This was her home now. Her life. It was a small apartment but filled with windows and polished hardwoods. Her choice of residence was not a factor of income. A trust funded by her parents’ life insurance guaranteed that she would never lack for money. But she spent that money carefully, reluctant to draw attention or interest. No, money was not an issue for her. Freedom was.

For too long, she had lived at the mercy of a madman who controlled her every thought, every move. Now, she had her own space. A life she’d created far away from anyone who cared about the woman she had once been. It had taken more than two years and thousands of dollars, but Analise Glover was gone.

She slid open the French doors and walked into the apartment, the letter still unopened. Perhaps it was a plea from a student for an extension, she mused, running her fingers along the stationery. Still, a sense of uneasiness crept along her spine.

Erin shook off the feeling and wandered over to the chaise that stretched beneath the wide bay window. She switched on a swing-armed brass lamp and curled her legs beneath her on the brushed cotton. Telling herself to stop being fretful, she slit the seal on the letter and turned it to spill the contents to her lap. Newsprint fell out.

She gasped.

Five obituaries stared up at her. They’d been clipped from the local paper, she realized grimly. Clipped and sent to her. Holding them by the edges, she sifted through the columns, murmuring the names aloud.

“Julian Harris. Burleigh Singleton. Phoebe Bailey. Juan Johnson. Margaret Fordham.”

She tripped over Maggie’s name and her breathing hitched. Erin forced herself to take a calming breath. Think rationally, she commanded herself, trying to ignore the shrill of panic in her head.

Be reasonable. Someone had sent her a packet of obituaries. Strange, yes, but not terrifying. She was, after all, a criminal psychology professor. One who habitually read obituaries and police news to her students to teach them how to look for information.

The envelope was probably a prank by one of her students. A nasty, silly prank to rattle her before exams.

But even as she formed the feeble excuse, her heart thudded against her chest in fierce denial. On her lap, Maggie’s grainy photograph watched her with knowing eyes. This was more than a trick.

Hands trembling, Erin shook the envelope again.

A note that had been scripted on a scrap of the same ivory paper fluttered into her lap. Shakily, she lifted it to read. There were only three words.

Analise,

Find me.

For hours, Erin sat in the darkened apartment, lit only by moonlight and a single lamp. She read and reread the five items lined up on the coffee table. A pattern had emerged from the morbid columns and sent her to the computer, fighting the urge to retch.