grappling with the slick asphalt as he wound around the mountain. The steep incline forced him to downshift and brake, the miles of dense forest and deserted country roads endless. If a hiker got lost or was in trouble, they might never be found.
Unless someone alerted the police. Meaning the killer wanted them to find his victim.
Because he felt remorse, or because he liked the game?
A ray of sunshine fought through the gray clouds as he accelerated and maneuvered the narrow dirt road. Bush and trees marred the rest of the way. He’d have to park, and hike to the ravine.
He yanked on his jacket, checked his weapon, climbed from his SUV and scanned the wooded area. Was the caller still around? Was he watching?
Senses on overdrive, he listened for footsteps and began to weave through the dense brush and trees. Barring the wildlife creatures, the squirrels and birds foraging for food, the forest remained asleep. Gravel crunched beneath his boots as he descended the rocky terrain leading into the ravine, rocks skittering down and pinging into the creek below. When he reached the lower bank, he turned in a wide arc and scanned the horizon, the edge of the woods, the cliff above. Vultures soared overhead, a hunter’s gunshot reverberating in the distance. Wind blew damp leaves into a cluster.
Where was she?
His gut tight, he forced himself to turn around again, scan the woods, then the water.
Heaven help him. It was her. Caitlin.
She was lying naked in the icy creek, wedged between some rocks, her arms outstretched, her dark hair tangling around her pale face. White lilies floated around her head like a halo. He stepped closer, his gaze drifting over her bruised body.
A stab wound marred her bare chest, the letter A carved across her breasts in blood. He choked out a breath. Two murders in Savannah the year before and three in Atlanta had the same MO. The police had dubbed the killer The Carver. Dear God, now he was here in Raven’s Peak.
And he had killed Caitlin.
Savannah, Georgia
THE SUN SLITHERED through the dark morning sky as the driver pulled in to a station to get gas. Caitlin saw the sign for Savannah, and vague memories surfaced—she had a sister, she knew she did. They had been close—she felt her presence as if she were here somewhere. Surely her sister had been looking for her. Or did she know Caitlin had been locked in that mental hospital?
The driver climbed from the eighteen-wheeler with a tired grunt and lumbered toward the men’s room, and she slid from the seat and ran toward downtown Savannah. Traffic clogged the narrow streets. Signs for River Street goodies, bars and restaurants, and the market floated by while sightseers roamed the squares. A ghost tour through a cemetery caught her eyes, and she glanced at the tombstones, a shiver racing up her spine.
She spotted a local diner and she decided to slip inside and warm up. Maybe get some coffee. Unfortunately, she had no money or ID. Maybe she could offer to wash dishes in exchange. At least she could get a glass of water, sit down and think.
Steam from the griddle sizzled above the den of people as she entered the cafe. She knew she looked ragged so she rushed to the restroom and cleaned up. The scent of coffee, sausages and shrimp grits filled the cramped space. Heat enveloped her as she claimed a corner booth and grabbed a menu.
A waitress wearing a name tag that read Verna and a white apron splotched with grease stabbed a pencil behind her ear and glided toward her with coffee, but halted suddenly, her eyes glued to the TV set in the corner. “Oh, my word!” Verna flicked up the volume. “There’s been a woman murdered in North Georgia.”
Caitlin angled her head to see the set.
“This late-breaking story in now, folks. We’re here with Federal Agent Reilly Brown and Sheriff Miles Monahue of Raven’s Peak. A young woman’s body was discovered this morning in the mountains in an area locals call Devil’s Ravine.”
He shoved the microphone toward a tall, dark-haired man with black eyes. Behind him several cops combed the woods, others were huddled near the edge of a stream, and a team of paramedics hovered around a gurney. “Sheriff Monahue, did you find the woman’s body?”
The man’s face looked haunted. “Yes.”
“And is it true that the victim is your wife, Caitlin Collier Monahue?”
A shadow fell across the man’s face as he bowed his head and nodded. “Yes, we’ve been searching for her for weeks.”
Caitlin gasped. What was he talking about? She was alive. And she didn’t know that man at all.
“Was she a victim of The Carver?” the reporter asked.
Sheriff Monahue scrubbed his hand over his beard stubble. “It appears that way, but we’ll know more after we investigate.”
Caitlin’s heart stuttered as the photo of the sheriff’s wife appeared on the screen. No…dear heavens, it couldn’t be.
Her palms sweated as more memories churned through her foggy brain. The photo—yes, it was her. Caitlin. But she wasn’t dead.
So who was the woman in the water?
A fleeting image of standing in front of a mirror hit her, and she frowned, then realized that the mirror had not been a mirror at all, but another woman. It had been her sister—her look-alike…they were identical twins.
Dear God, her sister…Caitlin…Nora—Nora was dead….
Nora, the only family she had left. The only person who cared about her.
She doubled over as grief and fear swelled inside her. She was all alone now. And while she’d been locked away, someone had killed her twin.
Raven’s Peak, Georgia
Five hours later
THE LAST FEW HOURS had been pure hell.
Miles stood outside his rental house, his stomach knotted, his hands thrust inside his denim jacket to ward off the cold as the crime-scene investigators and Brown searched his house. He’d already succumbed to a DNA swab, had his bootprints taken and turned over the clothes he’d been wearing. Thank God he hadn’t given in to the need to touch Caitlin before Brown had arrived, so his hands would be clean.
One of the detectives confiscated his kitchen knives upon arrival and had already bagged them. Miles had noticed the serrated edges on the steak knives and prayed they didn’t match the lacerations in her chest. If they did, then someone had been inside his house and had set him up.
But if this were the work of The Carver, it was a ritualistic serial-killer case, not someone with a vendetta against him. The killer probably wouldn’t take the time to frame him. He’d want to bask in the glory and attention of his crime.
He slid his Ray-Bans on, then removed a notepad from his pocket and began a list of his possible enemies to question.
Brown cleared his throat as he approached. “We’re finished.”
Wind whistled through the trees, a gust sending dead leaves raining to the ground. “Will you let me know what the M.E. discovers? I’d
