Blind Spot

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To Kate Kenyon. It was such a pleasure meeting you, your handsome husband, and your beautiful children at my book group event in Boston. Thanks for coming out and taking the tour with me—and for being such a great member of my online book group. I always smile when I hear from you.

For all of these things, I am not the least bit sorry.

—Carl Panzram, American serial killer,
arsonist, rapist, and burglar

1

Somewhere in Anchorage, Alaska—Tuesday,
3:00 p.m. AKDT

Dr. Evelyn Talbot sat trembling on a cold cement floor, blinking into pure darkness. No matter how hard she strained her eyes, she couldn’t see so much as a glimmer of light, had no idea of the dimensions of the room where she’d been tossed or who’d thrown her in it before locking and bolting the door.

Considering all the psychopaths she’d studied over the years, she was afraid to find out who it was.

She had to calm down, she told herself. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have the presence of mind, or the physical strength, to save her own life. Not only did she have to manage her fear, she had to remember everything she’d learned as a forensic psychiatrist who’d spent the past twenty years studying serial killers. In this moment, her education was the only weapon she had.

She removed the suit jacket she was wearing over a matching beige dress and rubbed the arm she’d landed on to see if it might be broken. Whoever had grabbed her as she was getting out of the car at her own house had attacked without warning. He’d come up from behind, thrown a bag over her head, hauled her off her feet and shoved her into the back of a van. Before she could even reach up to try to remove the bag, she’d felt a knee in her spine as her hands were jerked behind her and tied. Then the door had slammed shut and she’d heard an engine rev and tires squeal as she was launched to one side with the motion of the vehicle.

She didn’t believe her arm was broken, just bruised or sprained. Fortunately, the rope that’d been used to tie her up had been cut off as she was dumped into this room, so she had feeling again in her hands. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized that her ankle was tender, too. She must’ve rolled it in the brief scuffle. At least whoever kidnapped her hadn’t been particularly rough when he forced her onto her stomach, so nothing had happened that would’ve injured the child she carried—yet.