Slipping her hand into the pocket of her jacket, Faith’s fingers brushed the cold barrel of the Walther PK380 she hadn’t left her Miami apartment without in almost four years. Miami PD hadn’t been any help at all, so she’d taken her safety into her own hands.

She was sensible. Prepared. But still scared. I’m so tired of being afraid.

Suddenly aware that she’d dropped her gaze to her feet, she defiantly lifted her chin to look up at the house. Yeah, she’d run, all right. She’d run to the one place she feared almost as much as the place she’d left behind. Which sounded about as crazy now as it had when she’d fled Miami two days ago. But it had been her only choice. No one else will die because of me.

She’d packed the Jeep with as many of her possessions as she could make fit and left everything else behind, including her career as a mental-health therapist and the name under which she’d built it. A legal name change, sealed by the court for confidentiality, had ensured that Faith Frye was no more.

Faith Corcoran was a clean slate. She was starting fresh. No one she’d left behind in Miami—friend or foe—knew about this house. No one knew her grandmother had died, so no one could tell Peter Combs. He would never think to look for her here.

She even had a new job—a sensible job in the HR department of a bank in downtown Cincinnati. She would have coworkers who wore conservative suits and stared at spreadsheets. She would make an actual living wage and receive benefits for the very first time. But the most valuable benefit would be the bank’s security, just in case her efforts to lose Faith Frye hadn’t been quite good enough.

Lightly, she touched her throat. Although the wound had healed long ago, the scar remained, a permanent illustration of what the man who hunted her was capable of doing. But at least she’d lived. Gordon hadn’t been so fortunate.

Guilt and grief welled up in equal measures, choking her. I’m so sorry, Gordon. Her former boss had had the bad luck to be standing next to her when the bullets started to fly—bullets meant for her. Now his wife was a widow, his children fatherless.

She couldn’t bring Gordon back. But she could do everything in her power to make sure it never happened again. If Combs couldn’t find her, he couldn’t hurt her or anyone else. Her grandmother’s passing had presented her with a place to run to when she’d needed it most.