How could he have judged her so poorly? She’d rallied from a physical challenge in the past, and it hadn’t been the torture that had broken her. With Dena, the game had been mental.

She’d had plans. She’d had hope. Once he’d taken that away, she’d wilted like a thirsty daisy.

Dena had proven that mental and emotional strength were as important as physical resilience. He needed someone who had faced life-long challenges and had overcome them.

A light in the apartment turned on. Through the window, he watched her rummage through a kitchen drawer.

Someone like her. Yes. She would be next.

Turning off the dome light, he got out of the car. The street was empty and dark in both directions. His shoes scraped on the concrete steps. He peered through the kitchen window but couldn’t see her.

Where was she?

His fingers closed on the hypodermic needle in his pocket. He’d slipped roofies into Missy’s coffee when she’d set it on a table to use the ladies’ room. Then he’d followed her at a discrete distance through the church parking lot. She’d collapsed, and he’d been right there. He’d put her in the passenger seat of his car as if she were sleeping. The drugs had worked well. She’d remained unconscious through the drive back to his place. But he didn’t have that opportunity this time.

His initial success had made him cocky. He’d surprised Dena in her shower. He’d punched her in the head and tossed her into his trunk. Considering that she’d escaped, and he’d had to track her through the woods in the rain for hours, that hadn’t been the best method. As much fun as it had been to see her terror, he didn’t intend to repeat himself.

What would have happened if she’d escaped? She would have been able to identify him. That couldn’t happen again.

But this one would be easier. He would keep it simple. A paralytic would keep her immobile long enough for him to transport her to his facility. He moved to the door and inserted his lock-picking tools. The mechanism gave after less than a minute. His practice was paying off.

He opened the door and slipped inside, then tugged the mask over his face. The small kitchen and living room were empty. He could hear someone in the bedroom, opening and closing drawers. He pulled the syringe from his pocket.

His blood hummed as he approached the bedroom door. Her footsteps sounded on the carpet. With two fingers, he eased the door open a few more inches and peered through the crack at the hinges.

She was searching through a dresser drawer, totally focused on her task. Rather than rush her, he waited.