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What’s worse than not being able to predict the next move of a killer? Knowing that you and the killer are the only two enlightened by the truth.
I could rationalize that his dominant nature spurred him to act against his natural impulses. He claimed me as his, and refused to allow another man to tarnish his possession.
If he hadn’t made me as an imposter, that very well could’ve been his motivation.
But there’s something stronger at play here than his need: his survival instincts.
For those who revel in the taking of lives, they value and protect their own with a fierceness that rivals the protective nature of a mother over her child.
I let these thoughts fall into the background of my mind as I collect myself. Straightening my dress, I tug it down my thighs, smooth my disarrayed hair along my shoulders. The awkward silence filling the bar follows me as I move toward the table to grab my clutch and then head to the door. I won’t be back to this bar, but neither will Connelly.
Before I leave the comforting light beaming from the lamppost, I remove my phone from my bag and poise my thumb over the lit screen, ready to hit my programed emergency button.
The rental car parked in the lot backs my story of my car being broken down, but also gives me anoth
er layer of anonymity. As I punch in the keyless entry code under the door handle, an eerie feeling touches the back of my neck.
I open the door and have one foot inside the car when I feel a rough band of rope circle my neck. Shock grips me and I gasp—but I was ready; I hold on to that single, nearly fleeting thought as I prepare to lose my ability to breathe. I’m primed for him to deflect my attempt to grab the rope, so I focus on my phone, my thumb already moving over the screen.
“I’ve been studying you, too.” His words are a low rasp as he wraps his hand around my wrist. Before I can hit the button, he rams my arm against the car. My phone drops to the gravel.
I squeeze my eyes closed, dragging in a breath past the constriction of my throat.
He closes the door, then pulls my back against his chest as he drags me away from the car. The sudden loss of the interior light submerges us in the cover of darkness. The chirr of crickets seems to grow louder, hostile, as if the insects are provoked by the intruders invading their woods.
My heel snags on a root. The shoe is lost to the soggy ground. I concentrate on keeping the other one in place; a possible weapon.
Once we’re out of eyeshot, the tall grass and trees obscuring us from the bar, I’m forced to my knees. The muddy earth is cold and biting against my skin. He loosens the rope enough for me to take an unobstructed breath. I suck in the taste of dirt and humid summer as I fill my lungs.
The press of a sharp object at my waist causes me to flinch out of reflex.
“That’s not really your style,” I say, trying to buy time—to get him talking. To do anything but use that knife.
The blade is removed, but the rope tightens around my neck. Blood rushes my ears in a whoosh as pressure bulges my eyes. My fingers dig at the coarse rope, trying to find access beneath the tightly bound cord. Then just as I fear losing consciousness, he loosens his grip.
The rope slides against my neck as I gasp in air around a cough, the feel of choking still clinging to my throat.
I watch his booted feet appear in my vision, the moonlight glinting off the polished, rubbed black. I keep my eyes on the ground as he stops before me.
“There are witnesses,” I say.
“None of which give a damn about either of us.”
“You know my death will be investigated. I’m not one of your victims; I won’t simply disappear.” I look up into his face then. Stare into the shadowed sockets of his dark eyes.
“There won’t be a body to investigate.” Connelly runs the pad of his thumb over the tip of the blade.
I open my mouth to say more, to let him know who I am, how Detective Quinn and the task force will link my disappearance to him—but the knife makes contact with the collar of my dress, pressing into my skin and stifling my words.
As Connelly kneels in the mud, his weapon gouging into my flesh, I force my eyes not to close. I hold his gaze as he slices a clean cut down the fabric. The sound of tearing material sends me right back into my nightmarish memories.
Sweat trickles into the shallow cut on my chest with a biting sting…then he rips the collar away, revealing my neck and chest. With another swift move, he slips the flat of the blade beneath my bra. The cold steel assaults my skin. I shiver, and that entices a smile from his twisted lips. He turns the knife and yanks, cutting my bra away from my body.
His eyes assess the my scar. And as he says, “Oh, beauty. How divine your torture must’ve been,” I hold the gaze of the killer before me. I will not look away. I will not give him the fear he feasts on.
His fingers test the scar tissue along my collarbone. Lust flickers in his eyes as his hand trails up to capture the necklace around my neck. “I rarely take such an obvious trophy,” he says, wrapping the chain around his hand. “But I can’t resist.”
He jerks the necklace from my neck and then pushes me to the ground.
