“I wasn’t drunk.”
“Yeah, you were.” Another sigh. “I think you might have been better at profiling than you realized. But then, I always said you had that killer instinct.”
“Show me your hands.” It sounded as if she were begging, and Samantha hated that. “Cameron...”
His left hand came up—
And she surged to her feet because she knew he was going to kill her. She swung out with her letter opener, and it caught his hand, sending a wet spray of blood flying.
Cameron bellowed, and then he launched across the desk, coming right at her. They fell back together, slamming into the floor, and that impact was hard enough to knock the breath from her. But she didn’t let go of the letter opener. She kept it locked tight with her fingers, and Samantha shoved it right against his throat.
* * *
“DROP THE WEAPON! Drop the fucking weapon and put your hands up!”
Samantha blinked at that shout, and she realized that she was still holding the letter opener in her left hand. She opened her hand and let it fall—the blood-soaked letter opener fell from her bloodstained fingers.
Blood. Blood everywhere. On the floor. On the desk. On me.
“Samantha?”
That wasn’t the voice of an angry cop. That was a voice she knew. She squinted, and she saw Blake pushing his way past the first responders as he hurried to her. Her body started to shake.
His gaze raked over her, taking in her bare legs, her shirt—the blood.
“Samantha? What happened?”
Slowly, she shook her head. She hurt. Because a lot of that blood...it was hers.
“Samantha!” Blake’s hand closed over her shoulder. “What in the hell happened here?”
She licked her lips. “He...he got away...”
Four Months Later...
ONCE YOU KNEW that monsters lived in plain sight, it was pretty hard to trust anyone.
Samantha Dark’s feet pounded along the wooden pier. Her breath heaved in and out of her lungs as she ran. The sun was just rising—starting to slide across the morning sky. This was her routine. This was her sanity. Every day was started with a three-mile run that took her along the Fairhope Pier.
Fairhope, Alabama. Her small-town sanctuary. Her haven.
Her hiding spot.
She reached the end of the pier and stopped, her heartbeat drumming in her chest, as she stared out at the bay. The water appeared so dark today—dark and flat. Across the bay, far in the distance, she could see the skyline of Mobile. That city would be coming alive soon enough.
But she wouldn’t be a part of it. She wasn’t in for crowds these days. She avoided contact with others like the plague.
Footsteps beat on the wooden pier behind her. Samantha tensed even as she looked over her shoulder. It was just another runner. A woman with a bobbing blond ponytail. She gave Samantha a friendly wave, then turned and headed back down the pier.
Samantha’s gaze slid toward the water once more. A yacht was out there, anchored in the bay. Had to be about a forty-footer. It had arrived yesterday. Stayed the night. The owner would probably clear out soon. Head on to a new adventure.
Samantha didn’t have adventures any longer. She didn’t want them. She wanted the anonymity of small-town life, and that was exactly what Fairhope gave to her. Sure, some tourists flocked to the area in the summer. But in late winter, it was just the locals. Exactly the way she liked it.
She turned on her sneakered heel and began running back down the pier. She passed Mosley, the guy who was always out with his crab trap. He was throwing it into the water. Two fishermen were organizing their bait. They gave her friendly nods. When she reached the parking lot, Samantha turned right and took the path that would lead her toward the little beach that waited. She loved that beach and the trees that twisted near it. Spanish moss hung in the oak and cypress trees, swaying overhead as she ran. Ducks were up ahead, squawking. This scene was as far away from the hustle and bustle of DC as it was possible to get.
Samantha kept running.
It’s all I’ve been doing for the last four months.
Thirty minutes later, she was back at the parking lot. She headed toward her car, but...a man stood there. He’d propped his hip against her driver’s-side door. His arms were crossed over his chest, and the light morning breeze tousled his dark hair.
She stopped when she saw him. Her muscles were shaky from the run, but just the sight of that man with the sunglasses—with his strong shoulders, that dark hair, that hard jaw—had adrenaline pumping through her body. For a moment, she could only shake her head. He shouldn’t be there. He didn’t belong there.
Samantha realized that she’d frozen, and she forced herself to move forward. Slowly, she closed the distance between them, drawing nearer to the man who’d slipped into more than a few of her dreams...and nightmares. Her breath seemed to burn her lungs. She stopped beside him.
“Blake.” She said his name like an accusation. Mostly because it was. “What in the hell are you doing here?” When she’d left DC, she hadn’t exactly given anyone a forwarding address. Not even him.
His head tipped back as he straightened. He pulled off his sunglasses, tucking them in his pocket. His eyes—never been able to forget those green eyes—met hers...and he smiled.
She shook her head. “No. Whatever it is...no. Just get in your car. Drive. Get out of here.” She marched toward her car. She’d already pulled out her key and was going to get inside and drive away from him.
But Blake’s hand flew out. His fingers curled around her wrist and held tight. “I missed you.”
What? Her gaze jerked back to his face. Emotion glinted in his eyes. Emotion she didn’t want to read. She couldn’t handle his emotions. On good days, she had trouble dealing with the tangle of her own emotions. She definitely didn’t want to deal with his.
“You can’t hide forever,” he murmured as his thumb stroked along the inside of her wrist. Her pulse immediately increased beneath his touch.
“I’m not hiding.” She could tell lies so easily these days. “I’m living a civilian life. There’s a difference.” Because her suspension had quickly turned into unemployment. Sure, her profile of the Sorority Slasher had been proved accurate. She had perfectly described the perp they were after.
But she’d been found in a serial killer’s house. A killer who’d gotten away on her watch. And on his way out of town, Cameron had killed again. He’d stabbed a cop who’d made the mistake of pulling him over when Cameron had been racing away from the scene. Bass had blamed her for that death. He’d blamed her for plenty of things.
The fact that she’d been found in Cameron’s house, wearing only her shirt and underwear—yes, gossip had spread in the ranks quickly enough about that situation. And that gossip had leaked out to the press. An agent who screwed a serial killer. Whispers had dogged her steps.
But even worse than the condemnation from Bass...her own guilt had eaten away at her. Because...that cop’s death is on me.
She’d let Cameron get away. His escape was on her. She’d kept that secret shame inside for far too long.
“You’re a profiler, Samantha. An FBI agent. You hunt killers. You stop them.”