Hunted

Theodore Anderson. She crossed her arms over her chest. Yes, he’d been the reason she was first sent to Hope. He’d been arrested and linked to the abduction and disappearance of several young girls in the area. Many of the crimes had occurred years ago, but only recently had he been linked to the kills.

The saddest part of the case? At least to Casey? The man had killed his own daughter. Christy Anderson had been murdered by her father when she was just thirteen years old.

Theodore had made headlines when he was arrested, and, yes, the reporters had all flocked down to cover the case when he went to trial. He’d been found guilty on all counts, and Theodore Anderson would never see the light of day again. Originally, the press had focused on Theodore, but it hadn’t been long before someone else started stealing the Front Page...

The Sandy Shore Killer.

“What are the odds,” Josh continued in that deep voice of his, “that in this sleepy little town, there would be not just one sadistic killer...but two?”

She licked her lips. “Considering how rare serial killers are...I’d say those odds should be astronomically low. But then...you’re FBI. You should know better than I do.”

“They are astronomically low. Coincidences like this one don’t happen.” Flat.

“But...it is happening.”

“Something set this guy off. Something brought him here...” His head turned and he gazed at the hotel behind her. “Can’t help but wonder...if it was you.”

She backed up a step. He knows. He dug into my past. He dug too deep. He found out what I did—

“You and all the reporters,” he continued as his hazel gaze slid back to her. “He didn’t like the fame that Theodore Anderson was getting, so he decided to steal the spotlight. And you and your buddies—with your twenty-four-seven news coverage—you just fed his beast. You made him more determined to get the attention he wanted.”

Casey shook her head. “You think this guy came here because of the reporters? Is that the theory the FBI is running with?”

His hand lifted and his fingers curved under her cheek. “We’re off the record. Way, way off...”

His fingers were faintly callused, a little rough against her skin.

“As I said, it’s highly unlikely we’d have two serial killers in the same town. That just doesn’t happen. Serial killers are rare to begin with and this...it isn’t by chance. Your ‘Sandy Shore Killer’ was drawn here for a reason.”

“Have the victims been connected in any way?” She had to press for more details.

“You know about the victims already. Attractive women in their twenties, all single, all visiting the area—no close personal ties here. And that’s all I will say about them now.”

His hand dropped away from her cheek and curved back around his handlebar. He revved the engine again.

Right. He was leaving. “Thanks for the ride.”

His gaze raked over her. She wondered... Did he feel that odd, thick tension between them? The heated attraction that seemed to fill the air?

His hazel stare burned.

He did.

“Good night, Casey.”

He felt the attraction, but Josh just wasn’t going to do anything about it. Those rule-following FBI guys. They weren’t her type. Or at least, they shouldn’t be.

“I’ll wait until you’re inside before I leave.” He paused a beat. “A gentleman never leaves before a lady is safely inside.”

“Is that what you are? A gentleman?”

He seemed to consider that. “Perhaps I could be whatever you want me to be.”

Casey turned away and hurried up the steps that led to the hotel. When she was in the lobby, she glanced back at him. He was still sitting on the motorcycle, still staring at her. Still looking far too sexy.

She lifted her hand and waved.

He frowned, gave her a small wave back, then drove away.

A few people who she recognized filled the lobby, and she inclined her head toward them as she headed for the elevator. The doors dinged open and when she slipped inside, Casey immediately ditched her heels. So much better. When she reached her floor, she carried her shoes in one hand, letting them dangle and bump against her leg. She was on the top floor, one that gave her a great view of the beach. She used her key card and slipped inside. The room was dark and ice-cold because she’d left the air-conditioning unit on earlier that day.

Casey turned on the light by the door. The maid had been in to clean—the room was spotless. Her pillows were all fluffed. New towels were waiting and the room had a fresh, lemony scent. She dropped her shoes and headed for the balcony door. She flipped the lock on it and slipped outside. The crash of the waves hit her first. The sound, then the scent. Stars glittered in the distance and she could see a handful of people walking on the beach.

She stood there a moment, lost in the sight. It didn’t seem right for something so beautiful to be linked to so much death. But if she’d learned anything in life...it was that beauty often hid darkness. A smile hid terror. Pain always waited. So did evil.

She turned from the view and reached for the balcony door. But...

Hadn’t she turned on the light in her room? Because the interior was pitch-black. She could see the darkness through the glass.

I turned it on when I walked inside. I always do that.

At least, she thought she had. But maybe there was a short or some kind of electrical problem. She’d have to call the front desk if there was trouble.

She opened the door and slipped inside. A little light spilled in from behind her, providing enough illumination for her to make her way to the small table near the bed. There was a lamp waiting there. She’d turn it on and then—

Hard hands wrapped around her from behind just as a bitter, thick odor hit her. “Got you.”

She opened her mouth to scream, but her attacker drove her forward, slamming her head into the wall just above the lamp. The impact was hard and she staggered. Casey didn’t get to scream. She didn’t even get to fight.

He rammed her head into the wall a second time.

Just like before...

No!

Her body was going limp. She was passing out.

His rough laughter was the last sound she heard.

Chapter Three (#ulink_5f54ed2a-e45d-513d-a402-540e6089e161)

He drove for miles, just riding the motorcycle and letting the wind brush across his face. In his head, he kept reliving the day’s dive. Sinking deep beneath the water, searching even as he hoped that he wouldn’t find the body. He’d hoped that the victim was still alive. That she still had a chance.

Then he’d seen her hair. That was the way it often was on those dives. If he was searching for a woman, her hair would float up from her head. It would drift in the water around her, as if it were trying to reach out for the surface.

He’d seen Tonya’s hair, then he’d seen her face. Not the pretty face from her picture—chalk white, bloated.

Dead.