Just as Mr. Chastain pulled out a gun.
For a split second, time stood still. Allie froze. Kathleen froze. The air that had been charged with angry voices was now stunningly quiet.
Then Allie noticed that time, somehow, was still moving. Mr. Chastain was still moving. He’d produced a gun from his coat with a casualness that seemed wildly out of place for the situation, the same ease with which he raised the gun, aimed it directly at the chest of the woman standing in front of him.
And fired.
Like a video running in slow motion suddenly propelled into fast forward, everything seemed to happen at once. The muffled shot. The eruption of blood that splattered across Mr. Chastain’s pristine silk suit and overcoat. Kathleen’s head snapping back, eyes wide with shock, before she fell to the ground.
And then, once more, silence. Nothing but the steady beat of the rain.
A scream rose in Allie’s throat, pressing at her Adam’s apple with a force that begged to be released. Some deep-seated sense of self-preservation prevented it. She clamped her lips together in a tight line to keep the sound from escaping. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t afford to let him know she’d seen.
So she stood there, hidden in the alley’s shadows, afraid to move, afraid not to. She watched as Mr. Chastain slowly lowered the gun and returned it to his pocket.
Murder. I just witnessed a murder.
Allie stared at his expression, no less horrified by what she saw there than by what she’d seen him do. There was no remorse. There was no anger. There was…nothing. If she hadn’t seen him kill someone, she never would have believed it. He gazed down at the woman’s body with an expression so blank that she almost wondered if he realized what he’d done.
Then, with a chilling coolness, he smiled.
He said something to the two men, who’d stood there the whole time and done nothing. One of them laughed.
Fresh horror swept over her. Allie slowly became aware of the fact that she was shaking. Tremors racked her body from head to foot. Silent tears mingled with the rain and poured down her cheeks, blurring her vision, the result of keeping that scream inside. She couldn’t wipe them away, couldn’t move at all. Then she realized to her horror that she was still standing there.
How long had it been? Ten seconds? Minutes? An hour?
Too long.
She had to go. He might glance over and see her at any moment.
And then he would kill her, too.
Oh, God.
She had to go. She had to run.
Holding her breath, doing her best not to make a sudden movement, she inched backward, retreating farther into the shadows. She ducked around the corner. Then, only then, did she start moving faster, spinning on her heel, hurtling into the darkness and the escape that lay beyond.
And she ran, so hard and so fast it seemed as though she would never stop running again.
Chapter One
One Year Later
Gideon Ross heard the vehicle a good couple of minutes before it emerged from the winding mountain road and rolled to a stop out front. There was never any doubt where it was headed. His cabin was the only destination on this particular road. Most days passed without a single engine marring the silence, the town store’s monthly deliveries being the only exception. After a couple weeks of trying to be neighborly, the few residents of the town at the base of the mountain who’d even bothered had taken the hint and given up. The cabin was too remote and its owner even more so to make the effort worthwhile.
It was a lesson they’d learned none too soon for his tastes. Ross hadn’t bought the isolated cabin deep in the Adirondacks in hopes of meeting people. He’d moved here to get away from them. If he could find a way to bypass those supply deliveries that didn’t involve starvation, he’d gladly take it.
He knew long before it arrived that the vehicle making its way up the mountain wasn’t the store’s delivery truck. He was well acquainted with the sound of its engine. This ominous and steadily rising growl wasn’t it.
Lifting the beer bottle to his mouth, he finished off the last few ounces, then dropped it to the floor beside him. With his feet propped up on the porch railing and the chair tipped back on two legs, he folded his hands behind his head. To hell with it. He wasn’t about to let some idiot ruin his day. The autumn afternoon was too warm and the sun felt too good to get worked up about much of anything.
The vehicle—late-model Buick, he registered before he even thought about it—stopped a few feet in front of the cabin. The engine was cut off, and a few seconds later he heard someone climb out.
He didn’t bother to remove the fishing hat he’d tugged low over his face to see who it was. He knew two things without looking. Whoever it was didn’t know him, because they would know better than to bother him, and they weren’t welcome. They’d figure that one out for themselves soon enough.
Footsteps crunched along the rocks and gravel until they hit the front steps. It was a man, or a woman who walked like one. From the sound of it, a man who was carrying more than a little excess weight.
Ross would have groaned if it hadn’t meant giving away that he wasn’t sleeping. Old habits died hard, and a year of rust hadn’t kept him from analyzing every detail without intending to. As long as the visitor didn’t intend him harm, it didn’t matter who it was. He was an easy target and he wasn’t dead yet. Things looked fairly promising on that front.
“You going to stop faking and offer an old man a drink?”
So much for promising. The voice was familiar, but no more welcome than when the visitor had been a stranger. Tension coiled in the pit of his stomach, killing the beer buzz he’d been working on all afternoon.
“Well?” the voice demanded.
“No.”
The porch railing creaked, no doubt from the strain of Ken Newcomb leaning against it. “Too bad. I haven’t been driving for six hours for nothing.”
“Plenty of places back in the city to get a beer.”
“Except you’re out here in the middle of the damn wilderness.”
“There’s a reason for that.”
“Yeah. Because you’ve lost your damn mind.”
“Because I want to be left alone.”
“I would be happy not to be here. I wouldn’t be, either, if you had a phone.”
“There’s nobody I’m interested in talking to.”
“Well, you’re going to want to talk to me. I’ve got a job for you.”
“Not interested.”
“You will be.”
“I let my license lapse. You’re going to have to find yourself another bounty hunter.”
“You don’t need a license. This isn’t official. It’s personal.”
That was what Ross was afraid of.
He finally pushed back the brim of his hat and peered up at his visitor. The homicide detective had a face the texture of tanned leather, seeming to bear the evidence of every case he’d ever worked in twenty-five years on the job. In the scant fourteen months since Ross had last seen him,