Collecting Evidence. Rita Herron

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      Collecting Evidence

      Rita Herron

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      Table of Contents

       Cover Page

       Title Page

       About the Author

       Dedication

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Epilogue

       Copyright

      Award-winning author RITA HERRON wrote her first book when she was twelve, but didn’t think real people grew up to be writers. Now she writes so she doesn’t have to get a real job. A former kindergarten teacher and workshop leader, she traded storytelling to kids for romance, and writes romantic comedies and romantic suspense. She lives in Georgia with her own romance hero and three kids. She loves to hear from readers, so please write her at P.O. Box 921225, Norcross, GA 30092-1225, or visit her website at www.ritaherron.com.

      To Jamie, a brave and courageous young girl—may all your dreams come true!

       Prologue

      Special Agent Dylan Acevedo pressed the blade of the knife against Frank Turnbull’s fleshy neck.

      “Go ahead, kill me,” Turnbull muttered.

      Dylan jabbed the blade into his skin, a smile curving his mouth as a drop of blood seeped to the surface. He should just do it.

      The man deserved to die.

      The images of the women the serial killer had brutally murdered—all young Native Americans in their twenties—flashed into Dylan’s head in sickening clarity. Their delicate throats slashed, bodies left exposed in the rugged terrain of the desert, blood dripping as if to lure the wild animals to feed on their remains.

      Young lives lost for no reason except to fulfill the sick cravings of a demented mind.

      Dylan glanced down at the knife in his hand. The knife that had belonged to Turnbull. The same kind he’d used to cut the women’s throats.

      It was only fitting he die by the same instrument.

      With his throat sliced open by a Ute ceremonial knife made from white quartz and Western Cedar, the kind of knife used to cut the umbilical cord of a newborn or to harvest herbs for sacred ceremonies.

      Another important component of Turnbull’s MO was his calling card—he’d left a piece of thunderwood by each victim. Another dig to the Ute people who had a religious aversion to handling thunderwood—a piece of bark from a tree struck by lighting. The Utes believed

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