A field trip, he’d called it.

She frowned, trying to reach in, to snag the memory, to lift it to the surface and watch it play out.

But even as she did this, her knees almost gave out as a sudden, horrible surge of fear and terror flooded her at once. She felt the urge to run, to flee for cover. Felt a desire to scream, to cry.

She realized her eyes had gone blurry, and her fingers gripping the postcard were shaking.

The postcard fell from her fingertips now, fluttering to the ground, resting against the prickly doormat which simply read Welcome.

Not Welcome Home.

Just welcome.

Some people didn’t deserve a home. Ilse knew she wasn’t home.

Gasping, hyperventilating now, she stared at where the postcard had fallen. Hilda Mueller. A quaint, pretty picture of a small village.

And yet sheer terror flooded her being.

“Damn it,” she murmured, softly. “Damn it!”

It couldn’t be Mitchell. Could it? He wouldn’t taunt her like this… Was she in danger? Should she call someone? Her instincts had failed last time. She hadn’t taken Samantha seriously. And now… someone from Ilse’s own past was back. Someone was hunting her. She could feel it.

Not Dr. Mitchell then. Someone else was sending the postcards. Someone who knew. But who? How was it possible? Just a sick joke?

She could only hope. Her fingers were still trembling, and she stared at the tattoo looping her wrist.

Take captive every thought…

But some thoughts were harder to master than others. Some thoughts had a mind of their own.

Her keys jangled, her fingers shaking so badly that it took five tries to find the keyhole. When she did, she paused for a moment, feeling a chill along her spine. “Wuornos. Six victims. Postpartum psychosis.” But the rote memorization didn’t help. The familiar words, the pattern, didn’t soothe as it once had.

She was in danger. She could feel it. She should have acted sooner. Done something before—

A door slammed shut behind her.

She jolted, turning sharply. She heard footsteps approaching, and as she rounded to face the driveway, her fists bunched and she loosed a small scream.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Ilse, are you okay?”

The scream faltered on her lips, transitioned to a soft little sob, and then a desperate gulp for air. Her exhaustion was now playing games with her. Her vision was still trembling, along with her fingers. The keys pressed against her ribs where she’d jolted back in fright, feeling the rigid metal jutting from the lock, pressed against her like a knife.

Or just like keys, she thought to herself. Not a knife. No threat. Just keys.

She watched as her old mentor left his Prius, looking quizzically up at her from beneath his bushy eyebrows. The length of his long, white beard brushed the top of his suit, and he maintained the perfect posture he always carried.

Ilse inhaled, exhaled, puffing her lips and blowing steadily. She glanced toward the postcard on the ground and surreptitiously stepped forward, her foot covering the card now while she made a big show of stretching.