Sure, he was a few minutes behind her now, but he was willing to bet that she would head straight to mama’s condominium, which, because he’d planned it, was only a stone’s throw from his own place. He thought of his house in the city, the little place with computers and phones. A respectable spot. The best part about it? The city house was far from the cabin that was titled in Myra’s name, where that bitch Chloe was waiting for the end she knew was coming. Damn, though, he needed Zoe.

Myra had been adamant when he’d called her. Their conversation, if that’s what you wanted to call it, had been hot. Angry. It ricocheted through his head, over and over again

“Get her!”

“But she’s seen my face.”

“All the more reason to stop her before she can identify you. What kind of cretin are you?”

“It’s too late.”

“Too late?” she’d said in a low voice that was more chilling than when she screeched. “It’s never too late. Now, find her, capture her, take her to the cabin, and finish what you started.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue with me. You know I’m right. I’m always right.”

He’d tuned her out then, just as he often did. He hadn’t even had to disconnect the phone. He’d learned over the years how to deal with her when her demands and accusations had bruised his brain, burrowing deep. It wasn’t as if she had to keep repeating herself, he heard her day and night. Until he’d learned how to ignore her voice as it rattled through his brain. He wondered if he’d made a mistake. Maybe she was the one who needed to die. But . . . no! He couldn’t think that way. Remorse was just as sudden and hot as his anger. Resolved to stay on track, he pressed the accelerator and headed to the city.

Miraculously, Zoe thought, the shot had missed.

No glass had shattered.

No tire had blown.

No metal on the body of the truck had been pierced.

But the driver, a farmer-type complete with trucker hat, plaid shirt, worn jeans, and boots, had finally gotten the message through his thick skull that the beast was hunting them down. Now the farmer was scared shitless, just like Zoe.

“For the love of God, what kind of trouble are you in?” he demanded as he took a corner too fast and the pickup skidded into the oncoming lane. They narrowly missed a brightly colored Volkswagen bus filled with screaming, happy kids and balloons flying from the open windows, a birthday party that had nearly become a disaster. Fortunately, he didn’t careen into the bus. “Why is that son of a bitch shooting at you? At us?”

The truck shuddered as he righted it, tires screeching.