Dace pulled out his first piece of evidence, and sat the gun—bagged and tagged as evidence—onto the table next to Matthew. “This is the weapon you brought to Worthington University, correct?”
Matthew glanced down at the gun, then at his lawyer.
Moore gave a short, negative shake of his head.
Victoria saw Matthew’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t like being told what to do.
Matthew’s stare cut back to Dace. “Looks like it.”
“Right. Well, your prints were all over it, and it was recovered at the scene.” Dace gave a wide smile. “But what I don’t get is why would you bring an unregistered weapon to a college campus to begin with?”
“Because I was out of my mind with grief!” Matthew threw out his hand. “I’d just figured out—before any of you cops did—that Troy North was a sadistic killer! I just wanted to stop him—”
“With an unregistered gun.”
The lawyer leaned forward. “The gun was a gift to my client. He had no idea it wasn’t registered.”
Dace’s eyelids flickered. “Want to tell me who . . . gifted that gun to you?”
Matthew smiled. “Melissa did. Fitting, isn’t it? That the woman Troy killed would have a hand in his death.”
“He is so fucking confident,” Asher mused behind the one-way mirror. “The bigger they are . . .”
“The faster they become someone’s bitch in prison,” Wade finished.
Victoria kept her gaze on the scene in the interrogation room. It was almost showtime.
“Why would Melissa give you anything?” Dace asked Matthew. He opened a manila file. Pulled out a stack of papers. “According to this sworn statement, her roommate, Jim, said Melissa was never involved with you—”
“She just didn’t tell him—”
“Melissa told him that you’d made advances to her. Advances she rejected. You’d followed her on her jogging path twice—”
“That was my path, I ran it all the time!”
Moore tugged on his sleeve. Matthew just jerked away from the lawyer. “No, no, this is bull! Melissa and I were involved. Okay, it just started as sex, but it was going to be—”
“Jim actually did see Melissa’s lover,” Dace interrupted. “He saw him from the back one day, and the guy’s build is very similar to Troy North’s and he had blond hair, so I could see where Jim would’ve initially thought it was the psychology professor she was involved with, but . . .” He pulled a photo out of his file. “I believe Jim actually saw this man. Flynn Marshall.”
Matthew didn’t look at the photo. “I don’t know him.”
“I didn’t ask if you knew him.”
The lawyer rose. “Okay, this has gone on long enough. We came here as a courtesy and—”
“If you happen to follow Atlanta news,” Dace continued smoothly, “you probably already know that Flynn Marshall is dead. He was killed when he attempted to abduct LOST agent Victoria Palmer.”
Matthew was starting to sweat. Just a bit.
Wade’s hand slid over her back. “You ready?”
She thought of Kennedy. Of Melissa. “Absolutely.” Victoria squared her shoulders and left their observation area. Moments later she opened the door to the interrogation room.
“I don’t follow Atlanta news—” Matthew blustered. But when he saw Victoria, his words jerked to a halt.
She inclined her head toward him. “Are you sure about that? Because according to your credit card statements, you make pretty frequent trips to Atlanta. It certainly looked as if . . . you were consistently visiting a friend in the Atlanta area.”
His face became a blank mask.
“Why would you access my client’s private financial reports?” The lawyer demanded. “This is outrageous, outrageous!”
Victoria didn’t look at Moore. She kept her gaze focused on the prey that mattered. “Before he died, I was in that back alley with Flynn for a long time. Too long. He’d tried to slip me a drugged drink—I suspect it’s a technique he used before. Seeing as how he was a pharmaceutical rep, I bet he had all kinds of tricks he liked to use with his drugs . . .”
“I’m sorry you were attacked,” Matthew said flatly. “But I don’t see what I am—”
“He thought I’d been drugged, but I hadn’t. So maybe that’s why he spoke so freely with me. Or maybe he just figured I’d die soon, so what he said—or who he incriminated—didn’t matter so much.”
Matthew’s gaze slid down to her throat. And to the red mark still there.
For an instant it almost looked as if he smiled.
They were right. You are a dick.
“He told me about his friend in Savannah,” she said. “Interesting, the things he revealed to me . . .”
Matthew pushed to his feet. “I’m done with this—”
“Dr. Troy North wasn’t involved in any murders. He was just the perfect fall guy, wasn’t he? Serve him up, plant evidence in his office, and bam—all the focus is off you. And the LOST agents—well, we left town. We lowered our guards. We were distracted.”
The lawyer, Bob Moore, was standing now, too, as if ready to leave. The light gleamed off his bald head. She’d known the attorney would be difficult. She just had to play Matthew the right way . . .
I’m not Sarah, but I can do this. I will do this.
And, lucky for her, Sarah had given her some advice on just how to handle this particular monster.
“Troy and Flynn Marshall went to school together,” Victoria said. “Northwestern University.”
Matthew smirked at her. “Well, there you go. More proof that Troy was the killer. He and that Flynn guy must have teamed up to—”
“They didn’t team up for anything. But five years ago Flynn did come to Savannah for a visit with Troy. He was catching up with his old college roommate. And it was during that visit that Flynn found a guy who he could really understand . . .”
Matthew just shook his head and gave her a confused glance. “I’m certain I have no clue about Flynn or his visit or anyone who understood him . . .”
“Liar.” She called him out on it.
His eyes narrowed.
“The police searched Flynn’s house. It seemed he liked to keep mementos of things that interested him. He had . . . a scrapbook, of sorts. Clippings—old newspaper accounts of my father’s trial.”
“Guess that’s why he was obsessed with you.”
“That’s why he came up here to visit Troy, actually. To learn more about my father. He interviewed Troy on and off over the years. Seems they even talked about doing some kind of book on my dad. ‘The Monster Next Door,’ ” she murmured.
That had been the title the cops found scribbled in Flynn’s scrapbook.
“We need to leave,” the lawyer ordered.
But Matthew wasn’t leaving. Arrogant, cocky Matthew. “All I’m hearing,” he said, “are links between Troy and that Flynn guy.”
“There were a lot of links there,” she agreed quickly. “They were both psych majors, back in the day. But Flynn couldn’t handle the master’s program. He flunked out. Troy didn’t. He excelled. Because he was doing so well, Troy was the one who got to attend my father’s trial, not Flynn.” She lowered her voice. “Between you and me . . . I think that really pissed off Flynn. He didn’t like thinking he was second best, and his college roommate proved—every single time—that he was better than Flynn.”
A flicker of worry passed over Matthew’s face. Just for the barest moment, and then it was gone.
But I saw it.
“A scrapbook?” Matthew asked.
“Matthew,” the lawyer called. “Now.”
She nodded. “Very interesting photos were in there, too.” Now she lifted the file that she had carried into the room. “Photos of Kennedy, before her
death. Photos of her being taken off a jogging trail . . . photos of her abductor.”
Matthew brushed past her. “Well, her abductor is dead, so that’s one case that is closed.” He stalked past his lawyer and grabbed for the door.
Victoria glanced over her shoulder. When the door opened, she saw Wade and Asher standing there outside the room, perfect shields blocking Matthew’s exit.
“Get out of my way,” Matthew muttered.
They didn’t move.
Even Moore looked nervous.
“Don’t you want to look at this picture?” Victoria asked him softly. “It’s a rather good picture. Gets the abductor’s face so well . . . your face so well.”
Matthew’s shoulders stiffened. “I’m not in that picture.”
“Flynn saw you, didn’t he? Such a chance encounter. But he was an avid jogger, too, and he happened to be on that trail the morning you took Kennedy. And that was the moment everything changed. For you. For him. He knew what you’d done, but he didn’t go to the cops. Somehow—you and Flynn connected. Monster to monster, I guess. Which one of you had the idea to keep Kennedy alive so long?”
He glared at her.
“Was it you?” Victoria asked.
His jaw hardened. “Do your fucking job, Bob!” he yelled at his lawyer.
His lawyer’s mouth opened as if he was about to start to argue. Sarah didn’t give him the chance, as she fired out, “Or was it Flynn?”
Moore reached for the photos. “I need to see—” He broke off as his gaze scanned the images. “Ph-Photos can be faked.” He began thumbing through them.
Victoria knew exactly what he’d see in all those terrible images. Kennedy—being tortured. Kennedy—being held captive. Kennedy—and her abductor.
Matthew Walker.
“Flynn took the pictures. You did the crime.” No, both men were just as guilty. Both sick, twisted men. “Do you think they’ll hurt you?” Victoria asked him, cocking her head to the side.
“Who?”
“The men in prison.”
He lunged forward and grabbed her. “You cunt, I’m not going to prison! Flynn was the sick bastard who dug her up! I didn’t even know he was doing that shit! He did it because he knew you were coming to town. Wanted your fucking LOST self to find her. But he couldn’t have you leaving town too soon. No, no, he liked the game. Thought it was his turn. I’d taken Melissa. I’d waited, I’d planned, then he swooped in and he fucking killed her! After he’d taught me the value of keeping prey alive—he killed Melissa! He took her away before I—”
Still gripping her shoulders, Matthew broke off, but she knew what he’d been going to say. “Before you had any fun?” she finished, feeling sick.
“Get your hands off her.” Wade’s voice was low and lethal. “Or I will fucking break them right now.”
Matthew blinked. He shook his head. “I—” His hands fell away.
“My client is confused!” the lawyer sputtered. “His attack and his pain medications have made him . . . they’ve made him . . .”
For the first time since Victoria entered the room, Dace spoke. “They didn’t make him anything. He’s a murdering bastard who just confessed to his crimes, and I’m going to see to it that he rots in jail.”
He had confessed. He’d confessed.
Matthew stared at her—stared. Glared. And she knew he was going to attack even before the snarl ripped across his face. He lunged at her.
She punched him in the face. His lip busted under her fist and he howled.
In the next instant, Wade had grabbed Matthew’s hands. Wade twisted hard, and Victoria knew that Matthew’s bones had just snapped.
He fell to the floor, screaming.
“You can’t do that!” Moore yelled. “Police brutality! You can’t—”
“We’re not cops,” Victoria said.
“And from where the cop sits,” Dace added, “that was self-defense.”
Matthew was on the floor in a fetal position.
A grim smile curved Wade’s lips. “They are going to love you in prison.”
Matthew whimpered. “My hands . . . my hands . . .”
The hands that had brutalized Kennedy . . .
“Matthew Walker,” Dace said, voice sharp and hard. “You’re under arrest for the abduction and murder of Kennedy Lane.”
Victoria took a deep breath. Her racing heartbeat eased.
“You have the right to remain silent.”
Matthew was crying.
“Anything you say can and will be used against you . . .”
He’d already said plenty.
Enough to seal his fate.
“Let’s see how you like being prisoner,” Victoria said. And a cold smile curved her lips. Justice, finally.
Maybe both Kennedy and Melissa would be able to rest in peace.
“THANK YOU,” DACE said as he offered his hand, first to Victoria, then to Wade. “The case just wasn’t sitting right with me. I knew I was missing something, but my captain was yanking back. Telling me to close that shit down.”
“The case is closed now,” Victoria said, giving a quick nod.
Dace glanced toward the interrogation room. Matthew had already been taken out. “Sometimes, I wonder if I’m in the right place . . .”
Asher joined their little group. “Plane will be ready to leave within the hour.”
Dace’s brows rose. “Another case?”
Asher slanted a quick glance at Victoria and Wade. “According to the boss, those two get a vacation. Maybe a honeymoon.”
Because I said yes.
“But my sister and I are about to get a crash course on all things LOST,” Asher added. “Time for us to jump in with both feet.”
Dace shook Asher’s hand. “Good luck to you.”
The case was closed. The plane waited. Time to go, but . . .
“We could always use another good team member,” Victoria said to Dace. Because he hadn’t given up on Kennedy. Or Melissa.
And he hadn’t revealed my secrets, either.
Surprise flashed in the detective’s eyes.
“If you ever think about getting into the private sector,” Wade added, “you should give us a call.”
Dace laughed, but his gaze held speculation. “I’m not a freaking Navy SEAL. I doubt I’m the kind of guy your boss would want to hire—”
“Actually,” Wade told him, “you’re exactly the kind of guy LOST needs. Think it over.”
Dace’s head tilted down and he stared at the floor as he said, “Don’t see how I’d be any good. I didn’t find Kennedy. Didn’t help her—”
“You didn’t give up on her,” Victoria said. “That’s what matters. And maybe next time, you will bring the missing home.”
She felt Wade’s gaze on her.
“Hope,” Victoria explained simply. “That’s what this is about. Not just closing a case, but finding those victims. Giving the family hope.” Hope could be such a beautiful thing.
Wade had taught her that.
It was a lesson that she would never forget.
Her fingers curled with his and they walked out of the police station. Asher was right. They had a vacation coming. Maybe someplace tropical. And maybe . . . maybe while they were there, they’d even get married on a sunny beach.
Life was full of hope now. She saw it—everywhere she looked.
Wade squeezed her fingers, and she knew, finally, that there would be no more desperate searching for her. No more fighting to keep her secrets hidden. She was safe. She was loved.
She was home . . . with Wade.
Exactly where she was supposed to be.
Are you addicted to the sexy and suspenseful novels
from New York Times best-selling author
CYNT
HIA EDEN?
Then you won’t want to miss the next LOST novel!
TAKEN
Coming soon from Avon Books!
Read on for a sneak peek . . .
PROLOGUE
BAILEY JONES DIDN’T want to die. Not tied up, tortured, and all alone in that damn little shack.
She couldn’t feel her fingers. That should have scared her—that terrible numbness—but she was long past the point of being afraid. She was mad now. So fucking angry—why had this happened? Why her? And, why, why wouldn’t the jerk who held her just let her go?
Her face slid over the rough wooden floor of the cabin. She jerked at the rope that held her wrists, but it wouldn’t give. She was sure she’d been bleeding from her wrists earlier, but had that stopped? Or maybe she was still bleeding—from her wrists or from the slashes on her body. Bailey didn’t know if the wounds still trickled blood.
She only knew . . . she’d been in that cabin for nearly three days. Light had come and gone, spilling through the window. Her lips were busted and raw, and her throat was sore—scratched from screaming and bone dry because the bastard who’d taken her had only given her the tiniest sips of water. And no food, no food at all. No bathroom.
Just pain.
She inched across the floor, moving like a worm. If she could just get across the room, she’d be able to get out of the door. If she could get to that door, she could escape.
Her captor had made a mistake. After his last time using that knife on her . . . he’d thought that she passed out. Bailey had learned fast with that freak. He only liked to hurt her if she was awake. If she was unconscious . . . well, there must not be any damn fun in the act for him. He liked to see her suffer. Liked to make her beg.
Eleven slices of his knife . . . he’d been counting. He’d stopped after eleven, his breathing heaving, his body shaking. And when he stopped . . .
I just pretended to pass out. And that freak in the ski mask stormed out of the room. In his haste, he’d left the door open. Oh, hell, yes, he’d left the door open. She’d gotten off the bed, fallen onto the floor—and now—she was getting out of this place. Her rage gave her the energy to keep moving. She’d get to the door. Get out and . . .