“I got your text. What’s up?”

Kylie was his older sister’s child. At twenty-two, she had graduated from college and was beginning her first year of Columbia Law School.

“Checking in on Grandma. How is she doing?”

“Okay. She’s always grumpy.”

“When is your mother coming in to help?”

“I don’t know. She’s in Paris. Don’t worry, I’ve got the Grandma shift covered.”

“How long can you stay?”

“A week.”

“Good. That helps. I should be back in Washington by then.”

“I don’t do much. Tracy takes care of everything.”

Tracy had been his mother’s caregiver for five years. She was one of the very few people his mother listened to these days. “It’s good to have family around Grandma this time of year.”

“I hear ya. Grandma does keep asking for Grandpa. Tracy and I are going to take her to the beach.”

He glanced at his watch and checked the date. “It’s always a bad day for her.” The air blowing from the vents slowly cooled. “It’s the anniversary of Grandpa’s death.”

“I remember. I just can’t believe she does. She’s forgotten so much.”

Forgetting his father’s suicide would have been the one act of kindness Alzheimer’s could have done for his mother. But there was nothing kind about the disease.

This was not the first time he had been away from home at a critical time. He had missed Kylie’s college graduation. That had caused a blowup with his sister and renewed her complaints about his job. “Can I talk to Grandma?”

“Let me check.” Silence and then muffled conversations between Kylie and his mother. “She doesn’t want to talk to you or anyone.”

Six years ago, he had walked into the family home and greeted his mother, and she had started screaming. She had called the cops. That was when he’d realized she was really sick. Her memory had flickered on and off until finally it had not returned. He had been one of the first people she had forgotten. “I’ll be home in a few days. Can you hold down the fort?”

“You know I can,” she said.

“Thanks, kid.”

“Back at you, old man.”

“Touché.”

She was laughing when she hung up.

He locked away thoughts of home and shifted to the task at hand. It was never a good day for anyone when Ramsey or one of his crew left their Quantico headquarters and visited their jurisdiction. He chased the worst of the worst serial killers. The type of monster he and his team chased was not the garden-variety gangbanger. Their prey included predators who ate their victims’ flesh, sold children for sex or murder, and dismembered and mutilated bodies of the living and the dead. No one wanted to believe the creatures Ramsey hunted were real. He knew better than anyone that evil lurked in the darkness and was waiting for its chance to claim a new victim.

Now he was back in Nashville, Tennessee. It was home to a thriving economy and a growing population, which meant the city attracted the best and worst of humanity.

While in law school, he had thrown in an application to the FBI on a lark. It sounded like an interesting job, and he had dreams of carrying a gun and badge and screening for the Hostage Rescue Team. Chase a few bad guys, sharpen his shooting skills, and then eventually head to Wall Street, make bank, meet a smoking-hot wife, and raise a couple of kids. When he was old and gray, he could retire to the family estate on the shores of the Chesapeake Bay and maybe write his memoir.

Then fate stepped in and punched Ramsey right in the mouth. Ramsey’s old man, who had been a gentle soul more interested in his birds than the boardroom, had trusted the wrong man. Stuart Kline, a talented lawyer and accountant, had lured his old man into a quagmire of investments that toppled a fortune that had taken three generations to build. Ramsey’s father, unable to face his son and his board of directors, shot himself in the head two weeks after Ramsey graduated law school.

Kline earned only seventeen months of jail time in a minimum-security prison with cable television and conjugal visits.

Newly minted law degree in hand and more pissed off than Ramsey could put into words, he joined the bureau’s white-collar crime division. He knew numbers, understood the legal system, and had grown up in the rarified world of old money.

He had a natural talent for reading people, dissecting their moves, and hearing the meaning behind their words.

Ramsey’s success in white-collar crime had caught the attention of his supervisors, and he had been transferred to the criminal division. He recognized the transfer for what it was. He was a chess piece in a game bigger than white-collar crime. The best press followed the sexier hunt for serial killers, and he had the chops for the work.

The killers he and his handpicked team chased were soulless, narcissistic sociopaths who did unforgivable things to a human body.

Ramsey drove across town and wound his way toward the TBI offices. He found a spot close to the entrance. He shrugged on his coat, brushed the sleeves smooth, and checked his tie in the reflection of the vehicle’s glass. He grabbed his briefcase before entering the building.

He showed his credentials to the TBI officer stationed at reception. “I’m here for Agent Melina Shepard and her supervisor, Agent Carter Jackson.”

The officer called up to the investigative offices and informed him Shepard would be right down. A few minutes later, elevator doors dinged open and a trim woman stepped off. She wore black fitted pants and a white shirt, and her dark hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail that brushed her shoulders. Slim hips, muscular thighs and arms, and full breasts all caught his attention in a less-than-clinical way.

In her early to midthirties, she was attractive with deep-olive skin and sharp brown eyes alight with curiosity and hints of annoyance. She was someone who appeared wary by nature and who would have let the facts unfold before she fired the first question. He guessed a deliberate pause had been part of the reason she had survived her attacker last week.

She extended her hand, and he stepped forward to accept it. Long fingers wrapped around his hand and squeezed with surprising strength. “Agent Ramsey. Agent Melina Shepard.”

He held her hand tight, noting the subtle callus likely earned with weight training. “Pleasure.”

“I hear my DNA sample brought you here?” Hers was a husky, rich voice.

“It did.”

“It’s been less than a week. That’s a fast turnaround for the FBI.”

“Your boss is a hard man to ignore.” Jackson had staked his reputation on Shepard’s assessment of the van’s driver, who she believed was a practiced killer. Quantico, Jackson had warned, had better pay attention.

“Yes, he can be.” She was already walking toward the elevators and pressed the button. “Agent Jackson is waiting for us upstairs. He’s finishing up a call.”

“Good.”

The doors opened and they stepped in. She selected the third floor. “Are you going to tell me who I stumbled across?”

“I’ll save the show for when we have Jackson. Will cut down on repetition.”

She regarded him closely. “I stumbled onto a bad one.”

Ramsey had a file filled with pictures of dead women killed by this man. “One of the worst.”

Silent, they rode to the third floor, and when the doors opened, she introduced him to the receptionist and pointed him in the direction of the bathrooms. When he shook his head no, she knocked on a corner door. The nameplate read JACKSON. She poked her head in the door. “Boss? Agent Ramsey is here.”

“Come on in.”

She stepped back, motioned for him to go in first. He stood his ground and waited for her. Annoyance in her gaze appeared again, but she clearly decided there were bigger battles to fight than outdated chivalry.

Carter Jackson ended his call, stood, and unrolled shirtsleeves over muscled forearms that suited a former UT quarterback. Midforties, Jackson had been with TBI over twenty years. He had a solid reputation in the state and at Quantico.

Jackson extended his hand. “Welcome to Nashville.”

Ramsey was met with a strong grip. “Wish it were under better circumstances.”

“Likewise,” Jackson said. “There’s coffee in the conference room.”

Ramsey’s doctor had once mentioned he should cut back on the brew and take more vacations. It was laughable. Ramsey had a better chance of taking up knitting.

Agent Shepard led the way toward the conference room. They passed several open doors, and a glance in each found a curious agent finding a reason to hover.

The conference room was well lit with a bank of windows that overlooked the surrounding compound. Melina stood back as the two men filled cups. Her move didn’t appear to be deferential but strategic. She was assessing him, taking note of the small details that he knew could yield insight into any man.