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Back Minutes to Kill
Chapters (45)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. Dedication
  4. Contents
  5. Chapter One
  6. Chapter Two
  7. Chapter Three
  8. Chapter Four
  9. Chapter Five
  10. Chapter Six
  11. Chapter Seven
  12. Chapter Eight
  13. Chapter Nine
  14. Chapter Ten
  15. Chapter Eleven
  16. Chapter Twelve
  17. Chapter Thirteen
  18. Chapter Fourteen
  19. Chapter Fifteen
  20. Chapter Sixteen
  21. Chapter Seventeen
  22. Chapter Eighteen
  23. Chapter Nineteen
  24. Chapter Twenty
  25. Chapter Twenty-One
  26. Chapter Twenty-Two
  27. Chapter Twenty-Three
  28. Chapter Twenty-Four
  29. Chapter Twenty-Five
  30. Chapter Twenty-Six
  31. Chapter Twenty-Seven
  32. Chapter Twenty-Eight
  33. Chapter Twenty-Nine
  34. Chapter Thirty
  35. Chapter Thirty-One
  36. Chapter Thirty-Two
  37. Chapter Thirty-Three
  38. Chapter Thirty-Four
  39. Chapter Thirty-Five
  40. Chapter Thirty-Six
  41. Chapter Thirty-Seven
  42. Chapter Thirty-Eight
  43. Chapter Thirty-Nine
  44. Acknowledgments
  45. About the Author

Her mouse hovered over an e-mail from [email protected]. The subject line read Jewel. Hannah’s hands froze. A wave of cold swept over her skin. Only the police and Royce had been present when Hannah had given her statement. No one else would know the girl’s name—except the girl and the men who took her.

Hannah clicked on the e-mail. The message was short: Help. The end comes Tuesday.

Chapter Five

Chapter Five

“You sure this is the right address?” Brody shifted his unmarked police car into park at the curb in front of a narrow two-story home. A dozen blocks from the town center, the houses crowded together on small lots. White with black shutters, the place was plain but neat. No trash littered the tiny chain-linked yard. A maple tree had turned to crimson in the center of the small front yard, and its fallen leaves had been raked recently.

In the passenger seat, Chet Thatcher, the only other detective on the small Scarlet Falls PD, checked his paperwork against the brass numbers affixed next to the front door. “This is Jordan Brown’s last known address. Maybe he moved.”

Brody pointed to the small script letters that spelled Brown on the side of the black metal mailbox.

Chet tapped a forefinger on his report. “His parents’ house.”

“What do we know about him?” Brody asked. Chet had been working this case for the last month, but he’d asked for Brody to ride backup today.

“Jordan is twenty. He’s been arrested for burglary and once for narcotics possession. He got out of rehab six months ago.” Chet flipped a page on his clipboard. “A house was burglarized two blocks from here last night. The resident came home to find her window smashed, jewelry and two hundred dollars in cash missing. In her words, Must be that no-good piece-of-shit Brown kid who lives on Tyler Street.”

“Anybody actually see Jordan in the act?” Brody asked.

“No. I don’t have enough probable cause for a warrant, but the theft follows his established pattern of behavior. We arrested him two years ago for breaking into neighbors’ cars to fund his habit.” Chet showed him the kid’s mug shot. “There have been three similar break-ins in this neighborhood over the past six weeks.”

“Let’s go see if he’s home.” Chet got out of the car.

Brody stepped out into the street. “No car in the driveway.”

“Maybe Mom and Dad are at work.” Fifty-six years old and balding, Chet had a skinny frame and moved with a jerky, bowlegged stride as if he’d spent his life on horseback. The closest he’d been to a horse was the stands at Saratoga on race day.

Brody knocked on the front door, but the house remained quiet. Chet stepped into the flower bed, cupped his hands over his eyes, and peered in the living room window.

“See anything?” Brody asked.