Hunted. Cynthia Eden
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be feeling. “I’m not trying to be in the spotlight.”
He raised one brow.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “You don’t know me. I get that. But you’re wrong here. I want the focus on the victims. I want them to have justice.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he murmured. “And it’s always easier to do my job when I don’t have a reporter dogging my steps.”
So much for having a partnership with him. Desperate, she tried again as she said, “I can help you. I’ve been talking to the victims’ family members and their friends. I know things about the victims. Maybe I can help build a profile—”
“We have agents from our Behavioral Analysis Unit who do that.”
He was definitely shutting her down.
“Watch your step, Ms. Quinn,” he said again, but she knew he wasn’t talking about her high heels and the broken pavement in the parking lot. “Because you never know when a killer is close.”
And the guy just turned and walked away from her.
Her right foot tapped on that uneven pavement. “Casey,” she called after him. “My name is Casey. Remember it—because you’ll be seeing me again.” If he thought she was just going to give up, the guy needed to think again. She wasn’t going to be scared away.
Giving up wasn’t in her personality.
If Josh Duvane wouldn’t help her, well, then she’d just go find someone else who’d be ready to talk. A good reporter never gave up.
And Casey didn’t just want to be good at her job. She wanted to be great.
* * *
THEY’D FOUND TONYA. He’d watched as the reporters and the authorities slowly loaded into their vehicles and left the scene. They’d found her faster than they’d discovered his last victim.
But then, he hadn’t taken Tonya as far out this time. He’d left her closer to the shore, a deliberate choice. He’d needed to dump her body quickly and then get ready for the next kill.
He already had a new victim in mind.
He could see his prey right then.
She stood in the middle of the parking lot, tapping one high heel. Her dark brown hair fell to her shoulders, a sleek style that even the humidity of Florida couldn’t seem to muss. She had on a crisp white shirt and a formfitting black pencil skirt.
She was pretty...almost perfectly so with her fine-drawn features. He’d studied her often enough; he knew every detail of her face. Her wide-set, dark eyes, her bow-shaped mouth, her softly curved chin. He’d watched her on the news, marveling at the way she seemed to stare right at him.
As if she could see him.
I see you. He’d seen her all along. He’d seen everything she’d done. All the secrets she’d tried to keep. All the sins that she thought no one knew about...he’d seen everything.
She thought she was safe. She thought no one knew what she’d done.
But he knew.
He’d always known.
And before he was done with her, she’d be begging to tell the world her story.
They always begged.
And then they died.
Casey sidled around the back of the sheriff’s station. Sure, this wasn’t exactly her best moment, sneaking up to the back of the building because she knew that the young deputy, Finn Patrick, was scheduled to get off work at eight o’clock that night. But Finn had been kind enough to share a little inside information with her before and she was hoping that he might feel similarly inclined again...
The back door squeaked open. It was a heavy metal door, and it led from the rear of the station to the small staff parking lot in the back.
Casey made sure her friendly smile was in place as that door opened. She stood in the shadows, waiting to see Finn’s dark hair appear but—
Blond hair.
Her smile froze. She expected Sheriff Hayden Black to exit the building.
But the man who came out wasn’t Hayden. The blond hair was a little too dark.
Josh Duvane shut the door behind him. He tensed and his gaze swept toward the right—toward the shadows. Toward her.
He’d changed his clothes again, and now the guy looked more like an FBI agent. Khaki pants, button-down shirt and a holster. A holster that he was currently reaching for as he kept his narrow-eyed gaze in her direction.
“Wait!” Casey called out. She hurried forward with a clatter of her—yes, still wearing them—heels. “It’s just me.”
If anything, his expression became even darker. “Should have known you’d be skulking around.”
“Skulking?” Casey repeated, not liking that particular word choice.
“Yeah, skulking. Hanging around, hoping for a weak link to appear so you can get another scoop.” He put his hands on his lean hips. “I know Finn tipped you off last time.” Josh gave a sad shake of his head. “You like preying on twenty-year-old deputies? The guy is green and you know it. You got him to spill confidential information to you that could jeopardize the case.”
Furious, she kept marching toward him. “I didn’t jeopardize anything! Finn just told me the number of stab wounds that the victims suffered—”
“And you immediately reported it, opening the door for copycats galore to come out and play.”
Her breath heaved out. “You don’t like me.” Were they really back to that already?
“I don’t know you, as you pointed out earlier.” His gaze swept the dark lot. “And, lady, why would you want to be out here by yourself? You know you match the killer’s victim profile, right?”
“I—” Yes, okay, maybe she did know that. But she was at the sheriff’s station. Shouldn’t that be the safest spot in town?
He grabbed her wrist, surprising her. It wasn’t the quick movement itself that surprised her. Rather, she was surprised by how gentle his touch was. His hand wrapped around her wrist, and she felt the faint caress of his fingertips against her pulse point.
A little shiver slid over her.
“Sheriff Black gave advice for folks to be vigilant. He gave that advice to you. And what do you do? You immediately run out and find the first dimly lit, empty parking lot that you can?”
“I know how to take care of myself.”
“I’m sure the other victims thought that, too.” His gaze slid around the lot. “Where the hell is your car?”
“My hotel is four blocks away. I just walked—”
“Because you have a death wish?”
She silently counted to ten, then said, “You are getting on my bad side.”
He smiled at her, a quick flash that showed the dimple—no, not really dimple, more like a rough slant—in his right cheek. “When you get angry, your voice goes absolutely arctic.”
Then she must be completely freezing him right then.
“Finn isn’t coming out here. He’s pulling a second shift and, even if he weren’t, the sheriff just gave him orders not to speak to any reporter, including pretty brunettes who smell like candy.”
Her eyes widened. “Smell like—candy?”
“Didn’t realize that, huh? You do.”
Her