Without a modicum of mercy her captor snatched the paper away—the script she’d forced Lorraine to read. Lorraine had searched the woman’s face for a shred of compassion, a crack in her icy veneer. But the woman’s expression was stone cold as she then prodded Lorraine forward, down a short hallway, and into the kitchen.

Where it was dark.

Oh, God.

There had to be a way to save herself. Had to!

“Move!” she ordered, the unforgiving nose of the pistol hard against Lorraine’s back.

Tears ran down Lorraine’s face. Her heart, beating so rapidly, so erratically, felt as if it would explode. She said a silent prayer, begging God for mercy.

“Please. Don’t do this,” she whispered, physically quaking with fear. She didn’t want to die. Not now. Not this way. She was too young, had too much to live for. “Please,” she begged, desperation cracking her voice. “I won’t tell a soul. I swear. You can trust me.”

“Shhhh. It’s going to be all right.” Slowly her attacker ran the cold muzzle of the pistol up Lorraine’s spine, from the small of her back to the base of her skull.

Where it stopped.

Oh, sweet Jesus!

In that horrifying second Lorraine knew it was over.

Nothing she could do or say would change this demented criminal’s mind.

She closed her eyes just as the gun blasted.

CHAPTER 24

Something was off.

Way out of kilter.

Bentz felt it in the air, in the silence of the night. When he pulled up in front of Lorraine’s home the street was empty—no silver Chevy prowling the neighborhood. A few lights glowed from the tri-level house, but the curtains were drawn. Hadn’t Lorraine said she’d seen Jennifer from her window? Worse yet, as he approached he noticed the front door was ajar.

Had she left it open for him?

No way. When he’d talked to her, Lorraine had been scared out of her mind. Every muscle in his body tensed. “Lorraine,” he called, slowly and silently withdrawing his weapon from his shoulder holster. “Lorraine? It’s Rick Bentz.”

Silence.

Carefully, sensing danger, he nudged the door further open with his weapon, and hearing no sound from within, slipped into the house. Lights were on in the living room, and he stiffened at a subtle movement across from him until he realized that it was his own reflection in the mirrored wall. The room was empty, a book facedown on the worn green sofa.

“Lorraine?” He listened but heard nothing.

Moving silently through the hallway toward the back of the house, Bentz passed an empty dining room with mail piled on the table. As he approached the darkened kitchen he smelled it.

The distinctive, metallic odor of blood.

His stomach dropped to the floor.