He yanked out his gun and ran toward that fourth house. His attention was on the doors. The boarded-up windows and- Someone was coming toward him. Crawling from the house.

Dane took aim with his gun. "New Orleans PD!" He yelled. "Put your hands up!"

But no hands came up into the air.

The figure slumped down even farther in the overgrown gra.s.s. Footsteps raced behind him as the others closed in.

"Identify yourself!" Dane demanded even as he yanked out his flashlight with his left hand.

The light fell on a tangled ma.s.s of red hair. Hunched shoulders. b.l.o.o.d.y fingers digging into the earth.

Ronnie.

He ran to her. "I've got the doc!" he shouted, and oh, d.a.m.n, she looked bad.

Carefully, he rolled her over.

Other cops approached, shining their lights on her.

He saw that her mouth was covered with duct tape. Blood was everywhere. Soaking her shirt. Drenching her clothes.

"Ronnie?" He grabbed the tape and carefully pulled it away. "Where is the b.a.s.t.a.r.d?" Dane whispered to her even as he saw the blood pumping from her sliced arms.

"Get the medic!" he yelled before Ronnie could speak.

Her body was shuddering against his. Trembling so hard.

"Ronnie?" Mac was there, his voice broken. Her head jerked toward him. Then she was crying and pulling away from Dane as she lunged for Mac.

Mac's arms closed around her. He lifted her up against him and held her tight. "You scared me to death."

But then her shudders deepened. Not just trembles. Convulsions. "Medic!" Dane yelled again.

Mac wasn't waiting for the medic to come to him. He turned and, holding Ronnie in his arms, ran back for the line of cop cars that waited at the edge of the road.

Dane faced the line of houses. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d could still be there. Dane motioned with his hand and pointed to the fourth house. Four men and one uniformed woman immediately followed him. All had their guns ready.

The sagging porch groaned under his weight. He reached for the door.

It was already open.

So much for having to kick it down.

He rushed inside that dark cavern of a house. The others followed him, checking the room. Finding nothing but dust and broken furniture. Roaches that scurried away from them.

The floor creaked beneath Dane's feet. The other cops were fanning out. Searching the small scattering of rooms in the house. Finding nothing.

He knew this was the place. His instincts were screaming at him. Dane opened the narrow door to the left. Not a closet.

Stairs. Stairs illuminated by a faint glow that came from below.

The others had seen his discovery. They hurried to him. With the floors groaning so loudly, there was no chance they'd catch their perp by surprise.

It didn't matter if he was surprised or not. What mattered was catching him.

Dane led the way down the stairs. The light was coming from some old lanterns that had been set up. The bas.e.m.e.nt stretched, the walls sliding into shadows. The bas.e.m.e.nt was as big as the first floor of the house. And right in the middle of that bas.e.m.e.nt, a large metal table stood, a table that was dripping blood onto the dirty floor.

b.l.o.o.d.y ropes had been left on the table. He stared at those ropes, noting the clean cuts. Sliced.

Ronnie hadn't broken free by yanking on the rope or by breaking it. A knife had cut through her bonds.

Only as he looked around, he didn't see a knife at the scene. Just blood.

"The house is clear," a uniform said behind him.

This wasn't right. He kept staring at the ropes. He raised his hand to the transmitter attached to his right ear. "He isn't in the house."

Dane's gaze drifted around the bas.e.m.e.nt. No pictures. No clothing. No furniture. Just the table. Just the blood.

The ropes that had been cut.

"We're sweeping all the houses," Detective Karen James replied in Dane's ear. "Sending cops and dogs into the woods."

"I want to talk to Ronnie." He turned away from the table. A live witness. She could tell them exactly what was happening.

The scene isn't right.

It looked like the killer had just let Ronnie go. Cut her, tortured her, but spared her life in the end.

His flashlight swept the floor once more. The trail of blood led from the table to the open window. A window that wasn't boarded up. Ronnie had slipped out that way. Gone through the window and dragged herself to freedom.

Carefully he walked the length of the room.

He froze when he saw the drops of blood on the fourth stair. He'd gone down those stairs so quickly that he hadn't even noticed it.

"Don't touch this area!" Dane barked. He could see blood and...s.h.i.t, was that hair on the fourth stair? Stuck in the blood? It sure looked like it. A long strand of hair.

Blonde hair.

None of the victims-those they knew about-had blonde hair. And the blood hadn't left a trail. There were just a few drops on the steps, far from what he a.s.sumed was Ronnie's escape trail.

Another victim?

Or the killer? Had the killer fallen while making his escape? Smashed his head into the stairs, then rushed away, injured?

Only that strand of hair was so long. His heart beat faster. Maybe they weren't looking for a he.

An ambulance took the ME away. She was b.l.o.o.d.y and crying and didn't want to let go of Mac.

Katherine watched as Mac climbed into the ambulance with her. Mac wasn't letting go of her, either.

Dogs were hunting in the woods. Dane had come out of the house. Dogs were searching the area. Their barks and growls carried easily through the night.

It was hot, sweltering, but chill b.u.mps covered her arms.

And she felt like she was being watched.

Katherine's gaze slid through the darkness. The house was small, and, without the air of neglect, it would have looked like any normal home. Before time had warped it, what had the owners been like?

And had a monster lived there? Hiding beneath the guise of a smiling face? Because this house-with its dead roses-wasn't random. The killer had lured them there, shown them the roses, because the killer wanted them to find something.

Not just about Ronnie. The killer wants us to see something here.

"Sonofab.i.t.c.h." It was Dane, headed toward Katherine with glinting eyes. "I just got the background information on this house. Wanna know who lived here for two years when she was a kid?"

Katherine's gaze drifted to the roses. Roses had been in the hands of the victims. Rose petals had been in the packages with the photos.

Dane's question echoed through her mind. She.

Katherine remembered a woman who enjoyed having fresh roses nearby. Roses that were always watered. Always blooming. The smell of those roses had made Katherine tense up every single time she went into that office.

Katherine shook her head. She should have seen it. All of the questions. The intensity.

Even before Dane opened his mouth to tell her, she knew who had once lived in that house.

"h.e.l.lo, Dr. Knight."

The voice pulled her back to consciousness.

"Sorry for the binding," the man told her, and Evelyn realized that her hands and feet were tied with heavy, thick rope. Rope that was abrading her skin, chafing her, trapping her.

"But I'm sure you understand," he continued, his voice mild. They were in a car. No, an SUV, and she was crammed down in the back. She couldn't see him. Could only hear him. "I needed to keep you contained during the transport."

He started to whistle then. Easy, carefree.

She was covered in blood. He was whistling.

Her breath hitched in her lungs. She wanted to call out to him, but duct tape was over her mouth.

"You shouldn't have taken the ME. That was just a foolish mistake."

Her gloves were gone. He'd taken them. Taken her knife.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Now he sounded abashed. "I should probably introduce myself, shouldn't I?"

No, he didn't need to do that. She already knew exactly who he was. She knew everything about him. But...

"I'm Valentine," he said.

Her heart beat faster but that fast beat wasn't from fear. Valentine. She'd wanted this meeting for so long.

"And I'm afraid that you'll be dead soon."

Her elation vanished. She started to fight harder, yanking at the ropes. They wouldn't give.

He began to whistle once more.

17

Katherine watched as Dane paced the small confines of the hospital waiting room. His body was tight with barely leashed energy. Mac was with them, his hands shoved into the pockets of his pants as he leaned forward and glared down at the floor.

"She's going to be fine," the doctor said, appearing in the doorway. It was the same doctor who had treated Katherine. "But she's out. Fentanyl was in her system, so it's pretty much a miracle that she was still conscious enough to crawl out of that house."

Mac surged to his feet. "I want to be with her."

The doctor nodded.

Dane caught Mac's arm. "As soon as she wakes up, you call me."

Marcus crept into the room. "Is Dr. Thomas-"

"She's going to be all right," Dane said, rolling his shoulders. "A copycat...we were dealing with a f.u.c.king copycat killer."

"No." Katherine spoke quickly as she curled her hands into fists. "I saw Valentine. He's here-he was in my gallery, he was at the house on Oakland-"

"He's here," Marcus agreed, "and he wanted you to know that he killed Trent Lancaster, but with the fentanyl in the blood of the other victims..." He exhaled slowly. "I don't think those were his crimes. He realized what was happening-that someone else was hunting as him." Marcus exhaled slowly. "I was so focused on his profile that I never considered an alternative."

An alternative. Evelyn.

Marcus's gaze slid to Katherine. "With Dr. Knight's medical license, she would have access to the fentanyl," he said, voice rumbling.

My fault. "I told her that the ME had found fentanyl in the victims' tox reports," Katherine whispered. "She must have realized that Ronnie would learn more, so she went after her."

Marcus nodded.

"Evelyn is obsessed with Valentine." Katherine put her hands in front of her. Twisted them. "In all of our sessions together, she always asked about him. About what he did. Why I thought he'd committed the crimes." Why he never attacked me. "I stopped seeing her because I felt like she was more interested in Valentine than she was in actually helping me."

Evelyn had made her feel broken beyond repair.

A curiosity, one to be examined, studied. Journaled about.