Montoya’s gut clenched, and he felt that spooky sensation, a premonition that things were going to get worse before they got better. “Someone better call the radio station and talk to Dr. Sam, see if she’s been getting any strange calls.”

“I’m on my way,” Bentz said, his jaw still set. It had been his shot that had nailed Father John, his bullet that had sent the guy into the depths of the swamp to become, they’d all hoped, gator food.

Since his body had never been recovered and it had been years since his last rampage, they’d all thought—police, press, and populace—that Father John, the serial killer who dressed as a priest to gain his victims’ trust, had died in the brackish waters of the bayou.

Now, it seemed, they’d been wrong.

“Call Dr. Sam? What the fuck for?” Brinkman asked, always a little slow on the uptake; then, as if the light were slowly dawning, he muttered, “Holy shit!” when he spied the defaced C-note on the table and put two and two together. Shaking his bald pate, he added, “Well, ladies and gentleman, it looks like he’s baaaaack.”

“Or someone who knows his MO well enough to be a convincing copycat,” Montoya said, though some of the details of the original crimes the cops had kept from the press. This guy, whoever he was, was informed.

“Five to one it’s Father John,” Brinkman said, biting his lower lip and narrowing his eyes on the defaced hundred-dollar bill.

No one took him up on the bet.

Val had nearly convinced herself that her mind had been playing tricks on her.

Nearly.

But the tight muscles at her nape and the goose pimples running up the back of her arms told her otherwise. Who would trespass in her house? And why?

It had to do with Camille’s death.

In all the time she’d lived here in the carriage house, there had been no intruder, and now, with Camille dead only a few days, someone had intentionally crept inside.

Why?

“Val?”

She nearly jumped out of her skin.

Whirling, almost losing the damned towel as she spun toward the screen door, she spied Slade, freshly showered on the other side of the mesh. Bo was on his feet, tail wagging slowly, nose pressed against the mesh. “Oh, God . . . It’s late. I’m not ready.”

He slid a glance down her body, her fingers coiled in the rough terry cloth that swathed little more than her torso. “You look great to me.”

“Thanks.” Some of her fears dissipated. It was still somewhat light out, warm . . .

She felt his gaze lingering at the cleft of her breasts where her fist was clenched, white knuckled, over the towel.

“Are you gonna let me in or what?” He lifted an eyebrow, and she let out a long sigh.