“Detective Poe, this is Emma Powers. You don’t know me, but he wanted me to call you. He’s going to let me go. He told me so. But he wanted you to know he’s sorry he hit you so hard. He didn’t mean to hurt you. Also, he hopes you like the roses.” Emma hesitated and then added, “Casey is alive and doing fine.”

The call ended. Jordan’s adrenaline rushed through her body with such force her temples pounded. “It’s him.”

“How did he get your number?”

“I called Casey. She called me back on a second phone she carried. That’s how I found her. The phone’s not putting off a signal, so he must have discovered and disabled it.”

“Does this mean he has this Emma girl?” Avery asked.

“Yes.”

“She said he wasn’t going to hurt her.” Avery’s optimism was almost childlike.

Jordan shook her head. “Don’t believe it. And don’t believe that Casey is still alive.”

“Why is he doing this?”

“It’s a game to him. He’s having fun. I stopped his last murder, and he wants me to know he has found another victim.”

“He’s having fun? What the hell is fun about this?” Anger strained Avery’s voice.

For the first time since Jordan had been attacked, she had a sense of purpose. She remembered why she was a cop. Why she loved the job. “Help me figure out this voice-activated thing on the phone again.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Call Ranger Spencer. He’s going to want to hear this.”

Spencer was on his morning run when his phone rang. He paused, wiped the sweat from his brow. “Jordan, is everything all right?”

“I have a situation.”

“What is it?”

“A potential victim just called me.”

Turning back toward his house, he said, “Hold tight. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

When he reached his house, he called his office and asked for a search of Emma Powers’s name. By the time he had showered and dressed, his phone rang. “Spencer.”

The officer explained that Emma Powers had an arrest record for drugs and gave him the name of her parole officer.

“Do you have a picture?”

“Yes, sir. Sending now.”

Spencer glanced at his phone, and as soon as the text arrived, he opened the image. Emma Powers had light-blond hair and was twenty.

As he moved toward his car, he called Emma’s parole officer, landed in voicemail, and left a message. “I’m going to need current employer, address, and anything you have on her.”

He arrived at Jordan’s home at five minutes to 6:00 a.m. He knocked and heard unsteady footsteps moving toward the door. When it opened, Jordan stood there, wearing jeans and a light-blue pullover blouse. She had brushed her hair, stood straight, and, to his relief, looked more like her old self.