That experience had changed her life in so many ways. First and foremost, it was the reason she’d decided to make the study of such individuals her life’s work. Jasper had been an only child who’d come from a good family. His wealthy parents had doted on him. There’d been no abuse or deprivation, nothing one would think necessary to “create” such a monster. That was the most puzzling part of the equation, and what had prompted her to establish Hanover House, the first prison of its kind. Located in a town of only five hundred people an hour outside of Anchorage, it housed over three hundred inmates, including 110 of the worst serial killers in America. According to some estimates, psychopaths made up 4 percent of the general population and over 20 percent of America’s prison populations, so someone had to figure out a way to treat them.

Too bad it was such a dangerous job.

Evelyn had a terrible feeling she was about to be reminded of just how dangerous.

Tilting her head back, she hauled in a deep, calming breath as she tried to estimate the length of time she’d been in the van so she could attempt to determine where she might be in relation to Hilltop. Had her kidnapper driven an hour? Longer?

Tough to say. Shock and fear—not to mention disorientation—made it almost impossible to come up with an accurate estimate. Ten minutes in such a situation felt like ten hours. Her captor could’ve taken her to a remote cabin in the middle of the wilderness on the far side of Hilltop. There was no snow on the ground right now, nothing to make those mountain roads impassable. Or he could’ve taken her to Anchorage or some other town or community where it would be easier to get groceries and necessities.

She held her breath, listening, but she couldn’t hear anything. When would her captor make himself known? Where was he?

That the attack had been so well coordinated, so efficient and restrained, told her she wasn’t dealing with a disorganized personality. This wasn’t the kind of crime that came without much, if any, forethought or planning. But what did that tell her?

Her attacker was probably smart. And she knew him. Or he knew her.

After a few more minutes, she gathered the nerve to move from the spot where he’d dumped her. By pressing her ear to the door, she thought she might be able to make out a noise or two that would provide some clue as to what was going on.

She managed to find the door by crawling on her hands and knees and feeling her way across the rough, hard floor. If her captor had left the premises, maybe she could bang on the door or the walls of her prison and bring help. It might even be possible for her to kick the door open and escape—

That tantalizing hope was dashed the second she felt the door. It wasn’t the usual somewhat flimsy wooden panel found on most houses these days. And there was no crack underneath. It felt like the heavy steel door of a walk-in cooler. She couldn’t hear anything through it, and she couldn’t break it. There wasn’t even a handle on her side, just what felt like a six-by-twelve-inch slot in the middle with a metal cover over it on the outside.