. You need me. I can be a valuable asset in your investigation.”

“And I’ll review my findings with you. But you should stay here, where you’re safe. It might be best for you and Franny and the others to go into protective custody.”

“I won’t object if you arrange for a patrol car to park outside and keep an eye on Franny.”

“Consider it done.”

“I’m going to the cabin. Either I can ride with you or I’ll drive myself.” She took a small key from the rectangular wooden pencil box on her desktop, unlocked the lower right drawer and took out her Glock 42 handgun in its holster. “Your choice, Sloan.”

He approached her desk and stopped when he was close enough to reach out and snatch the weapon from her hand. “Do you have the necessary registration and permits?”

“I take the ownership of a weapon seriously,” she said. “Not only have I gone through the certification and qualified as expert in marksmanship, but I have a shooting range in the basement for target practice.”

His eyebrows lifted, and his gray eyes widened. “In the basement?”

“Soundproofed, of course.” She’d managed to surprise him, and that pleased her.

“You don’t need a gun,” he said. “When we get to the cabin, there’ll be several armed officers.”

“When we get there...” She parroted his words, underlining his implied acceptance. He had almost agreed to bring her along. “I promise that I won’t get in the way.”

“Why does it feel like you tricked me?”

Before he changed his mind, she wanted to get him out the door and into the car. Quickly, she slipped into her espadrilles under the desk. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

“Leave the weapon here.”

She weighed the alternatives. The gun made her feel safer, but she wanted Sloan on her side. Pushing him too hard might be a mistake. She returned the Glock to her desk drawer, locked it and grabbed her handy-dandy, all-purpose black fanny pack. “Do you have a problem with this?”

“Not if you keep your pepper spray in the holster.”

After he called in a police car to guard the front door and she dashed upstairs to tell Franny to stay put, they were on their way.

* * *

FROM THE STREET in front of Brooke’s house to the cabin was a drive that took seventy minutes, more or less. This afternoon would be more. Traffic snarls, detours and bumper-to-bumper jam-ups slowed their progress. Though impatient, Brooke was grateful for the extra time to figure out exactly what she was doing.

Her first instinct had been to launch herself into the investigation, even though she knew for a fact that impulsive actions were often regrettable. She’d be wise to trust the police and the FBI. After all, it was their job to nab murderers. Sloan would probably be the officer in charge, and he seemed competent.

She studied his profile as he drove. His firm jaw hinted at a determined attitude, and she hoped that trait held true, that he was unstoppable and wouldn’t rest until he caught his man. But she knew better than to count on his physiognomy to understand his character. Hadn’t the notorious serial killer Ted Bundy been an attractive man? She didn’t know Sloan well enough to trust him.

He seemed to be a careful driver but had been talking on his hands-free phone the whole time they were in his SUV. He’d plugged the address for the cabin into his GPS and was relying on the dashboard information for directions rather than asking her. He probably thought he was being efficient. But he wasn’t. If asked, she could have directed him to a shortcut that would have avoided the usual slowdown on Sixth.

Sloan ended his call and looked toward her. “I’ve asked Agent Gimbel to meet us at the cabin.”

“Smart move.” Not only had Agent Gimbel studied their case, but she’d be glad to see him. The older man was a reassuring presence.

“I have one more call.”

“Take your time.”

Brooke would have preferred being in charge. She never enjoyed riding in the passenger seat, but she forced herself to lean back and let the air-conditioning wash over her while she kept her mouth shut. When Sloan took a sharp left turn, she pinched her lips together to keep from blurting out her criticism of his momentarily inattentive driving. She closed her eyes.

Relaxation was impossible. The inside of her head filled with the image of Layla from the computer. Brooke popped her eyes open and blinked hard, hating that high-definition memory. Why can’t I just forget?

Being too smart was a curse. She’d rather be blissfully dumb. But not really. She appreciated her intelligence. The secret was how to use it. Recalling what Sloan had said about details that might be clues, Brooke purposely brought back the vision.

Except for the garish pink lipstick, Layla hadn’t seemed to be wearing much makeup, which was her preference. She seldom bothered with mascara and foundation, preferring a clean face and frequently washed hands. Her personal hygiene habits were even more compulsive than Brooke’s. Had the person who murdered Layla known about that trait? Had he made sure that her hair was freshly washed? Her hands clean? Was he someone who knew her well? Or was he a stalker who had watched her for a long time?

She needed a profile of the killer. Supposedly, that branch of psychology was within the realm of Sloan’s expertise. “We need to get started,” she said, interrupting his phone call.

He excused himself to the person on the phone and looked at her. “Started with what?”

“The profile,” she said. “I want a basis to work from.”

Finally, the SUV hit a path of smooth, unobstructed highway as they approached the foothills. At the end of an arid summer, the vegetation was dull as dirt. He ended his phone call and said, “A profile isn’t guaranteed to be accurate. It provides broad parameters of personality type and behavior.”

“A parameter is just fine. Like I said, I want the profile as a basis—a starting point for the investigation.”

“You can help me.” He shot her a quick glance. “I can’t pull a detailed profile out of my back pocket. I can start with gathering more information about Layla.”

“Like what?” She gestured for him to speed it up. “Ask me questions.”

“From reading Gimbel’s files, I know that she was an orphan with no family ties.”

“Like me.” The demographic was the same. They were both orphans, but Layla’s life was far more complicated. Her parents were both addicts who died together in a car accident when Layla was five or six years old. Brooke had been abandoned at birth—wrapped in a cheap blanket and left outside a fire station. “We both had lousy upbringings but were doing okay until we got kidnapped by a psycho. Move along.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

The gentleness of his voice surprised her. She hadn’t expected sympathy or empathy or whatever this was. Her shields went up. “We’re going to be at the cabin in twenty-five minutes or less. What else do you need to know?”

“Tell me about Layla’s social life. Was she a party girl? Did she have a lot of boyfriends or only one special guy?”

“Parties and clubs weren’t her thing. She didn’t drink or do drugs. Two years ago, there was a guy in law school that she got serious about, but nobody recently.”

“Online dating?”

“Never.” Like her, Layla was protective of her privacy. “I don’t understand all these questions about her. Shouldn’t your profile focus on the murderer?”

“The victim comes first. Understanding why the killer attacked her can help in building a profile.” Following the GPS directions, he made a right turn onto a secondary road that went deeper into the pine forests. “It might seem obvious to you that Layla’s murder is tied to the abductions twelve years ago, but the scope of an investigation is widespread. She might have been targeted by someone she knew at school.”

“Then why would they put on that lipstick or the wedding ring?”

“The quick answer is that they were interested in her history and looked up the details on the computer, but there are many other possibilities.”

“You’re being thorough.”

“That’s right.”

She nodded in approval. “I’ll make a list of the men Layla dated in the past couple of years. And another list of professional contacts—people she’s worked for, schoolmates, professors and mentors.”

“Also doctors, therapists and your attorney,” he said. “It’d help if you put it on a thumb drive so we can build a database.”

“All those guys are suspects?”

“Most will be quickly eliminated, but it helps to cover all bases.”

“You can turn off the GPS,” she said. “We’re here.”

The cabin that she and Layla had purchased for their private hideaway perched among the trees on the side of a steep hill. The main road ascended the incline, and her driveway peeled off, cutting straight across the hill, forty-seven yards to her cabin. Several official-looking vehicles, including an ambulance, had gathered at the start of the asphalt driveway but hadn’t driven up to the house.

She looked toward the house, where she counted two men in sheriff’s uniforms and one in a suit like Sloan. “Why didn’t they drive closer?”

“They didn’t want to disturb possible tire tracks or footprints.”

The driveway was mostly asphalt, but there was dirt on either side. Again, she was impressed by the methodical approach used by law enforcement. She unfastened her seat belt and inhaled what she hoped would be a calming breath. In moments, the image on the computer screen would become real. She would see Layla’s motionless form. The only other dead bodies she’d seen had been neatly tucked away in coffins at funerals or displayed scientifically as cadavers when she took an anatomy course.

“You need to stay in the car,” Sloan said.

She felt a glimmer of relief. She wasn’t squeamish—far from it—but she would rather picture her friend laughing or picking flowers or reading a book. It had taken a long time to partially bury her memories of Layla after her nights as Hardy’s “bride.” The thought of her death was worse.

Still, Brooke couldn’t back down. “If you didn’t want my help in your investigation, why did you bring me along?”

“I didn’t want you to race up here, half-cocked and looking for trouble.”

An unfair characterization if she’d ever heard one. “I’m never half-cocked.”

From her fanny pack, she heard the buzz of her cell phone indicating a text message. While engaged in conversation with another person, she usually ignored texts. But she was worried about Franny.

She checked the message and read it twice: Settle down, Brooke, or you’ll be next.

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