He wouldn’t believe it.
He shouldn’t have let Debra take Sloane from his house. He should have picked up Sloane and hauled her back inside his home and locked out the rest of the world.
But…
Debra rushed to Eugene’s computer. Curiosity clawing at him, Preston did, too. And, over Eugene’s thin shoulders, he read the headlines. The old articles that the internet never forgot.
Teen Girl Sole Survivor of Grisly Murder Scene.
Teenage Beauty Queen Lives Through House of Death.
Preston shook his head.
Why Didn’t He Kill Her? Teenager Only Survivor…
Preston shoved Eugene out of the way, sent the deputy rolling on his chair, and started scanning those articles.
Loved To Death. Boyfriend Kills?—
He gripped the edge of the desk so hard that Preston was surprised he didn’t break the freaking thing.
“Her parents were murdered when she was sixteen,” Eugene said, his voice cracking a bit on the word murdered as he rolled his chair back toward the desk. “She, uh, she was in the house at the time. Some place on the bayou in Louisiana. She found the bodies, after she slept through the attack.”
Yes, yes, Preston was reading all of that.
“Her boyfriend did it,” Eugene blurted. “Said she wanted him to do it for her, but it was just—just his word. His word against hers. He said she planned it all, but the cops didn’t buy his story. The guy was sent to prison. Found guilty of both murders.”
What. The. Fuck?
“There’s more,” Eugene added. He poked close to Preston. His head bobbed as he clicked on the keyboard. “She’s a psychologist now. And get this, her specialty is?—”
“Abnormal psych,” Preston growled as he straightened to his full height. He needed to see her. Now.
“No.” Another crack of Eugene’s voice. “It’s serial killers.”
Preston’s head whipped toward him.
Eugene’s eyes went very, very wide. “But, yeah, sure, they’re abnormal. You could totally call them abnormal. Not like normal people become serial killers.”
Screw this. Preston took off for the conference room.
“Wait!” Debra’s cry. “Wait, dammit, wait!” She physically put herself in front of the conference room door. “Preston, you need to calm down.”
“I am calm.” He was. Calm. Cold. Still in control.
Maybe.
“Preston.” A warning edge. “This is me. I’ve known you for years.”
She had. Because she’d known his adoptive parents. She’d been there when they first brought him to the mountains, and he’d tried to learn how to breathe again.
“That woman is trouble. You need to stay away from her. Let me handle Sloane Armstrong.”
“She was stalking me. I want to know why.”
“She…no, dammit, no!”
“Yes.” Still, very calm.
