Dark Pursuit

Craig’s pen. She’d left it on the kitchen table.

Kaitlan whirled around. It wasn’t there.

She strode back to her purse and picked it up. No pen underneath.

With a cry she dropped the purse and ran for the bedroom. She swiveled around its angled entrance.

Her bed was empty. Coverlet smoothed, pillows at the top. No strangled woman, no black fabric with green stripes.

The memory of the smell hit her—the flowery perfume mixed with urine. She lifted her face and sniffed.

No scent remained.

In a half-daze Kaitlan sidled to her bed and ran her hand across the coverlet where the woman’s hips had lain.

Dry.

She placed her palms on the mattress, leaned over and breathed in. The faint smell of urine wafted up her nose.

Kaitlan jerked up and stumbled two steps backward. She stood, hands clenched, air stuttering in her throat, as panic rappelled down her spine. She wasn’t crazy. That woman had been here.

And so had Craig.

Kaitlan turned toward the sliding glass door, her focus landing on the carpet. The footprint. He’d forgotten to clean it up.

She stared at it, visualizing Craig’s flurry of activity as he restored the apartment, his fear of being caught. Or had he been methodical, so confident he could control her that he hadn’t bothered with the print?

Maybe he thought she was too dumb to notice it.

She couldn’t believe this.

She had to believe it.

Margaret. She and Kaitlan’s grandfather would be waiting to hear what happened.

Kaitlan hurried back to the kitchen. She fumbled in her purse for her cell phone. With shaking fingers she dialed the unlisted number she’d never forgotten.

“Kaitlan?” Margaret’s voice pinched.

“She’s gone.” Kaitlan’s tone sounded flat. “Everything’s in place.”

Margaret sucked in a breath. The sound chilled Kaitlan’s blood. It was a sound squeezed by fear.

Her grandfather had been right. Craig was a killer. Now her life depended on what she did next.

You play your charade, he’ ll play his.

Kaitlan’s eyes bounced to the clock on the kitchen wall. Ten after six. Craig would arrive in twenty minutes.

This was insane.

“Gotta go, Margaret. I’ll call you tonight when I get back home.”

“I’ll be praying for you.”

“Thanks. I believe in that.”

She snapped the phone shut and dropped it in her purse. With a deep breath, Kaitlan swiveled toward the bathroom to make herself presentable for her boyfriend—a man who had killed three women.

nineteen

He was right. Darell knew it. He was right!

Perched in his office chair, back erect, he stared at his monitor. But his mind barely registered the empty page that had once taunted him so. The angst of the past year, that gut-churning fear of a career in the dust—now stunningly behind him. The freedom he felt! How true the saying—one didn’t know how heavy the burden until it was gone. His fingers weren’t flying over the keys just yet. But the story would come as this true-life trauma unfolded. He need only wait and watch.

And catch this killer.

Darell crossed his arms and focused out the window. The straggly end of an oak branch pushed against the edge of the glass, its leaves trembling in the breeze. He narrowed his eyes, listening to the scratch of wood. Skreek, skreek. A nerve-whittling sound. One he might use in a dark and threatening climactic scene …

Why did Craig Barlow kill?

Darell pondered that. His gaze returned to the white of the screen—and in that second, out of nowhere, the shock of reality hit.

This wasn’t a novel. This was real.

Kaitlan wasn’t a character, she was his granddaughter. Her boyfriend had killed three women. And he—who knew the criminal mind—had forced her right back to the man.

What was he thinking?

Fear curdled Darell’s blood. He sagged back in his chair, palms pressed against his chest. Air clogged his throat like mud.

He had sent his only granddaughter off to die.

How was he supposed to protect her from here? As if he could guide an aberrant criminal mind from afar.

Dread encased Darell in a blanket of metal. He put a hand to his sweating forehead. How had he allowed this to happen? Just this morning a mere fictional murderer had outwitted him. Oh, to have that back as his only problem.

Darell fumbled for his cane and pulled to his feet. “Margaret!” He thudded across the office. “Marrrgaarettt!”

The door flew open and she rushed in. “What? What is it?”

“I need …” His arm flailed. He could barely breathe. “I need Kaitlan’s cell number. Have to call her, tell her to get out of that apartment—now!”

“It’s too late, D. It’s six-forty. He picked her up ten minutes ago.”

No. Darell shook his head until his brain rattled. “No. Not too late. We have to reach her. We have to get her out of there.”

Margaret’s cheeks paled. “Come on now, let’s get you to your chair.” She nudged him back toward the desk.

No, no rest in the chair. He had to move, do something!