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Ashley looked at her, nervous and hopeful.

“Not the kind I want.” Skye forced herself to meet her eyes. “I’m off the case. Detective Davis is taking over. He’s solid, has more experience than me. But if you ever need to talk about anything . . . things that might be harder to say to a man . . . you can still call me. Anytime.”

Ashley’s face fell. “What happened?”

“I can’t get into the details.” Skye’s throat tightened. She looked at the tidy living room, the woman who had rebuilt herself after being dragged ten feet into the trees behind the convention center and grossly violated. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I haven’t stopped him. Sorry we’re still stuck.”

“He killed the park ranger, didn’t he.” A statement.

Skye nodded.

Ashley closed her eyes. Her mouth trembled once as her hand fluttered to her shoulder and dropped. She couldn’t reach the mark that they both knew was there, the scar her attacker had left on her back.

When she opened them again, the tears welled but didn’t fall. “I’m lucky, then.”

“We’re not giving up,” Skye said, but the words felt hollow.

Ashley managed a small nod. “I’ve been seeing the counselor you recommended. It helps. My sister comes down from Seattle more often now. We took a self-defense class together. I feel stronger. And I’m seeing someone. Nice guy from the gym. It’s new, but . . . I’m not scared all the time anymore.” She gave a shaky laugh. “I’m angrier than I am afraid now. That’s something, right? Still can’t walk outside alone at night, though. Not yet.”

“You’re doing better than most,” Skye said quietly. She stood, suddenly desperate to leave before the weight of Ashley’s quiet resilience crushed her. “You should be proud of how far you’ve come.”

At the door, Ashley touched her arm lightly. “Thank you for coming to tell me yourself. Most cops wouldn’t.”

Skye nodded, unable to speak, and walked back to her truck.

How the hell was she supposed to prove Trent Calderon was a predator if she couldn’t even stay on the case? Was Maggie’s risky plan really their only shot?

She dialed the rookie as she pulled away from the curb. “We still on for tonight?”

“Absolutely,” Maggie said, voice bright with determination. “I’ll text you the location and time. We’re going to get him, Skye. I know it.”

Skye wasn’t sure she believed her anymore, but what other options did they have?

IX.

The bitch cop was still on him.

At first, Trent had loved the way he lived rent free in Skye Truman’s head, the way he’d already damaged her career. He knew she’d been pulled from the investigation. Detective Davis was just going through the motions now, and there was nothing left to find. Trent had been careful. The first two times he had been a tad reckless, but no longer.

Still, three weeks of this game with the detective had worn the thrill thin. Three weeks since the park ranger, and he was growing frustrated with pent-up need. To control, to possess, to claim and leave his mark. She kept appearing in his life. At his favorite club with that guy from the medical examiner’s office she was screwing. Parked down the street from his townhouse. Slipping in and out of his peripheral vision like a ghost. Twice he’d stormed up to confront her, to tell her he would have her badge for harassment, only to find it was some other tall, lanky blonde. The paranoia was starting to eat at him. He’d nearly botched a key legislative analysis last week, catching the error only seconds before it hit the governor’s desk.

He’d already had her slapped down twice. Maybe it was time to push her until she broke.

Every Saturday morning he’d been waiting on her favorite jogging path. This morning, his patience finally paid off.

Trent stood hidden among the dripping redwoods, breath steady, when Skye Truman jogged past. Tall, lean, muscular. Even in the cold drizzle she wore shorts, her long-sleeved shirt darkened with sweat and rain. He let her get ten yards ahead, then slipped out and fell in behind her.

Her stride was powerful, confident. Her firm ass flexed with each step. A dark, unwelcome heat stirred in him. She wasn’t his type—too big, too strong, too much of a fighter. He preferred smaller women who broke easily, who cowered under his body and knife. But the thought of taking her anyway, of smashing that proud face into the mud and watching fear cloud her eyes . . . it was harder to shake than it should have been.

He closed the distance slowly, savoring the hunt.

Five minutes. She still hadn’t noticed.

Then she slowed, glanced over her shoulder, saw him.

She stopped hard, turning to face him. Rain beaded on her skin. She glared, motioned for him to pass her. Instead, he stopped and smiled brightly.

“Hello, Detective. Haven’t seen you running lately.”