“Idiot,” she muttered under her breath, then eased her Honda onto the side road and headed for the freeway that cut north from this section of low-slung, commercial buildings on the southeast part of town toward the All Saints campus.

Her plan was only partially formed, but she was rolling with it. Having Tara’s things tucked away in the basement of the house she was renting was a godsend. She’d turn everything over to the police for evidence, of course, but until they were interested, she figured whatever was in the storage unit was fair game. She’d already found out the type and make of the combination lock Irene Calloway had used to secure Tara’s things, then had spent two hours going to three different hardware stores before she’d found a lock that appeared the same.

Now she was ready.

A huge Suburban passed her covered in LSU stickers. A tiger fan, she thought with a faint smile. Kristi considered Louisiana State with its huge student body in Baton Rouge. Wouldn’t a larger campus make for a wider, less-noticeable hunting ground? Why girls at All Saints?

Because whoever is doing this is comfortable there. He’s either a student, a member of the faculty, or an alumni. LSU or another campus is unfamiliar. Whoever is doing this is intrinsically connected to the college, knows how to get around, has hiding places, blends in.

She felt a little frisson of fear slide down her spine. She was convinced that there was a monster stalking the ivy-clad brick buildings of All Saints, a psycho who had, so far, gotten away with his horrendous deeds.

“Not for long, bastard,” she said, and glanced down at the speedometer. She was flying, driving nearly twenty miles over the posted limit. She eased off the throttle and glanced in her rearview mirror, certain she would see flashing red and blue lights, but no highway trooper was following her. This time, she’d gotten lucky. Good. She couldn’t afford a ticket.

She took the exit closest to the campus and wound through the side streets, then parked in her usual spot near the staircase leading to her unit. Rather than head upstairs, she found the door leading to the basement laundry and storage facilities and unlocked it with one of the original keys she’d gotten from Irene Calloway. The stairs leading downward were dark and creaky, the walls made of ancient cement, the few windows small and grimy and shrouded with cobwebs, their thin threads littered with the drained, brittle carcasses of dead insects.

“Lovely,” she said as she turned a precarious corner. Three steps later she was in the bowels of the building. At least the basement was dry. There were stains on the walls indicating that water had at one time or another seeped through old cracks, and areas where an attempt had been made to patch the damage with little or no success.