She headed for their vehicle. Heard the thud of his steps behind her. This little trip hadn’t been…

“Now I remember.” Martin called out, and her blood froze.

She stilled at his words, and the darkness that always surrounded her seemed to grow thicker. Monica took a quick breath before glancing back at him. Deliberately, she didn’t let her eyes stray to Luke.

“Remember what?” Clear and cold.

He gave a nod. “Kyle West. Seems I recall hearing about him… he was the sheriff’s nephew.”

Now she did risk a glance at Luke and saw the understanding in his eyes. Sometimes, even law enforcement looked the other way when it was family.

“Something else you should know, Dante.” The sheriff’s words were thicker now. “I don’t like this shit with Lynn any more than you do.”

She caught the tightening of Luke’s jaw. “Oh, really?”

“Hell, yeah. Lynn—she’s my sister.” He stalked toward them. His voice lowered when he said, “And I’ll be damned if I let her wind up in a grave.”

Family.

Yeah, sheriffs, agents, the cops on the beat—they could all break the rules for family. Especially when death came calling.

“Then you better make sure she stays the hell away from Charlie,” Luke ordered, “because that’s where he’s gonna put her.”

The two men’s stares locked. Then the sheriff gave a hard nod. “I’m workin’ on it.”

Family. Just how far would you go to protect family?

How far had Sheriff Patterson gone? “Tell me, Sheriff,” Monica said. “Are there any other members of Kyle’s family in town?”

He spat on the ground. “Just one. May Walker. Lives up on Grimes, past the fork that leads to the right.”

“Somebody lives here? We’re sure about that?” Luke asked, eyeing the dilapidated house on Grimes Street.

She could understand his disbelief. The house didn’t exactly look inviting. Darkness from within, two windows boarded up, and an overgrown lawn with thick, twisting trees that seemed to surround the rundown house.

“Don’t you take so much as another step or I’ll shoot you!”

Monica stiffened at the yell. A woman’s voice, coming thickly from the darkness of the porch. And, ah, yes, she could see the barrel of a shotgun. “We don’t mean you any harm.”

“Get off my property! Been robbed twice this week. Fool sheriff won’t help me; I’m helping myself! You’re not takin’ anything, so—”

“We’re not here to rob you,” Luke told her, his voice carrying easily. “We’re FBI agents, ma’am. We need to ask you some questions about your nephew, Kyle West.”

Silence.

Then, “What the hell you doin’ comin’ out here so late? Tryin’ to give an old woman a heart attack?”

“Uh, no—”

“Show me your ID!”

Carefully, Monica reached for her badge. Luke’s movements mirrored hers. Wood creaked, and a small figure of a woman with a bun of gray-streaked black hair eased down the steps. She still had a tight grip on her shotgun.

She squinted. “Can’t see shit.”

Good to know when that shotgun was so close.

After a moment, she dropped her gun. “If you’re robbers, you’re the loudest damn robbers I ever heard.”

“We’re not robbers,” Luke began.

She grunted. “Agents from the FBI.” She whistled. “And you lookin’ for Kyle, huh? You not gonna find him here.”

“We heard he left town,” Monica said.

“Yeah, yeah.” She rocked forward a little bit. “After Saundra—sweet little Saundra—he took off.” Her head turned a little bit to the right.

“And do you know where he went?”

May turned away. “Ya’ll come inside. I want to see them IDs in the light.”

They followed her in, and the steps creaked beneath them, a rough groan of sound.

The inside of May’s house was packed with old boxes, piled high, nearly touching the ceiling. There were old newspapers and dolls—lots of porcelain dolls with wide, black eyes.

Not any room to sit on the couch. It was covered with books.

But there was plenty of light, and May took her time looking at their IDs. Finally, she said, “Don’t know where Kyle went.”

“No idea at all?” Luke pressed.

“You get in a fight? What the hell happened to your eye?”

His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “A fist that didn’t agree with me.” His gaze held hers, an intent look. “Ma’am, do you have any idea where Kyle is right now?”

She hesitated, and then her already narrow lips thinned even more. “Maybe out West. Used to talk about goin’ to California to try and find his dad.”

Luke pulled out a notebook and scribbled down the information. “And his dad is?”

“Hell if I know.” May shoved aside some books and sat down on the end of the sofa. “My sister Margaret—she didn’t know, either. Some guy she met one night. Idiot who promised her a new life, but screwed her and left her to rot with a kid.”

Ah, not the most warm family moment there. “So Kyle never knew his dad?”

“Nobody ever knew him. My brother said he was gonna hunt him down when he found out that Margaret was pregnant, but Henry never did. Couldn’t find the bastard. Hell, maybe Henry didn’t even look.”

Right. Henry. That would have been Sheriff Henry Patterson. Monica began to walk casually around the house. The papers were at least ten years old. And most of the books were covered with dust. May wasn’t reading the books, just keeping them.

And, apparently, almost everything else. “What about Kyle’s mother?”

As she turned back to watch her, Monica saw the other woman flinch. “Dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Luke said smoothly. “It must have been hard for you, losing your sister.”

A jerky nod.

“And how did you lose her?” he asked, as he stepped closer to May. A slow, easy move. No threat. Just compassion there, on his face, in his eyes.

May frowned at him. “A f-fire. She died over fifteen years ago in a fire on Brantley. Hey, don’t go messin’ with my stuff!” A hard bark toward Monica.

Monica eased away from the papers. “May, do you happen to have any letters from Kyle? Maybe, I don’t know… even some of his old school work?” Highly likely, given the state of the house. May seemed to keep everything. And maybe they could get their hands on a sample of Kyle’s handwriting for comparison.

May blinked and rubbed her head. “What? Why’d you be wanting that?”

So I can see if he’s a killer. “It relates to an investigation we’re pursuing,” she told her.

“You investigatin’ Kyle?” Her head shook, back and forth. “No, no, he ain’t done nothin’!”

“Easy, May, it’s all right,” Luke said.

But she backed away, ramming her elbow into a stack of newspapers and sending them crashing to the floor. “M-my head… startin’ to hurt again. Need my medicine…” Her lips twisted and she muttered, “Be mine, Valentine.”

What? Monica cleared her throat.

“Um, where is your medicine, May?” Luke edged closer to her “Tell me and I can get it for you.”

“No! No! I don’t need you. I don’t—”

“All right.” He tossed her a light smile. Still so easy. “Was Kyle with Margaret when the fire started?” Luke asked.

The color bleached from May’s face. Fear flared in her light green eyes. “I want you to leave, you hear me? Leave. I’m a sick old woman. You shouldn’t be here, messin’ with me.”

“Sorry, May,” Luke said immediately, “we didn’t mean—”

“Leave!” She jumped to her feet, and her hands fisted.

Monica met Luke’s stare and inclined her head. “Thanks for your time.” Soft. “And if we could just get those old letters of Kyle’s…” Because she needed them.

May’s thin lips twisted. “No. I know my rights. You can’t take anything from me!”

Not without a warrant. But if that was the way they needed to play, so be it.

They headed for the door. Luke stopped and offered May his card. “Just in case you hear from Kyle, give me a call, would you?”

She snatched the card. “Won’t hear from him. Haven’t heard from him in a year, ungrateful little bastard.”

Right. A “little bastard” that the woman sure seemed to be protecting. “Thanks for your time,” he told her.

But Monica hesitated. Be mine, Valentine. Where had that come from? And why? May’s voice had softened, saddened when she said it. “When was the fire—I mean, what date?”

“Val—Valentine’s Day.”

Monica managed to keep her eyes steady on May. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Leave.” A whisper now, holding the edge of desperation.

Monica knew they wouldn’t be getting any more help from May. She crossed the threshold, with Luke walking out into the night ahead of her.

May slammed the door shut behind her. Almost got her foot.

“Not a lot of Southern hospitality there,” Luke murmured.

No, and Monica sure would have liked to learn just what “medicine” May was taking.

“Think she’s telling us the truth?” He headed toward the car.

Monica glanced back at the closed door. “Probably not.” But her fear—that stark flash when she’d asked about Kyle and the fire—that had been real.

“Don’t go back to the motel, not yet.”

Luke had thought Monica slept beside him as he drove. The SUV had eaten up the interstate, leaving the cypress trees and the heavy moss behind.

She had lain back beside him and closed her eyes, leaving him. For sleep?

No, he should have realized her mind was still working. Always working.

“Did you hear me?” She stirred a bit, straightening. “Don’t go back to the motel yet. Take us to the Moffett crime scene.”

“What?” His gaze slipped toward her, just for a second, then back to the road. But he could still see her from the corner of his eye. She pulled at her seatbelt, then rubbed her forehead, the back of her hand pushing back that silky soft hair.

“It doesn’t make sense. I mean, the tree, I get. Saundra’s kill was personal; he wanted her to die seeing what she’d lost.” A quick sigh. “And the car wreck—it was the exact same place. He was forcing the vic to relive the worst night of her life.”

Monica had been working the case during the drive. He’d thought she was dead on her feet, and she’d been mulling over the case.

Monica’s nails drummed on the armrest. “That’s what he was doing—forcing them all into the past. With Saundra, with Patty, with Sally—he took them to a place from their pasts. And he made them fear.”

His hold on the wheel tightened. “Then why’d he bury Laura behind that house? How was that important to her?”

He steered off on the exit ramp, turning north and heading for the house of death.

“We missed something out there,” she said. “I know we did.”

“You really think we’re gonna be able to find anything tonight?” They should just go back in the morning, with plenty of light, and maybe she’d be able to do her voodoo and figure out what message that twisted creep was trying to send them.

No, not to them. The message was to the victims.

“This guy does everything for a reason. The people he picks, the way he kills them. The places he chooses—and when he kills,” Monica said. “I want to see the scene the way he saw it.”

She’d come to play his game. He watched the lights of the agents’ SUV cut through the darkness.

Back so soon.

She hadn’t even been in Gatlin a full twenty-four hours. Not time to learn any good secrets. Disappointing. He’d expected more from her. She was supposed to be the best.

But she’d hardly presented any challenge so far.

He pulled onto the road behind them and kept his lights off. They’d never know he was there, getting so close.

Tonight wasn’t a kill night, not for her—because he didn’t know yet what Monica Davenport feared. So many things could chill. So many things could wake her up in the night, screaming. But what was the one thing that scared her the most?

He had to know. He would know. It was his mission. Find out, break her.

They didn’t turn toward the motel. He tensed a bit at that. He’d expected them to go back. Maybe to screw. Because he’d seen the way the man, Dante, looked at her.

Lover’s eyes filled with possession, heat, and lust.

It would be too easy to figure out Dante’s fears.

But Dante wasn’t his prey.

They turned up ahead, taking Peter’s Junction, and his foot eased a bit on the accelerator.

That way—it led to the Moffett house. Why go there? Why tonight?

He pulled off the road, taking a deep breath. No, that wasn’t the taste of fear on his tongue. He wasn’t afraid. Never afraid.

But maybe Agent Davenport had learned more than he thought in Gatlin. If she’d stumbled onto his secret, someone would pay. Someone would scream and beg and bleed—and pay.

Behind him, a muffled groan broke the silence.

He smiled. Pay.