The last person who'd torn out her heart.

As he scrolled, a familiar name jumped off the screen. Micah Zuch. He caught his breath and rapidly read the article. And then read it again.

Why is that punk a person of interest in the case?

He knew Micah. He knew Micah very well.

Over and over he'd seen echoes of himself in the boy. Their lives had too many similarities and parallels. He'd tried to ease the boy's way, make up for what he was lacking. Protect him from what he knew was coming.

He read the article a third time, looking for subtext. It stated the police didn't consider Micah a suspect-which they shouldn't-but that the information he'd brought to the police had made them focus their efforts in a different direction.

What direction?

How could Micah know anything about those deaths?

He pulled out his phone and called a friend. "Hey, Steve. I just read about the young guy they're holding for the cop murders. You guys must be relieved they caught someone."

The cop predictably set him straight that they didn't believe Micah Zuch was the killer.

"I must have misunderstood. Then why are they holding him?" he prodded.

The cop's next few sentences chilled him to the bone.

"Well, I hope he's a good lead and you guys nail the b.a.s.t.a.r.d." He ended the call and sat still, staring at his computer screen.

Why did Micah confess to the murders? How could he have known exactly what the victims were wearing?

His train of thought shot in a million directions. "Maybe he knows someone who had access to the crime scene doc.u.mentation," he muttered out loud. But different law enforcement departments had handled the evidence collection in each case. He could understand Micah having a friend in one department, but not in four of them.

That left one option.

Micah had followed him.

He slammed his laptop shut and pushed out of his chair, stalking about his dining room. He'd thought he'd been so careful. Fury raked through him.

"That little sneaky a.s.shole! This is what I get for trying to help him?" He turned and slammed his fist into the wall, leaving an impression in the drywall. "f.u.c.k!" He hit with his other fist and the drywall broke. He yanked his hand out of the wall, staring at the blood that immediately welled in the scratches on the back of his hand. The pain cleared his head.

How long did he have before Micah told them the truth?

Why had he kept it a secret this long?

He had a mission to finish and he wasn't going to let that goth loser screw it up. There were twenty-four hours left in his personal timeline. He would finish.

He wouldn't let his mother down.

Twenty years ago.

She sobbed as she sat cross-legged on the floor next to the Christmas tree. Their tree was scraggly, decorated with strings of popcorn, a few lights, and some of his little old toys, which his mother had hung with ribbons. "I love these old toys," she'd told him. "They remind me that you're no longer a little boy."

He didn't think toys from McDonald's Happy Meals deserved to hang on their tree.

His friend Jason's mother had decorated their tree with a million strings of white lights and dozens of gla.s.s ornaments that were all the exact same shade of blue. She'd bought matching strings of shiny blue beads. Jason said a blue tree was dumb, but he thought it was the most beautiful tree he'd ever seen. It made their popcorn and toys seem cheap and lame.

His heart broke as he watched his mother cry. Lately it seemed all she did was cry. They were poor. He understood that and knew better than to ask to go see the movie Scream with his friends. Movies at the theater were not in their budget. He also knew he wouldn't get the videotapes of the Evil Dead movies that he'd put on his Christmas list.

His mother believed horror movies would warp his mind.

Her hatred of them increased his desire to see them.

He knew what had crushed her this time. It was that man. It was always a man. Why did they choose his mother to abuse? This last one had started off so good. He'd been kind and helpful, and appeared genuinely interested in helping him with his math homework. He'd taken him to a Winterhawks hockey game.

He'd never been to the ice arena downtown. It was loud and cold and huge and packed with people excited to cheer for their team. Best of all, he'd seen a fight. They'd been sitting in the right place when it'd happened. Two players had slammed into the side of the rink, making the plexigla.s.s shake. The people in the rows in front of him had leaped out of their seats and beaten their hands on the gla.s.s, shouting, "Fight, fight, fight!" One player held the other in a headlock and swung his fist at his face over and over.

Blood had dripped on the ice.

All his fifth grade friends had been impressed when he'd told them the next day.

The man had come to their house every week, sometimes eating dinner with them, sometimes showing him how to throw a football in the backyard. But then the man had pulled back, only offering to pick him up and take him to McDonald's, saying his spare time was tight.

He'd known the man lied.

It'd happened a few times before. The men would use him to get close to his mother. He didn't mind that much. He wanted his mother to find someone who'd bring her flowers and make her happy. Each time a man started coming to the house, she'd get excited. She'd invite him to dinner, bake her special apple pies, and spend an hour choosing her clothes and putting on her makeup. He knew his mother was delighted when it took her a long time to get ready for a simple dinner at home.

But the men never came around for long. This time the man had called and said he couldn't take him to the video arcade until late in January. He claimed he was swamped at work.

He knew a brush-off when he heard one. His mother did, too.

He'd thought this man might be the one. He'd stayed very late one night last week, drinking wine and laughing with his mother. She'd made an incredible dinner. A pot roast with gravy, and mashed potatoes with lots of b.u.t.ter. There were even store-bought rolls. She never bought rolls, saying they were too expensive and not good for him. Dessert was a cheesecake, and he'd had two pieces. She'd smiled as she dished up his second piece, and he'd hoped they would eat like that every night from now on. When he'd gone to bed, the man and his mother had been sitting on the couch, two empty bottles of wine on the table beside them, leaning close as they talked. He'd been happy when he crawled in bed, enjoying the sound of his mother's laughter from the other room. She didn't laugh very often. Maybe their luck was turning.

The sound of the man's car had woken him at four A.M. when it backed out of their driveway. He'd smiled as he watched the taillights move down their street. He must really have liked his mother to stay so late.

Within the next week he'd realized the man wasn't coming back.

"Why do they do this to me?" she sobbed from beside the tree.

There were three presents under the tree. He knew one of them had been for the latest man. Would he ever come back to get it? He knew she'd spent too much on the man's present because she'd had little money left for his gifts. He suspected that one of them was new pajamas. His current ones stopped halfway down his calves. New pajamas weren't anything to brag to his friends about. He'd have to lie when they all shared what they'd gotten for Christmas. His mom had promised to make it up to him for his birthday in June.

Anger flowed through him. How could these men do this to his mother over and over?

Other men had come in the past. They took him to movies and once his mother started inviting them to stay for dinner, they'd leave the two of them in the dust.

It must be him. He wasn't clever enough or engaging enough or talented in sports. The men found him boring and unworthy of their time. His mother probably knew this but was too polite to place the blame on his shoulders where it belonged.

She wiped her eyes and smiled at him. "It'll be a good Christmas tomorrow, you'll see. Let's plan to make cookies. We can watch TV all day long, just you and me. It'll be fabulous."

He forced a smile and nodded eagerly at her.

One day the men would pay for the pain they'd caused his mother.

27.

Once a week Ava allowed herself a whole milk, sugary, syrupy coffee drink. Every other day she stuck with black coffee. As she pushed open the door from her usual coffee shop, she took a sip of her pumpkin spice latte and every nerve receptor in her mouth sighed in happiness. Now today felt like Halloween.

The employees had dressed up for the holiday. Iron Man had taken her order and a s.e.xy nurse had made her latte. Somehow it'd made her drink taste even better, and she'd needed the jolt of sugar and caffeine after her late night. Mason had stayed up with her, talking about Zander. Ava had held back tears as she told him about his wife and baby.

"I knew something horrible had happened to his wife," Mason had said. "But a baby, too? I can't imagine."

"I wonder if he'll want more children," Ava speculated. "I don't think he's forty yet."

Mason shook his head. "That's a hard one to answer. I'm glad I'm done."

Her heart had cracked at his answer. It was a subject they'd touched a few times, and she'd been positive that kids weren't for her.

But now she wondered if she was misleading him.

Am I?

She still didn't know.

Lost in thought, she glanced up as two men blocked her path. She froze as she recognized her stalker, David.

She dropped her coffee and reached for the weapon in her bag. "Don't move," she ordered, stepping backward. A dozen scenarios flashed in her head as she realized she'd never get her gun out in time. Foot to his crotch. Elbow to his throat. Run!

"Ava, wait! I didn't mean to startle you," David pleaded.

"Special Agent McLane," stated the other man, pulling out a wallet. "I'm a private investigator in the state of Oregon."

She froze, eyeing the second man. He was shorter than David and dark-skinned, with graying hair. Something about his body language said cop in her head.

"Who are you?" she asked sharply. "Both of you?"

The shorter man held out his identification. "My license is right there. My name's Glen Raney and I retired from the Gresham Police Department ten years ago. David Dressler is my client."

She glanced at his license. It meant nothing to her; she didn't know what a PI's license looked like and really didn't care. She studied the way the PI held himself and believed he'd been in law enforcement. She looked at David, whose eyes pleaded with her not to run.

David Dressler. I don't know you from Adam.

"Why are you following me?" she demanded.

David's shoulders slumped. "I shouldn't have approached you so often. I couldn't help myself."

"You're not helping your situation. Start talking."

David looked at the PI, who shrugged. "This is what you wanted, right?" Glen said to David. "Here's your chance." He bent over and picked up the coffee cup Ava had dropped and tossed the dripping mess in the garbage.

"We're looking for Jayne," David began.

"I knew it. She owes you money, doesn't she?" Anger burned through her. "She doesn't have any money and you're barking up the wrong tree if you think you're going to get anything from me. I barely know who she is."

David's face fell, and she was pleased. He could go to h.e.l.l for unnerving her. "Anyone who loans her money needs their head examined," she told the men. "Trust me. I've been there."

David looked at her, and she saw the pain radiating from his gaze. "What did she do to you?" she whispered.

If he got his heart broken . . .

Jeez, Jayne. Disgust rolled through her. Nothing stopped her sister when she had a conquest in sight. Age. Marriage.

"You look like your mother," David said softly.

Ava's world tilted and her knees shook. "You knew my mother?"

"Very well." He held her gaze.

Jayne's eyes looked back at her. Her own eyes.

No.

She blinked several times and the resemblance faded. But it didn't disappear.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

"I'm pretty sure I'm your father."

"No." She shook her head. "That's not possible. No," she repeated. "What do you want from me? Just because I work for the FBI doesn't mean I can help you with something." Her brain shot ahead in leaps and bounds as her tongue formed words she had no control over. "Our father left before we were born. He didn't want anything to do with us or our mother."

His mouth turned down, and Ava caught her breath at its resemblance to Jayne's.

She looked at the PI, wanting him to tell her David Dressler was full of c.r.a.p. Glen Raney nodded at her. "My client is willing to take whatever test you want to verify he's your and your twin's father. I've seen the letters your mother sent him before she left. I tracked down your birth certificates-you know she changed her name after she broke it off with my client, right?"

"No." I don't believe him. "We're not who you're looking for," she said to Glen, unable to look at David again. "My mother was born McLane. If you think she changed her name, then you're wasting your time talking to me." Relief swept through her. He's got the wrong people.

"I lived on McLane Street when I knew your mother," said David. "I think that she selected it to be your new last name says a lot."

"She's always been McLane," Ava repeated.

"No, it was originally Ryder."

Colleen Ryder? Ava shook her head. "You're wrong. She had no reason to change her name."

"What did she tell you girls about her own parents?" Glen asked gently. "That they'd died before you were born?"