“Let’s talk to Ms. Burns,” Nevada offered. “She might have something to add.”

“After all this time, the chances feel slim she has good information, but a small chance is better than none.”

They entered the interview room and found a platinum blonde sitting at the table. They made the usual introductions. “What can we do for you?”

She shifted, tucking a curl behind her ear. “I heard your press conference and wanted to share a story.”

Macy laid her yellow pad on the table and flipped over a dozen or so pages before she reached a fresh one. “What can you tell us?”

“I used to live in a one-story rancher ten miles west of here. I was out there a couple of years and never had any trouble until a night in June of 2006.”

“2006?” Macy noted this was a new date in their timeline.

“That’s right.”

“What happened?” Nevada asked.

“I never had any trouble sleeping out in the country. That’s where I grew up. But I can still remember being awakened in the middle of the night. I could have sworn I heard someone in or just outside the house. But when I racked a round, whoever it was took off running.”

“And?” Nevada asked.

“Not much. But two days later when I was cleaning, I found a strand of red rope under my bed. I’m a bit of a clean freak, and I know for sure that rope wasn’t there when I’d vacuumed three days earlier. It freaked me out, but eventually I talked myself out of it. When you announced Tobi had been found, it just got me to thinking about it.”

“And you’re sure the rope was under the bed?” Macy’s mind turned with possibilities.

“Absolutely.”

“Did you save the rope?” Macy asked.

“No, it gave me the creeps, so I threw it out. Do you think this guy was stalking me?”

Nevada shook his head. “I don’t know. But if it is our guy, it tells us he was still in the area a year after the crimes we’re investigating.”

“I found something else outside my bedroom. I didn’t save it either and had forgotten about it until now,” Rhonda said.

“What was it?” Nevada asked.

“It was a key chain with the Spice Girls on it.”

“Spice Girls?” Tobi Turner had loved the pop band. “You’re sure about that?”

“I’m positive,” Rhonda said. “Does that even make sense?”

This killer took trophies from his victims, and he’d taken Tobi Turner’s key chain. “This has been really helpful,” Macy said. “Thank you for coming in.”

After Ms. Burns left, Nevada brought Rafe into the conference room by the large county map. “Show me where that house is.”

Rafe studied the map for almost a minute as he ran his finger along the interstate and then guided it down back roads farther and farther west. “I think it was here,” Rafe said.

“Whose place was it?” Nevada asked.

“It was an old cinder block house owned by the Miller family, I think. We used to go out there and party. Bruce loved it.”

“There’s nothing around the house.” Much like the hub of a wheel, it was dead center in relation to the rapes, the Wyatt barn, and the drop location of Beth Watson’s body.

“A good place to keep an abducted woman,” Macy said.

“You and I will drive out there while Mr. Younger stays here,” Nevada said.

“Are you arresting me?” Rafe asked.

“You’re free to go, but it would be in your best interest to work with me now.”

Rafe met Nevada’s fierce glare and nodded. “Happy to help.”

“Good man. Sullivan will fix you up with coffee and a sandwich if you’re hungry.”

When Macy stepped outside, she barely had a moment to breathe a full lungful of air before the reporter, Peter Stuart, approached carrying a small handheld camera and a microphone. “What’s the status of Deputy Bennett?”

The clink of keys outside Brooke’s prison door woke her from a half sleep that had seeped into her bones despite her best efforts to stay awake.

Brooke kept her eyes closed but curled her fingers into a fist. She’d sworn she’d never be a victim again. And yet here she was, a cop, trussed up and ready for the slaughter.

The last time, she’d been sixteen—she’d gotten drunk and had been clueless about danger. She allowed her memory to drift back to high school and that football season she’d spent years trying to forget.

It was the bonfire, and everyone from school was celebrating the last game of the regular football season. Excitement rippled over the crowd, because everyone knew if the team won on Friday, they were going to state finals in two weeks.

The liquor warmed her body and chased away the night chill. She felt so mature. So cool. The world was a pleasant, swirling blur, until it wasn’t.

The drinks hit her with the force of a baseball bat. Brooke stumbled, but she righted herself as a wave of nausea washed over her. Music and laughter pulsed behind her. She stumbled toward the woods, dropped to her knees, and then threw up.

Finished, she looked back toward the bonfire through watery eyes. The dance of the flames was mesmerizing, and she missed the warmth on her skin that cool night. As she pushed to her feet, leaves crunched behind her.

A strong hand gripped her forearm and she felt grateful. Help had arrived. “Please,” she whispered. “Help me.”

“I’ll help you.”

They turned and walked away from the fire deeper into the woods. “Not this way,” she said, confused.

“Do you want them to see you like this?”

“No.” She was so turned around. Lost.

He handed her a flask. “It’ll make you feel better.”

Desperate to feel like herself again, she drank. But whatever relief she expected didn’t come. Her head spun and her knees buckled.

Brooke had woken up at dawn. Her blouse had been ripped, and her bra torn open. Her pants had been stripped off and laid beside her. Humiliated, she’d dressed and walked home. To this day, she only had vague memories of rough hands on her body as someone penetrated her with such force she’d cried out.

Now, just outside the doorway, a man stood. He made no sound, but she could feel his gaze roaming over her body.

Adrenaline jacked up her heart rate, and staying still was difficult. If this was the man they were hunting, she knew what he wanted. The women Macy Crow had interviewed had all said the same thing. He wanted to see fear. She might die, but she could deny him what he wanted most.

“I know you’re awake,” he said.

She stayed still.

Maybe if he got pissed, he’d make a mistake, and she might have a chance to save herself. Help didn’t even seem like an option.

“You’re as tough as you ever were,” he said. “I like that.”

The raspy voice was familiar. They had met before. She barely remembered the night of her rape, but since the lab had confirmed the same assailant committed all the assaults, she’d tried unsuccessfully to remember. Matt’s DNA would have proven if her case was connected to the others, but there was no telling what had happened to that sample.

He rolled her on her back, straddled her midsection, and pressed his full weight onto her abdomen. He slapped her face hard. “Wake up.”

Her head rattling with pain, she looked up into the masked face of her captor. Carefully, he removed his gloves, tugging each finger free. He set the gloves aside and carefully traced the hollow of her neck with his index finger. She flinched. Memories of lying on her back in a cold field and struggling to breathe came back to her.

“Are you afraid?” he asked.

Think like a cop. Focus on the facts. One day I will be a witness to this. I will survive.

Eyes, blue. Skin, Caucasian. Midthirties, maybe older. Fit. One hundred ninety to two hundred pounds. His nails were clean, neatly trimmed, and his hands free of calluses.

She inhaled, noting the perspiration scent of a man.

He wrapped his hands slowly around her neck, rubbing the underside of her jaw with his thumb. Slowly, he tightened his grip, twisting his hands. “One, two, three.”

Black jeans. Dark hoodie. Athletic shoes.

As his count grew higher, she struggled to pull air into her lungs as she tightened the muscles in her neck. This must have been what drowning felt like. Her brain fogged, and her gaze grew hazy as she gasped for air.

“I like a challenge. So brave, little Brooke. Just like the last time.”

The reference to the past was not lost on her, even though she was desperate to breathe. A gurgling sound rose up in her chest, and her lungs burned. Panic rushed her. She did not want to die. She still had so much left to do. She had a son to raise.

She stared at him until her gaze completely dimmed and she felt herself falling into the blackness. Her heartbeat thundered, slowed, and then stopped altogether.

Suddenly, the panic was gone. Her mind floated upward above her body and his reach.

Her next sensation was crushing pain in her chest. She drew in a deep, painful breath and awoke to find his face hovering inches above hers.

He’d brought her back from death.

“Not yet, Brooke,” he said softly. “Don’t leave me just yet. You’re a strong one. We can do this again and again.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Thursday, November 21, 9:00 p.m.