Thrusting all the chaotic emotions out of her mind, she turned on the jets and began wrestling the cover off the tub. She gasped in alarm when a dark shadow detached itself from the other side of the screened-in porch, light glinting off the barrel of a gun.

A voice scratched eerily through the frigidly cold night. “Don’t say a word, Darby, don’t scream for help. If you do, I will blow your pretty boyfriend’s head off his shoulders, and you will watch him die.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Eban swore viciously at himself. He was supposed to be good with words and yet he’d fucked up the last five minutes—possibly some of the most important minutes—of his life.

He’d been so desperate to do it all right. To not rush Darby or pressure her. He didn’t want her thinking she had to sacrifice her studies to be with him. He had a few ideas and he’d already put out a few feelers at headquarters. But only if she wanted him. He didn’t want to sacrifice the career he loved if this was only a short-term fling. He didn’t think it was, but they had to have the conversation. He needed to tell her how he felt. Like he’d slay dragons for her. Like he’d die for her. And if she didn’t feel the same?

That was gonna suck balls.

Instead of addressing the situation head-on, he answered the phone, because that was easier than dealing with his feelings and deep-rooted fear that no one would ever truly love him—all stemming from being raised by a mother who didn’t give a shit. Talk about pathetic. “Winters.”

“Lincoln Frazer here. We just arrived at Fairbanks airport.”

Eban jammed his hand into his hair. “I’m surprised you made it, but that’s great. Dr. Kim Gleeson confessed to the murders here and was in Anchorage at the same time as the murders last year.”

“Kim Gleeson?” It sounded like Frazer was relaying the information to someone else.

“Yeah. Where are you staying?”

“The Ramada.”

“This Kim Gleeson, how is she connected to the O’Roarke girl?”

“Darby is a woman not a girl and Kim Gleeson is a ‘he.’”

“Wait. Didn’t you get my profile?”

“No—Well, I haven’t had the chance to check my email.” Too busy interviewing their prime suspect. “He’s Darby’s psychotherapist. He works at the university and lied about why he came to work in Fairbanks last August. He was at the dance where he saw Darby with Martin Carstairs on Tuesday night, and he ran a group therapy session at the church where the second victim died. The third and fourth victims were both his receptionists. We found porn on his hard drive and there are various incriminating purchases linked to the murders on his credit card. Then there’s the very real fact he confessed to the murders.”

“The profile could be wrong, I suppose…” Frazer didn’t sound convinced.

How much evidence did the guy need? “Who else could it be if not the therapist? And why would he lie?”