She heard the crunch of tires on gravel before she saw the nose of a maroon minivan pull in behind the Jeep. A tall, lean man climbed from behind the wheel and she had the vague sensation she’d seen him somewhere before. His hair was a little long and shot with the same gray that silvered his short-cropped beard and mustache. Dark glasses covered his eyes and the bill of a baseball cap shaded his forehead.

“Are you Katie Kinkaid?”

“Yes.”

He grinned and showed off white teeth that seemed in contrast to his disheveled appearance. He wore brown coveralls that had a few oil spills on them and a faded red rag, streaked with grease, poked out of his back pocket.

“Hi.” His hand shot out and she noticed his fingernails were dirty as she offered her palm and felt the strength of his clasp. “Benjamin Francis.” He nodded toward the house. “This is a nice place, looks like it might work for me and my wife. I work at a gas station in Ashland and she teaches preschool.”

That explained his work clothes, though she wondered why there wasn’t a logo for the station or his name embroidered on his coveralls. There was something about him that didn’t ring true, made her ill at ease, though she couldn’t explain why.

“Can you give me a look at the inside?”

“Sure.” She told herself her case of nerves was unjustified and unlocked the back door. The heat of the day had settled into the house, leaving it sweltering. As she reached for the latch of the window, she said, “I have a few repairs that will be made before anyone moves in. I plan to paint, clean the carpets, wax the floors and—”

She heard him walk in behind her, close the door and turn the lock. “Don’t bother with the window.” His voice was low, the command sharp.

She froze. “But it’s beastly in here and there’s a good cross breeze—” Turning, she found him leaning against the door, blocking her way out, and his expression had turned from friendly to hard and calculating.

“I have a confession to make,” he said.

But she already understood as she mentally scraped off his beard and removed his hat. She swallowed back her fear as she recognized him. Her blood turned to ice.

“I’m not Ben Francis.”

“I know.”

His eyes glinted with a malevolent light. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“We didn’t have to,” she said, fighting a feeling damned close to terror climbing up her spine. “I know who you are, Ray Dean. I just don’t understand what you want from me.”

* * *