CHAPTER ONE

      THE SCENE WAS all wrong.

      The killer—the balding man in his late thirties—the man who stood there with sweat dripping down his face, a gun held in his trembling hand and a dead girl at his feet...he was wrong.

      FBI Special Agent Samantha Dark raised her weapon even as she shook her head. She’d profiled this killer, studied every detail of his crime spree. And...

      This is wrong.

      “Drop the gun!” That bellow came from her partner, Blake Gamble. He was at her side, his weapon drawn, too, and she knew all of his focus was locked on the killer.

      They’d come to this house just to ask Allan March some follow-up questions. He’d been one of the custodians at Georgetown University, a university that had recently become the hunting grounds for a killer.

      At Blake’s shout, Allan jerked. And when he jerked, his finger squeezed the trigger of the gun he held. The shot went wide, missing both Samantha and Blake. She didn’t return fire. Allan doesn’t fit the profile. This is all wrong—

      Blake returned fire. The bullet slammed into Allan’s right shoulder. Not a killing wound, not even close. Blood bloomed from the spot, soaking the stark white shirt that Allan wore. Allan should have dropped his gun in response to that hit, but he didn’t. He screamed. Tears trickled down his cheeks, and he aimed that gun—

      Not at Blake, but at me.

      “Has to be you...” Allan whispered. “Said...has to be you...”

      She didn’t let any fear show, even as the emotion nearly suffocated her. “Allan, put down the gun.” Blake’s order had been bellowed, but hers was given softly. Almost sadly. Put the gun down, Allan. I don’t want to shoot you. This isn’t the way I want things to end.

      The FBI had been searching for the Georgetown University killer for months. Following the trail left by the bastard—a trail of blood and bodies. But the trail shouldn’t have led here.

      Allan March was a widower. His wife had passed away two years ago, slowly dying of cancer. He’d been at her bedside every single moment. All of the data that the FBI had collected on Allan indicated that he was a dedicated family man, a caregiver. Not—

      A serial killer.

      “I’m sorry,” Allan whispered.

      And Samantha knew what he was going to do. Even as those tears poured down his cheeks, she knew.

      “No!” Samantha screamed.

      But it was too late. Allan pointed the gun right at his own face and pulled the trigger. The thunder of the gunfire echoed around them, and, a moment later, Allan’s body hit the floor, falling to land right next to the dead body of Amber Lyle, the twenty-two-year-old college student who’d been missing for three days.

      “Fucking hell,” Blake muttered.

      This is wrong.

      Samantha rushed toward the downed man. Her weapon was still in her hand. Her eyes were on Allan. On what was left of his face. Dear God.

      * * *

      “THE PRESS IS ripping us apart, Samantha! Ripping us apart!” Her boss glared at her as they stood inside the small FBI office. “You were supposed to be the freaking superstar—a profiler who could do no wrong. But your profile was shit. You had us looking for a man who didn’t exist. Three women died while we were looking for the killer you said was out there!”

      Samantha stood, her shoulders back and her spine straight, as Justin Bass berated her. Spittle was flying from her boss’s mouth. His blue gaze blazed with rage.

      The executive assistant director was far more pissed than she’d ever seen him before. The guy had a temper, everyone knew that truth, but this time... There’s no going back.

      Justin didn’t like to look bad. He liked to be the agent in charge, the man with the answers. The suit who handled the press and gloried in the attention he got when his team brought down the bad guy.

      “Damn it, Samantha!” Justin snarled, a muscle twitching in his rounded jaw. “Do you have anything to say?”

      Did she? Samantha swallowed. Did she dare tell him what she thought? When every single piece of evidence said just how wrong she’d been?

      “Take it easy, Bass.” Blake spoke on her behalf. He was at her side, sending her a sympathetic glance. “What matters is that the Sorority Slasher has been stopped.”

      The Sorority Slasher. Samantha hated that name. It sounded like something from a really bad horror flick. Leave it to the tabloids to glam up a grisly killer.

      “We’re the fucking FBI,” Justin said, stopping to slap his hands down on his desk. “We can’t afford to make mistakes.”

      Her temples were throbbing. She knew exactly who they were.

      “Someone has to take the fall for this one. Three women died because you were wrong. You were wrong, Samantha. The superstar from Princeton. The woman who was supposed to change the face of profiling. FBI brass shoved you down my throat, and you were wrong.”

      She made her jaw unclench.

      “You’re taking the fall for this one.” Justin nodded curtly toward her. “Consider yourself on suspension.”

      Samantha almost took a step back. Her lips parted—

      Don’t take the job from me.

      “What?” Blake was the one who’d given that shocked cry. It was Blake who sounded furious as he snapped, “You can’t do that! Samantha is the best—”

      “Yeah, right, you think I don’t know about the hard-on you have for