Fear For Me

CHAPTER ONE

“Do you know how many people Jonathan Walker killed?” U.S. Federal Marshal Anthony Ross asked the question quietly, trying to keep his emotions in check.

A real hard job, considering he was currently watching two bodies get bagged and tagged as they were loaded up by the Angola penitentiary coroner.

This should have ended. Walker’s path of blood and death should have stopped five years ago.

Anthony had done his job. He’d helped to lock up the killer, sent Walker away for good—or so he’d thought. The bastard had just broken out of the prison that should have been his home until he died.

How the hell had he gotten out of Angola? Once in this pit, no one was supposed to get out. And a killer like Walker—he should have been a maximum-security hold, watched carefully, twenty-four-seven.

The warden—the new warden—was sweating bullets and shifting from his left foot to his right. “I believe that Walker was found guilty of killing seven people—”

“Eight, when you add his cell mate,” Anthony snapped. Now these poor bodies made Walker’s kill total reach all the way up to ten. That they knew of. Anthony had long suspected that Jon’s kill list was much longer, but those bodies just hadn’t been found. “You knew what he did, yet you let the bastard just walk out of here?” So much for the prison being secure.

The Bayou Butcher. Sonofabitch. That brutal bastard should have gotten a needle in the arm, but no, the man who’d sliced his way through seven women in Baton Rouge had been given consecutive life sentences instead of death.

And now more victims were bleeding for Walker. For the Bayou Butcher.

“He didn’t just walk out.” The warden, James Miller, swallowed quickly. The guy was in way over his head with this case. When word reached the press, shit was going to hit the fan, and Anthony knew Miller would find himself looking for a new job—because the governor would demand that the man leave Angola. The Bayou Butcher had escaped on the guy’s watch.

Hell. This was so bad, in so many ways. Anthony would have to make sure all the jurors on Walker’s trial knew what had happened ASAP. They’d have to get protection—they’d need to pull in a ton of manpower on this one. He’d have to get his office to contact the victims’ families. The DA.

The DA.

His jaw locked.

“He didn’t just walk out,” Miller said once more, his voice gaining a bit of strength. Too little, too late. “Walker took the ID of one of the other doctors. Walker matched him in height and coloring and he—”

“Walked right out the fucking door.” Yeah, right, that was what he’d just said. Anthony’s gaze drifted over the blood-soaked room. Walker had been quick with his first kill, going right for the jugular with the guard, probably so that his prey wouldn’t be able to call out for help.

But then the sick SOB had played for a while with the female victim. Walker always enjoyed playing with his prey.

“Take me to his cell.” The dogs were already out, chasing after Walker’s scent. But the guy was smart. So damn smart. An IQ that had tested off the charts and a desire to torture and kill had been with him since he was seven.

Age seven—that had been when he’d decided to see what the neighbor’s dog looked like on the inside.

Sick, twisted, but smart. Anthony knew that Walker must have been planning his escape for a while, and, with that escape in mind, the man would have made sure that he had a getaway vehicle ready.

Did someone help you? It was Anthony’s immediate suspicion. Because to get a car, to have that ride waiting, Walker would need assistance. A partner.

Whoever the dumb prick was, Anthony figured that Walker would turn on him, sooner or later.

“I want to see his cell.” Maybe Walker had left some clue behind. Some hint as to his partner’s identity or an indicator just where the hell the guy was heading.

“Of course.” The warden motioned toward two men. “Henry, Alan, escort the marshal to Walker’s cell.”

Anthony left the warden and the blood-soaked med room. The guards were all on high alert now. Like being on alert now was going to do any good. The prison was in lockdown, but as Anthony made his way to Walker’s cell, shouts and whistles filled the air.

The prisoners knew someone had escaped. That a guard had died. And they were celebrating.

The guards in front of Anthony shouted for quiet. They didn’t get quiet.

Walker’s cell opened with a groan and Anthony headed inside. He quickly searched the area. Saw no personal effects. No books. Nothing. He reached for the sagging mattress. Yanked it out and away from the narrow bed railing. There had to be something there.

The mattress fell to the floor.

It was a bunk bed, only no one slept on the top bunk. Not since Walker had climbed up one night and choked his cell mate.

Anthony checked the top bunk.

Nothing.

No fucking thing.

“We already searched his cell,” the warden told him as he came into the room. Anthony wasn’t really surprised that Miller had followed him. “There weren’t any more weapons here.”

“I’m not looking for a weapon.”

He was looking for a destination. A clue. Something that would help him figure out where the hell the guy had gone.

As a marshal, it was his job to track the escaped prisoner. But it wasn’t just about doing a job.

The Bayou Butcher had been his case from the beginning. He’d been in the courtroom, he’d been there to protect the witnesses.

He’d been there when Jon Walker was found guilty of seven murders.

“Did the guy get mail?” Anthony figured that he had to get mail—fucking fan mail, probably. There were always those freaks out there who got off on interacting with killers.

“He did, but he never read any of it,” Miller replied as he twisted his hands together. “He gave a standing order for us to destroy it all.”

Anthony’s eyes narrowed at that. In his experience, many serial killers reveled in the attention of their “fans.” Why hadn’t Walker wanted that attention?

He rubbed a hand over his face. There had to be something there. His hand dropped. Anthony’s gaze focused on the bunk bed.

Something.

He bent, craning his head, so that he could see the bottom of the top bunk’s mattress. This would have been Walker’s view, every single day and night. He would have looked straight up—

There was a picture there. Faded, as if it had been touched so many times. Too many.

Carefully, Anthony pulled down that photo. When he saw just who was in that image, his heart seemed to stop.

Not her.

But he knew that face. Knew it too well. It haunted most of his dreams.

Lauren Chandler. District Attorney Lauren Chandler. The woman who’d sent Jon Walker to Angola. The woman who’d pushed for the guy to get a needle in his arm so that Walker would never kill again.

Lauren.

Of course, when he’d known her, she’d still been the ADA. She’d gotten her promotional bump right after Walker’s conviction. She’d made her career on his case.

And once upon a time, she’d been Anthony’s lover.

A lot could change in five years.

He pulled out his phone. Dialed the number he still remembered so easily.

No longer in service.

Fuck.

He glanced up at the sound of footsteps. Finally—the two other marshals under his command had just rushed into the tiny cell. He shoved the phone into his pocket even as he held tight to that photo. It was a Saturday, so the DA’s office would be closed.

It had taken the warden twelve hours to notice that Walker was gone. Then it had taken Anthony and his team too many hours to get to the prison.

“We need to find Lauren Chandler.” He tried to keep his voice steady as he said, “She’s the DA in Baton Rouge. We need to get her on the phone and alert her to the prisoner’s escape.”

The marshals—Jim O’Keith and Matt Meadows—nodded in near unison.

He glanced back at the photo. Just getting her on the phone wasn’t good enough. Not with Lauren’s safety at stake. “Meadows, contact the Baton Rouge PD. I want them sending a patrol unit to her house.” The photograph was so worn. Walker had stared at it, touched it, for how many nights? He’d been fixating on her for who the hell knew how long.

Rage burned within Anthony. That bastard was not getting his hands on Lauren.

But the guy had screamed that last day in court, shouted that Lauren would pay. As the judge had handed down sentencing, four guards had been needed to subdue Walker as he lunged for Lauren.

Are you trying to keep your promise, you SOB?

He would see the Bayou Butcher in hell first.

Lauren juggled her groceries as she used her foot to prop open her back door. The milk was sliding, and she was about 90 percent sure the bread was going to hit the floor and end up a smushed mess. She should have waited, carried less inside in one haul, but the dark clouds promised a downpour that wouldn’t wait long.

Her phone was ringing in her back pocket, a vibration that was stubbornly persistent, but there was no way she could answer the call then.

She tried to hit the lights with her elbow. They didn’t turn on. Just darkness. Great. Fabulous. She hit the lights again, aiming harder with her elbow. Still nothing.

Had the storm already knocked out power? Sometimes the rough wind could do that in this area. She loved her neighborhood, with its sprawling yards, but the pine trees drew the lightning like crazy.

Her phone stopped vibrating.

Stumbling, weaving, she made her way to the counter and dropped her bags just before the milk could slide free.

“Lauren…”

She tensed. Had someone just whispered her name?

The call had been so faint, she wasn’t even sure that she’d actually heard it.

The wind was starting to howl outside, and her shutters banged against the side of her house.

It was so dark. She edged back carefully, and her fingers went to the light switch once more. Her fingers jerked the switch quickly. Up and down, up and down.

Darkness.

The lights weren’t coming on. Her heart was thudding far too rapidly in her chest.

Had she heard her name being whispered?

Fumbling, she reached into the drawer on the right and pulled out a knife. A very sharp butcher knife. “Is someone there?” Lauren asked, her voice a little weak. One hand clutched the knife. The other reached for her cell phone as she yanked it out of her pocket. No one should be in her house. She didn’t have a live-in boyfriend. Didn’t have a boyfriend at all.

“Is someone there?” Her call was louder.

Silence was her answer.

No whispers. No creaks.

Then the shutters started to bang again. She jumped.

Her heartbeat wouldn’t slow down.

She’d check the house. Every room. Just to be sure it was safe.

Her job had given her an up-close and far too personal look at the darker side of life. She wasn’t about to take any crazy chances. She knew what happened when those chances were taken.

But she also knew that a girl didn’t get to call the cops on a storm-filled night just because she thought she’d heard a whisper. That was a surefire way to get a not-so-stellar reputation at the prosecutor’s office.

Taking a deep breath, she edged forward. She kept her hold on the knife. She took one step. Two—

A scream cut through the night. No, not a scream, a siren. The flash of red-and-blue lights lit up her kitchen. Her heart beat faster. She lunged for the back door, clutching her knife as she shoved her phone into her back pocket once more. As she rushed outside, Lauren saw the cops, already jumping from their vehicle. Her body was on high alert, and something was very wrong.

Her feet thundered down the stairs of her back porch. Rain began to pelt her even as the bright light of a flashlight locked on her. No, not just one flashlight.

Two.

“Lauren Chandler?” one of the officers shouted.

Lauren froze. Crap. She still had the knife. Instinct. But she knew better than to approach a cop with a weapon, so she let the blade drop from her fingers. In the glare of the flashlights, she knew the cops would see the weapon fall. “Yes, yes, I’m Lauren Chandler.” She kept her hands up. “What’s going on?”

The cop on the right took a step toward her. “Why do you have the weapon, Ms. Chandler?”

“I thought I heard something inside.” If they’d only witnessed what she had. Hell, if they’d been privy to all the details of her cases, most folks wouldn’t even be able to sleep at night.

She’d sure been through her own share of sleepless nights. Sometimes, she’d only made it through after late-night phone calls with her best friend, Karen. Karen knew all about the darkness, too. She never thought Lauren’s fears were crazy—not when Karen shared them.

We’ve seen the monsters out there. Karen’s voice, the low drawl that dipped beneath it, whispered through Lauren’s mind. Seen ’em plenty, and we’re smart enough to be afraid. The rest of the world—maybe they’re better off not knowing. Hell, sometimes, I wish I didn’t know.

But Karen’s job was to know. Just like mine is.

What would Karen think if she’d seen how scared Lauren had been in that dark house?

She’d probably tell me I need a drink to calm down…and that next time, I should immediately get my ass out of the house.

“Is there anyone else in the house?” the cop asked as he took another step toward her.

“There shouldn’t be.” She wasn’t even sure she’d heard the whisper. Lauren glanced over her shoulder at her dark house.

That was when she realized lights glowed from the homes of her few neighbors. The lots were big and private, but she could clearly see illumination coming from those houses. Hers was the only house with a power outage. The only dark house on the road.

Lauren crept toward the cops. “Why are you here? What’s happening?”

“We’re under orders to take you back to the station, Ms. Chandler.”

“Is this about one of my cases?” This wasn’t standard operating procedure. The rain kept falling onto her.

“The order came from the U.S. Marshals’ office, ma’am.”

Her racing heart stopped. U.S. Marshal. “Why?”

“We got word that a prisoner escaped from Angola, and the marshal wanted you to have protection.”

“Jon Walker,” she whispered through numb lips.

The cop replied, but the rumble of thunder swallowed his answer.

She hurried toward them, her fear making her move faster. Her feet slipped in the slick grass, but she didn’t slow down. In the middle of the storm, the uniformed cops looked like the safest port she’d ever seen.

The taller of the two opened the back of his patrol car. “Ma’am, why don’t you get out of the rain?”

Grateful, Lauren slid inside. But the cops didn’t follow her. They were staring over at her house, and she knew suspicion when she saw it.

“Why aren’t your lights on?” the cop nearest her asked. His face was round, his shoulders stooped just slightly.

“The power didn’t work,” she confessed. Her hands pressed over her jeans as she tried to wipe the moisture from her palms. Part rain and part plain old sweat and fear.

The cops had their guns drawn. She saw the quick nod they exchanged. The taller cop ran toward her house while his partner took up a position near Lauren.

Guarding her.

“We’re just gonna do a quick sweep,” he told her, flashing a grin that she was able to see in the glow of the patrol car’s interior lights. “To make sure that the area is secure.”

Right. Goose bumps had risen on her arms. It was an early summer night, warm despite the rain, and she was shivering.

A few moments later, the cop’s partner made it into her house. She could see the glow from his flashlight.

“I’m Officer Hank Lane,” the man standing near the open car door said. “And you don’t have anything to worry about, understand? You’re—”

The radio on his hip crackled. They both tensed as Hank picked up the radio.

“Get an ambulance,” his partner’s voice barked. “Get one now!”

Lauren… She shuddered when she remembered the whisper.

Her gaze flew back to the house. She tried to push out of the car, but Hank held her back. No one should have been inside her home.

Get an ambulance…

Someone had been there. In the dark. Waiting for her?

The cop’s grip tightened around her.

“Go inside,” she said, voice desperate. “Help him!”

Hank hesitated. Lauren pulled away from him. The man scrambled and called for backup and an ambulance.

She could almost smell his fear. He was a uniform, probably new to patrol duty, and he’d just thought he was heading out to pick up the DA for a little babysitting job.

Hank pointed at her. “Stay here, ma’am.”

No, no way. If someone was in there—possibly hurt—she had to help. She was the one to run toward those in need, never away. Helping victims was her job.

When he took off running, so did she.

Hank jumped up the back steps. He whirled when he heard her footsteps. “Ma’am, you’re supposed to stay—”

“We’re wasting time!” Her voice held the whip of command. She was the DA, dammit.

Gulping, Hank spun around and headed into the house.

She hurried behind him, using his flashlight to guide her. The milk had fallen to the floor. Spilled everywhere. Her tennis shoes slid through the white liquid. A few seconds later, she and Hank were in her narrow hallway. Then—

Her bedroom?

Hank’s flashlight hit the face of the officer. He was over Lauren’s bed. Crouched over the woman sprawled on Lauren’s covers.

A woman who wasn’t moving. A woman whose eyes stared sightlessly above her. A woman covered in blood.

So much bright, red blood.

The light hit the woman’s face. Lauren lost her breath. I know her. “Karen?” She tried to rush forward. No, no, that couldn’t be Karen.

Hank caught her arms. “No, you need to stay back!”

Because it was a crime scene. Because they were looking at a murder victim. Because they were looking at—

“Karen!” Her best friend. Sometimes…sometimes it seemed Karen was her only friend.

The wail of a siren reached her. It was the ambulance coming to help them.

Coming too late.

Because Karen Royce, Lauren’s best friend, was dead.

“Why did you have the knife, Lauren?”

Lauren’s fingers tightened around the coffee mug. The coffee was ice-cold, pretty normal for the police station’s thick brew. It was late, edging toward two a.m., but she didn’t need the caffeine to keep her awake.

The image of Karen’s mutilated body could do that just fine.

“Lauren?” the detective pressed, his voice deepening as he tried to catch her attention.

Lauren sighed. “Do you really think we need to do the formal game?” She’d worked with Paul Voyt on dozens of cases. And right then, the guy actually had her in the interrogation room. Normally, they questioned the suspects together.

Now he was the one questioning her.

Paul exhaled heavily. Face grim, he said, “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we do. Karen Royce was stabbed at least five times, in your home, and officers on the scene reported that you raced out of your house holding a butcher knife.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. A headache throbbed relentlessly behind her eyes. “There’s no blood on the knife. Or on me. Get the techs to check the weapon. They’ll see it wasn’t used.” Her lips wanted to tremble so she pressed them together as she straightened her shoulders. Then, when she hoped that the trembling had passed, Lauren said, “You can’t be looking at me for this crime. You know me, Paul.”

Damn well.

Biblically.

Unfortunately. Their night together had been a one-time mistake that would not be repeated.

She’d been lonely. Weak.

Missing an ex-lover who couldn’t stay out of her mind, even though he’d sure moved on easily enough. As soon as the case had been closed, he’d left town without looking back.

If only she’d been able to move on so easily.

“Right now, all I know is that a dead body was found, in your house, in your bed, Lauren.” But there was sympathy in his voice. Paul was a good guy, and she could tell by his expression that he hated doing this part of his job.

“I didn’t kill Karen. She was my friend.”

“A friend who you were fighting with yesterday.”

Her gaze flew to his.

“Yeah. I know about that. Word traveled fast about your little courthouse scene.”

“That was…a personal matter.” One she didn’t want to get into. Karen was dead. There was no need to say or do anything to hurt her memory.

“Don’t give me that. I need you to be honest. To cooperate fully. Hell, you know the press is going to freakin’ flip when they find out that the DA is involved in a murder—”

“Jon Walker escaped.” Lauren said the words flatly. “That’s why the cops were at my house. They were bringing me here, for protection. But you should already know that.” She leveled her stare at him. “So why am I being grilled when you should be looking for Jon and not wasting time in here with me?”

“We are looking for him. But questions still have to be asked, and hell, Lauren, I thought you’d prefer to talk to me instead of the other detectives out there.”

The breath felt cold in her lungs. He was right. If she had to sit through the questioning, she’d rather face him.

“Why was she at your house?”

“I don’t know.” Truth. “Karen had a key, and sometimes she liked to crash there.”

“You’re sure you didn’t know she was going to be there?”

“No!” The denial sprang from her. She sucked in a deep breath. Held tight to her control. “After our argument, I hadn’t talked to Karen. I had no idea she’d be at my place.” Not until she’d found her body. A sight Lauren would never forget. “I saw her in my room. I saw what had been done to her.” Lauren’s gaze held his. “You know Jon’s way of killing. You know just what the Butcher liked to do.”

Jon Walker had been given the grim moniker of the Bayou Butcher—sometimes shortened simply to the Butcher—for a reason.

Paul leaned toward her, his body on the edge of his wooden chair. His eyes, a steely light gray, raked over her. Paul was handsome, tall, strong. He had one of those golden-boy faces that got witnesses to trust him far too easily, a very handy trick. “You’re telling me the Butcher was in your house? Did you see him there? The uniforms told me they didn’t see any sign of anyone else.”

Like the blood hadn’t been a sign of someone else?

She shook her head. “I’m not saying I saw him.” Another icy breath. “I’m saying I didn’t kill Karen. I wouldn’t! Jon Walker has been out for over—” Hell, what was it? She’d asked the cops on her ride there. “Over twenty-four hours. That would have given him plenty of time to get out here and—”

“You think he came for you?”

Her fingers pressed onto the scarred tabletop. “I was the one who put him away.” She’d made her career on that case. She’d been twenty-eight when she prosecuted the Butcher. Twenty-eight and secretly terrified of the monster who sat in the courtroom with her. But Lauren hadn’t let fear stop her. She’d done her job. Convicted that murdering SOB.

By the time she’d turned twenty-nine, the Butcher had been in Angola and she’d already been the DA. A DA who still had nightmares because of that case.

“Fuck, Lauren.” Paul’s hand crept toward hers. A crack had appeared in his mask. “I wasn’t even on duty when the call came through about Walker and you. The captain just sent me in here when you pulled up with the uniforms. I got the shortest fucking briefing on record.” His gaze held hers as his fingers covered her hand. “But if that sick sonofabitch is actually back and targeting you—”

The door opened behind Paul. Lauren glanced up, expecting to see the face of another detective or maybe even someone from her office.

She didn’t expect to see U.S. Marshal Anthony Ross standing there.

For a second, she simply stared at him as the memories came rushing back. Once, she would have done just about anything for that man. She’d wanted him more than breath. Needed him with a fierce desire that just wouldn’t stop.

Then she remembered…

He’d just walked away.

He’d been so busy walking that he hadn’t noticed when he left her in damn pieces behind him.

His gaze—a green that was bright and intense—dropped to her hand. Paul’s hand. His square jaw seemed to harden, then he stalked forward, even as Paul leaped to his feet.

“This is an interrogation,” Paul began as his body blocked Ross’s. “You can’t barge in here—”

“It’s one cozy interrogation,” Anthony muttered. “I bet that technique works wonders with the suspects.”

He shouldered around Paul.

Paul grabbed his arm. “Who the hell are you and just why are you in my interrogation?”

Anthony yanked out his ID. “U.S. Marshal Anthony Ross.”

Paul blinked.

“And I’m here because I’m in charge of tracking the escaped fugitive Jon Walker.” Lauren could almost hear the dumbass that she knew Anthony wanted to tack on the end of his statement. Anthony had never been gifted with a whole lot of patience—or finesse.

Paul backed away.

Then Anthony bent over her. His hands swept over Lauren’s arms. “Were you hurt?” There was a deeper, more intimate note in his voice. One that reminded her far too much of other times.

She shook her head. “I wasn’t the one he stabbed.”

“No, but you were the target.”

That seemed to be the consensus, dammit. Anthony sure seemed certain enough of that. She stared into his eyes, seeing the faint gold around his pupils. Anthony was big, easily six feet three, with wide shoulders that had once done him proud during his college football days.

But he didn’t run on the field anymore.

Now he ran down fugitives. Protected witnesses.

Stared at her with a leashed fury in his eyes.

“Are we even sure it’s Walker?” Paul’s question was quiet, considering. “I mean, there are other killers out there.”

He was right. There were plenty of killers loose out there. But Jon Walker was in a category all by himself.

Paul shook his head. “Walker just escaped from prison—shouldn’t his first move have been a run for the border?”

Anthony’s expression never changed. “Not if he wanted revenge.”

Her heart beat faster.

Anthony’s stare was unnerving as he told her, “He had a picture of you in his cell. I don’t know how or when he got it, but Walker had it pinned right above his pillow, just where he could see it every night.”

A shiver slid over her.

“He escapes, then twenty-four hours later, a woman winds up dead, stabbed in your bed, Butcher-style.”

Paul stood behind Anthony, silent, but with an avid gaze on them.

“You don’t have to be a genius to connect those dots,” Anthony growled. “Walker’s coming for you. You put him in prison. You’re the one he wants dead.”

And Karen had—what? Been in the wrong place? Died, for Lauren?

So much blood. She tried—and failed—to shove the image out of her mind.

“If he wanted me dead—” She spoke slowly, trying to hold on to her control because of all the people in the world, she would not break in front of Anthony Ross.

Stay with me.

Those had been her words to him.

He hadn’t stayed.

Hadn’t cared enough to do so.

Her shoulders stiffened as she said again, “If he wanted me dead, I wouldn’t be sitting here. He could have just stayed in the house, waited for me to get home, then he could have killed me.”

Now Paul cleared his throat. “Lauren, you said you heard a whisper when you got home.”

Anthony’s gaze sharpened.

Lauren gave a slow nod.

“Was that whisper from Karen?” Paul asked.

Lauren hesitated. “The wind was loud. I’d just come inside.”

“Was it a woman’s voice?” Paul pressed.

She closed her eyes for a moment, blocking him out, trying to block out Anthony, too. If only it was that easy.

But she focused and tried to remember…

The milk was sliding. The shutters banging. Then a whisper.

Lauren…

“I thought it was a man’s voice.” Her eyes opened. “But I can’t swear to that.” She, of all people, knew how unreliable witness testimony could be.

“If it was a man, he could have still been inside,” Paul said, voice tightening. “He could have been there—”

“And he got away when I ran out to meet the cops.” The thunder and rain would have masked the sound of the killer’s footsteps.

“Uniforms are searching the area,” Paul said. “We can—”

Anthony gave a hard shake of his head. “That’s not good enough.” Then he rose to his full height, a height that put him a few inches above Paul. “Jon Walker grew up in this area. He knows how to vanish in these swamps.”

Knew how, and had, for months before during his previous attacks.

Sometimes he’d taken his victims with him into those swamps.

“I can find him,” Paul said, voice grim. “I can track him down.”

Anthony’s gaze burned. “When it comes to fugitive apprehension, I’m in charge of the Walker case. The marshals will be finding him.” He stared down at Lauren. “We stop him before he gets close to the target he wants so desperately.”

Then he backed away. Marched for the door.

Her breath rasped out on a heavy sigh. That was it? He barged in, dropped the Walker photo bombshell on her, then vanished?

She shot to her feet. Almost instantly, she found her path blocked by Paul. Gritting her teeth, she said, “I need to talk to him.”

“My captain told me to hold you, to make sure—”

“I’m not leaving the station, but I am talking to him.” She was the DA. She’d played nice with him, but she wasn’t about to let any of the cops shove her into a corner. “Follow me, but you aren’t stopping me.” The only way he could stop her would be to arrest her, and she knew that wasn’t happening.

Five years ago, Jon Walker had abducted and mutilated coeds. No, he’d started with coeds. The first two victims he’d killed quickly, but by victim number three—Gina Richardson—he’d changed his kill method. He’d taken Gina into the swamp. Kept her alive for days. Taken his time as he tortured her.

Hunters had discovered Gina’s body a week later. What was left of it, anyway.

The cops had been monitoring every college campus in the area. Extra security procedures had been put into place by the administrations.

Curfews were instituted, and girls had been advised to not walk alone at night on the campuses. With dead coeds, no one had been willing to take chances.

The cops had been sure that they would catch the killer.

But as the security had tightened at the colleges, Walker had just moved on to a new hunting ground. He’d abducted a waitress from an all-night diner. Then a mom of two. A stripper had been his next victim. A teenage babysitter his seventh—and the victim who had finally tripped him up.

Kathy Johnson had been hired to watch the children at 508 Marigold Place—she’d agreed to stay all night for a little extra cash so that the Petersons could enjoy an anniversary night on the town.

Walker had known about Kathy’s schedule that night. He’d known about the kids who’d been asleep upstairs—kids who hadn’t even realized what was happening in their house.

But Carolyn Peterson had gotten sick at dinner. She and her husband had canceled their anniversary plans and come home early—and they’d found Walker using his knife on sixteen-year-old Kathy.

So many bodies. So much death. And it wasn’t over. It still wasn’t over.

Because she hadn’t done her job well enough. Sure, the press had all claimed that she’d done great. Her boss had been impressed. But, deep down, Lauren knew the truth. If I’d fought harder, the guy would have gotten the death penalty. Not life in prison.

Now it looked as if he wanted her to be the one to die.

She slipped by Paul and hurried to the door. Her fingers shook as she grabbed the knob. She yanked it hard to the left, then rushed outside of the room, too aware of all the glances that slid her way. Her own stare darted around the room.

She found Anthony’s retreating back. Saw him and two other men she didn’t recognize. More marshals? Anthony and the men turned for the exit.

“Ross!” Her voice whipped with an order.

Lauren could sound like she had authority when she needed to do it. No one had to know that her knees were shaking.

Anthony looked back at her. The man was still as handsome as ever. High cheekbones. Strong blade of a nose. High forehead. His dark hair was shorter than it had been before, the faint lines near his mouth were a bit deeper, but the guy was still too good-looking by far for her peace of mind.

Dark. Dangerous.

Her type.

Well, once upon a time, he had been. She was trying—very much trying—to stick with the good guys these days. Guys who were safe.

Her tennis shoes squeaked as she hurried across the bull pen. She hadn’t exactly been given time to change before being rushed to the station.

Was Paul following her? She didn’t hear his footsteps. That was good.

She closed in on Anthony. “We need to talk.”

A muscle flexed in his jaw. “Later, ma’am.” His native Georgia drawl rolled lightly beneath his words. “Right now, I have a killer to hunt.”

She grabbed his arm. Held tight. “A killer who was in my house. A killer who murdered my friend.” Karen, I am so sorry. Each time she thought of Karen, it felt as if someone were clawing open her chest. “You aren’t shutting me out, understand, Ross? I’m working this with you. I am going to make sure this city doesn’t fall back into the Bayou Butcher madness it faced before.” When fear had held them all captive.

Fear of the dark.

Fear of the monster who waited in the dark.

Jon Walker had made children—and even adults—fear the boogeyman once more. Because he truly was that monster.

“I tracked him before,” Anthony said quietly. No emotion entered his voice or his gaze. “And I can do it again.”

Without you.

Unspoken, but the words were still there, hanging between them.

She wouldn’t back down. “My office will give you any support you need. We will work together on this.” She knew the reporters were probably already swarming outside. Paul had been right on that score—a story about her, about the Bayou Butcher—hell, yes, they were talking a front-page spread.

Anthony bent toward her. His scent—rich, masculine—surrounded her. His mouth was close to her ear when he whispered. “Haven’t you already come close enough to death?”

She turned her head. Met his stare. “Haven’t you?” Because she knew the risks he took, day in and day out.

Even when he’d left her, she’d followed his career. Anthony’s cases were the darkest she’d ever encountered. Brutal killers. Sadistic criminals.

Nightmares.

“Not close enough,” he told her softly. “Not yet.” His green gaze heated as it swept over her. “I missed you.”

Then he was gone. Hurrying away with the other two men as they went out on the hunt. When the station’s doors opened, she heard the shouts from the reporters.

Yes, they were there.

Her hands had clenched into fists. She glanced around the room, wondering what the detectives and cops saw when they looked at her. Lauren sure hoped she didn’t look as out of control as she felt.

Because she felt like she was breaking apart on the inside.

I missed you.

But he’d sure walked away easily enough. Then, and now.

Anthony paused as the reporters swarmed around him. When a body was found right inside a DA’s house, word sure spread like wildfire.

Especially when the Bayou Butcher was on the loose.

“No comment,” Anthony snapped as he made his way through the crowd. When necessary, he knew how to use reporters to his advantage.

However, he wasn’t interested in using them at that moment. He wanted to get to Lauren’s house. To search the area himself. Every moment that passed allowed Walker to get farther away.

He went straight for Lauren.

Anthony slid into the SUV that waited on the corner. Three seconds later, he was rushing away from the scene.

When he arrived at Lauren’s house, he wasn’t surprised to see more reporters. They were standing behind the yellow line of police tape—barely behind it. Vultures, closing in.

“Go talk to the trackers,” Anthony ordered Jim O’Keith when the other marshal climbed from the second SUV and came to his side. Jim was new to his division, having transferred up just a few months back. This was the guy’s first big fugitive case, and Anthony could see the nervous tension in the man’s body.

But they didn’t have time for fear.

Matt Meadows followed behind Jim. Matt had far more seniority, and a real gift with tech. Matt didn’t talk much, but the man was one of the best guys Anthony had ever seen in the field. His ancestry was a mix of Jamaican and Cherokee Indian, and Matt had told him once that his parents had wanted him to be comfortable in any world he faced. From what Anthony had seen, Matt could more than handle himself, any place, any time.

Carefully, Anthony made his way past the police tape. He flashed his ID so he could gain access to the house. He’d be taking charge of this case—and this scene until someone with more authority came along and damn well had to kick his ass out.

He would make sure the Butcher went back to jail. And when he did, Walker would not be escaping again.

Cops were milling around. More detectives. The homicide captain was there, too. Anthony recognized him at once—he’d worked with Reginald Powers when they’d originally apprehended Jon Walker years before.

Reginald inclined his head as he came toward Anthony. “Been a long time.”

They shook hands. More gray lined Reginald’s hair than the last time Anthony had seen him, and the guy’s dark eyes looked tired.

Anthony wondered if he looked as grim. After the Valentine Killer case, there had been days when he hadn’t even wanted to look in the mirror. That SOB almost took me out. But he shoved those memories aside. “You knew I’d be the one they sent to track him.”

Reginald pulled his hand back. “You are the best, right?”

No, he was just one of the marshals who faced death too damn much.

“Come on. I’ll show you where they found the body.”

Anthony didn’t tell Reginald that he already knew exactly how to get to Lauren’s bedroom. Not many people in that town had known about their relationship. Lauren had been too good at keeping secrets.

Reginald led Anthony down a tight hallway. The house smelled of Lauren. Lilacs. He hadn’t even known what lilacs were, not until her. After her, he’d never been able to forget the scent.

They rounded a corner, and then they were heading into Lauren’s bedroom. The sheets had been stripped from the bed, and Anthony could easily see the bloodstained mattress.

“The ME estimates that our victim died at least an hour before she was found,” Reginald told him.

An hour.

“Rigor mortis had already set in, but the uniform on scene…” Another rough sigh. “Hell, it was the kid’s first body. He still tried to save her.”

Hard to save the dead.

“Lauren heard a voice,” Anthony said. “When she first came into the house, she heard someone call her name.” His gaze scanned the tidy room—tidy, except for the blood. The scent of the blood smothered the lilacs.

“You think she heard the killer?”

He did.

The killer had been there. Waiting.

Had he wanted Lauren to rush in? To find the body? If so, he would have wanted the perfect place to watch her discovery. “Have your crime scene techs been over the whole room?” He could see one tech bent down on the other side of the bed.

“They’re still working. I want them to be as thorough as they can be.”

On this case, there wouldn’t be room for slipups.

Anthony pulled on a pair of latex gloves. He headed toward the closet. It was located at the foot of the bed. The door had thin, decorative slits running its length. Slits that would allow someone inside to easily see out to the bed.

He opened the door.

“We searched there,” Reginald said from behind him as he heaved a sigh. “Didn’t find anything.”

Nothing looked disturbed inside. Lauren’s clothes hung neatly on their hangers. Her shoes were all neatly on the shelves. The scent of lilacs was stronger in the small space.

Reginald came closer to Anthony. “Someone threw the breaker at her house, that’s why she didn’t have power when she came in. The techs swept for prints there, but it had been wiped clean.”

Anthony bent, staring down at the carpet. No shoe impressions. No debris.

He headed into the closet.

Shut the door.

Anthony stared through those slits—and had a perfect view of the blood-soaked bed. His hands rose, hovering above the door.

He reached higher. Higher. The closet would have been the choice spot for anyone who wanted to hide, but if the killer had been in the dark, he would have wanted something close by so he could turn on a light and see his victims—both of them.

His fingers skimmed along the edge of the door’s top. His hand slid over the wood, searching.

He wondered if there was a small flashlight somewhere. Instead, his gloved fingers touched the handle of something. A knife. He pulled the weapon down and stepped from the closet.

Reginald let out a low whistle.

Anthony studied the blade. No blood. The knife appeared to have been wiped clean, but the techs would be able to tell for sure.

“Sonofabitch,” Reginald muttered.

Yes, Walker was. Anthony raised a brow as he looked at the captain. “I guess your guys missed something.” A pretty big fucking something. On a case like this, there wasn’t any room for error. No mistakes.

Mistakes meant death.