Then she and her husband were making love beneath the open trees. Promising to hold each other forever.
And later, a baby boy lay nestled in her arms. A little girl danced toward her.
A little girl she could buy a birthstone ring for, just as her mother had for her. Once she’d outgrown it, she’d made it into a necklace. But William had stolen that, too. Had ripped it from her throat and thrown it to the ground. It was lost forever. Just like her dreams.
Too weak to scream, she felt the sob that erupted from her throat die in the dusty abyss of her prison.
The hopes of that life, of a family, faded with it as she closed her eyes and floated into the darkness.
SHE HAD TO BE ALIVE.
The tires of Special Agent Brad Booker’s sedan screeched on the wet asphalt as he veered onto the narrow dirt road leading around the old farmhouse. It was pitch-dark, a cloudy moonless night. He’d reached “Death Valley.” At least that was the nickname the locals had dubbed it after several people had died in the valley.
Now he knew why it had been dubbed the gruesome name.
The grass and trees all looked brittle and frail from the drought, the outbuildings run-down and dilapidated, the lack of life a sign that it was deserted. He’d heard rumors about the area. That the soil wasn’t fertile. That plants and animals couldn’t thrive here. That families didn’t, either.
He threw the car into Park, jumped out, grabbed a flashlight and shovel from the trunk and took off running. Behind him two other cars raced up and parked. One his partner, Ethan Manning. The other a squad car from the local Buford police.
His heart pounded as he tore through the dark, wooded area searching for ground that had been freshly turned. Limbs cracked and branches splintered beneath his boots. It had been over twenty minutes since Brad had received the call from the reporter.
The call describing the spot where Lisa Langley was buried.
Jesus.
Brad had promised to protect her.
But he’d failed.
Behind him, the men’s voices sounded as each decided which direction to go. It was so damn dark they could barely see their own feet, the towering oaks and pines like a jungle that blocked out any light. They parted, the locals with the police dogs allowing the hounds to lead. Brad wove behind them to the right, shining his flashlight over the dry ground, ignoring the buzz of insects and threat of snakes as he raced through the briars and brambles. A voice inside his head whispered to him that it was too late.
Just as it had been for the other four victims.
Another voice ordered him to fight the panic.
But the air in the box wouldn’t last long—if the oppressive summer heat didn’t cause Lisa to have heatstroke first. And then the bugs would feast on her body.
He banished the image and forged on.
It seemed like hours, but only a few minutes passed before one of the police tracking dogs suddenly howled.
“Over here!” the officer yelled. “I think we’ve got something.”
Brad spun around and raced toward him. Seconds later, he spotted the mound of dirt. The single white rose lying on top.
The Grave Digger’s signature.
“Damn it!” His heart clutched painfully as he imagined Lisa Langley down below. Terrified. Dying.
Or dead already.
He loosened the knot in his tie, then jammed the shovel into the ground, swiping at the perspiration on his face with the back of his shirtsleeve. Manning and the locals followed, digging with a frenzy. Dirt and rocks flew over their shoulders as they worked. Sweat poured down Brad’s face, the sound of the shovels and the men’s labored breathing filling the humid air.
Finally, the shovel hit something hard. A wooden box. Just like the others.
His heart pounding, he dug faster, raking away the layers of soil until they uncovered the top of the box.
“Give me a crowbar and some light!” Brad shouted.
Ethan knelt beside him, shoved the tool into his hand. Brad attacked the box while the locals shone flashlights on the dark hole.
The wood broke and splintered. Brad clawed it open. His throat jammed with emotions. Fury. Rage. Guilt.
Lisa Langley. Such a beautiful young girl. Left naked and dirty. Bruised and beaten. Her fingers were bloody from trying to dig her way out. Her eyes were closed.
Her body so still.
“Too late,” one of the locals said.
“Shit,” the other one muttered.
“No!” He couldn’t accept it.
Even though he never went to church, wasn’t sure he was even a believer, a prayer rolled through his head as he reached inside and lifted her out. She was so limp. Heavy. Cold. He spread her across his lap, then immediately began CPR.
Ethan ran to the car and brought back blankets, draped them over her body, then felt for a pulse.
Gazes locked, the two men paused, paralyzed, for just a second.
Brad continued CPR, muttering under his breath. “Come on, damn it, Lisa, breathe! Don’t you dare die on me.”
Time lapsed into an eternity as they waited. Finally her chest rose slightly.
Ethan made a choked sound. “Jesus Christ, she’s alive.” He jumped into motion, punching at his cell phone. “Where the hell’s that ambulance? Get it here ASAP—our vic is breathing!”
Brad sent a thank-you to heaven, then lowered his head and wrapped the blankets more securely around her, rocking her back and forth. “Come on, Lisa, stay with me, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Help is on the way.” He shook her face gently, trying to rouse her into consciousness, but she was in shock. He wrapped the blankets tighter, hugging her closer to warm her. Somehow, if she lived, he’d make it all up to her.
And when he found the bastard who’d done this to her, he’d make him pay with his life.
CHAPTER ONE
Four years later
“THE GRAVE DIGGER IS BACK.”
Special Agent Brad Booker stared at the crime scene in shock, the detective’s voice mimicking his own thoughts. The Grave Digger case—this whole scenario reeked of it.
That first one had almost cost him his career, his entire life.
His mind ticked over the similarities. Four years ago, the final victim, Lisa Langley, had been found on another moonless night. It had been dark and so damn hot the heat had literally robbed his breath. As if the thought of her missing hadn’t already done so.
Just like the other victims, he’d found her in a rural, deserted wooded area. Rotting vegetation and overgrown bushes marred the trail. Yet they had plowed through and found the grave tucked into the midst of Death Valley.
Except today, there was no white rose on the grave. This killer was making his own statement. Adding his personal signature with the gold cross dangling around the woman’s neck. But what was the significance?
Hopefully, Joann Worthy’s battered body would give them some answers. The stench of blood, decay and death permeated the air. Crime scene technicians combed the woods with flashlights, searching for evidence in the inky night. Insects buzzed noisily. Cameras flashed, capturing all