knowing that the glare of the streetlamp off her windshield most likely hid her from his view. The light changed to green as he reached the sidewalk by the fountain, but Rose didn’t move. Adrenaline rushed into her bloodstream.
He’d come from the direction of the club she’d just left.
Behind her, a horn honked, rattling her nerves. She accelerated across the intersection, her heart rate picking up speed. She took a left at the next intersection, heading toward Mountain Avenue. Just a few blocks and she’d be home. Safe.
At least, for now.
MIDNIGHT HAD COME and gone, but Rose remained curled up in the overstuffed armchair by the front windows, gazing out at the moonless night. The lights of the city cast a yellow haze across the night sky, obscuring the stars from her view.
She closed her eyes and listened to the thud of her pulse in her ears, steady and just a little rapid, still pumped up with adrenaline from the evening’s events. Behind her eyelids, the sight of Alice Donovan’s scarred and bleeding face played in strobing slow motion, like a silent movie.
A scratching sound at the front door jerked her eyes open. Staring at the solid door, she held her breath, wondering if she’d imagined it.
Then she heard it again. It was faint but unmistakable, a discordant sound, as if someone were scraping fingernails down the outside of the door.
Releasing a shaky breath, Rose crept to the door and peered through the fish-eye lens. She could see nothing outside.
Checking to make sure the safety chain was engaged, she unlocked the dead bolt and cracked the door open.
Alice Donovan’s wide, sightless green eyes stared up at Rose from the welcome mat. Blood from the gashes in her face flowed onto the concrete stoop, the crimson turned black in the muddy yellow light from the streetlamps.
Alice’s lips moved slowly, a soft rattle rising from her ruined throat. “Too…late—”
Rose jerked awake, her heart in her throat. It was still nighttime, the clock over the mantel reading 2:00 a.m. She sat in the armchair by the window, her back and legs aching from the cramped position.
Her pulse thundered in her ears, beating out a guilty cadence.
Too late.
Too late.
Too late.
Chapter Two
Rose called the flower shop as early as she dared the next morning. As soon as someone answered the phone, she forced the reluctant words from her mouth. “Is Alice Donovan there?”
“She’s not in yet.”
“When do you expect her in?”
A thick pause greeted the question. When the woman finally spoke, the anxiety in her voice was palpable. “An hour ago.”
Rose’s nightmare flashed through her mind, chilling her to the bone. Her voice cracked. “Have you tried her home number?”
“She’s not answering her home phone or her cell.” The woman’s voice shook. “She’s never late like this.”
Rose tried to keep her voice even. “I met her last night. I said I’d give her a call—I’m a wedding planner and I can always use a new flower source.”
“Was she okay when you saw her?”
Rose closed her eyes. “She was fine, heading home the last I talked to her. Does she live nearby?”
“On Doberville—the Brookstone Apartments.”
Rose gave a start. A block away, easy walking distance.
“I’d go check on her,” the woman continued, “but I’m the only one in the shop….”
“I’ll check, if you’d like. I live nearby. What apartment?”
The woman hesitated, as if realizing she’d already given out a lot of personal information to a stranger. “Maybe I should call the police.”
“Definitely do that. But they won’t do anything yet—she’s an adult and she’s been missing only an hour. I know you don’t want to give out that kind of information to a stranger on the phone. My name is Rose Browning. Like I said, I have a wedding planning company. You can look me up in the Yellow Pages or on the Internet. I just want to help, and I live so close…”
“Apartment 2-D,” the woman said softly.
“I’ll go right now.” Rose hung up and started dressing, trying to convince herself that she wasn’t too late.
That Alice wasn’t already dead.
THE MORNING CHILL curled around the collar of Daniel’s suit jacket, making him wish he’d worn an overcoat. Ahead, yellow crime tape cordoned off a large square where the crime-scene unit gathered evidence while detectives watched from the sides.
Daniel steered clear of the tape, blending into the crowd of locals watching from across the street. He edged toward the local television reporters setting up for live shots nearby.
A pretty black woman in a red wool coat was doing sound checks, practicing her copy for the technician.
“Police report that a couple of joggers found the body here just outside the Mountain View Golf Course. Police have not identified the victim, a woman in her mid-twenties.”
An image of the dark-haired woman at the Southside Pub flashed through Daniel’s mind. Unease settled low in his gut.
He needed to see the body. See who she was, if she was displayed. The crime-scene unit surrounded the body, their camera flashes piercing the tree-sheltered gloom of the brush bordering the golf course.
He circled the scene, vines and brambles tugging his pant cuffs as he edged away from the sightseers and climbed a slight rise for a better vantage point. He settled between a couple of trees. His line of sight wasn’t perfect, but he had a pretty good view of the body. He pulled a small pair of binoculars from his jacket pocket and trained them on the scene.
Though nobody looked the same in death as in life, he quickly ascertained that the woman lying faceup in the tall grass was not the dark-haired beauty he’d seen at the pub the night before. This woman was about the same age, but her hair was lighter in color, with an unruly wave to it.
Ignoring a twinge of relief, he trained the binoculars on the victim’s face. He could see little of her features behind the roadmap of slashes marring her pale skin, but what he saw of the wound patterns answered the most pressing question. She was victim number three. She lay posed on her back with her hands crossed over her chest, just like the others.
Just like Tina.
“Danny?”
A man’s voice nearby sent a jolt down Daniel’s spine. He turned to find a clean-cut man in a trim gray suit standing a few feet away, his head slightly cocked.
Daniel
