I’d been ready to do anything—absolutely anything—to prolong my life for one more second.

If I’d had a weapon, I’d have used it. I’d have maimed or killed to save my own life.

I’d have spread my legs and let the two of them rape me.

But they weren’t interested in rape. Only in the hunt.

The hunt to kill.

Strange that I hadn’t thought about it in so long. After rehab, I’d gotten therapy and trained myself to compartmentalize.

I’d done pretty well until now.

Now, when my feelings for Reid Wolfe brought it all together in my mind. He was Derek Wolfe’s son, which blew the compartmentalizing thing into outer space.

It just wasn’t possible anymore.

Yet I couldn’t bring myself to feel too sad about that. I wouldn’t trade my time with Reid for anything. It was so special, and I wanted it to last as long as it could, which wouldn’t be long.

Once this murder was solved, he and I would never cross paths again.

I kept to myself, despite having four roommates. I was closer to Mo than the other two, but though Mo shared some deep stuff with me, I’d never reciprocated. I was happy to be there for her, but I never felt the need to divulge anything.

I didn’t have a lot to share, other than my story, and until now, I’d never shared that with anyone. Not even my therapist. She didn’t know the whole truth.

I needed to share now, though, and with someone other than this detective.

I wanted to vent.

To explode.

But who could I trust?

When I was younger, I talked to a pastor sometimes. My mother and I weren’t overly religious, and after my first communion at St. Andrew’s in Manhattan we never went to that parish again. I went to a protestant church with a neighbor every now and then and talked to the pastor there. He used to say the Lord’s Prayer with me. I got into the habit of saying it nightly, until I prayed it that fateful day…and then stopped praying altogether.

A pastor would be trustworthy. A pastor should be trustworthy.

But one of my hunters had been a priest. A priest who mocked his collar by wearing it while tormenting another human being.

The priest who gave an innocent little girl her first communion, and ten years later, hunted her.

Nope. No pastor or priest.

Unless…

St. Andrew’s. I was stronger now. I grabbed my phone and did a search.

Father James Wilkins. St. Andrew’s. I had a credit card with a small line. I could take a cab…

I could confront my demons.

Once and for all.