She stepped away. If he touched her now, she wouldn’t have the courage to do what came next. “I’m going to confess, Gabriel.”

“What?” He stared at her as though she’d lost her mind, fairly certain it was true. “Confess what?”

“To the murder of Nathan Rhodes.” Before he could speak, she rushed through her explanation. “If Kenneth is the killer, then he might tell them to cut a deal.”

“Who gives a damn? He’s got no proof about Nathan’s death, and no one will believe him.”

“Sanchez might. Someone might. But it doesn’t matter.” She took a long breath and placed her hand on his chest. His heartbeat thumped beneath her palm. “Kenneth might be innocent. If he is, there’s a psychopath out there who won’t stop. How do you think he’d react when his prey turns herself in?”

Pushing past outrage, Gabriel forced himself to consider the angles. “His hold over you is broken.”

“And he’ll want to punish me. He’ll come for me. That’s his endgame. Twenty-six deaths and then me.”

“No.”

“Yes.” Her response was simple, absolute. Not only had she decided to stop running; she also planned to fight. “Help me, Gabriel. It’s the only way.”

An hour later, Peter answered the phone. Quickly Gabriel issued terse instructions to Peter, explaining the situation. The editor grunted in agreement. In the Ledger offices, Peter began to shout out orders as quickly as Gabriel fed them to him. When they finished, Peter transferred him to Kelly. She cheerfully accepted his directives about drivers and distributors. It was past 7:00 P.M., and the inaugural daily edition of the Ledger would roll off the presses in six hours.

ERIN TURNED THE key in the brass lock and stumbled into the apartment. She braced herself against the door, unable to move farther. Every instinct, every fiber, shrilled at her to run. But, she accepted resignedly, this time they’d know to look for her. Sylvie had taken her confession. Sanchez wanted to book her that night, but Sylvie’s logic had prevailed. Booking Erin would mean an open record and might undermine her plan. Grudgingly Sanchez gave in to letting Erin go, on condition that she surrender tomorrow after it was over.

Assuming she lived through it.

It was then she registered the muted hum of the television. The television that had been off when she left the apartment. Raw nerves trembled through her, and she thought of the killer whose sick mind held her in focus. Her hand scrabbled behind her for the knob. It wasn’t running if she was evading a thief. Or worse.

Beyond the hallway, a laugh track sent its muffled hilarity through the apartment. Clutching her bag, she forced herself to be rational. What type of criminal would lie in wait, watching cable?