She turned down the street and headed to the small pond that had a paved trail around it. There were other runners out there today, and she turned to look behind her, just to make sure Alan was keeping up. He gave a little wave. Before she faced front again, she noticed a runner approaching from behind, dressed all in black. Fast. She knew Alan was trailing her, but what if this man got to her first? Pushing her body, she picked up the pace, timing her breath to her strides. She threw another glance back at Alan and saw the black blur closer than it had been before. It had been a long time since she’d trained in sprints, but suddenly, she was doing just that, dodging oncoming pedestrians and fellow runners as she did. Her feet smacking the pavement, she felt the pace get out of control just as she came to a corner. She stopped cold and whipped around, the man running toward her, looking right at her. He was between her and Alan now—he had sped up, flying at her faster than she’d just been going.

Did she know him? He looked familiar. Maybe she’d just seen him out on one of her runs. Or maybe she knew him in some other way. Of course, maybe he was the killer . . .

Throwing her hands up to ward him off, she felt a wave of dizziness. By the time Alan reached her, it would be too late. A scream was working its way up her throat when the man blew right past her. She was flooded with relief so strong her knees buckled, and she rested her hands on her thighs, sucking in lungsful of air.

She had to get back to the house. She was too exposed.

Alan ran up to her, looking concerned.

“Let’s go back. Can you stay next to me?” She hated feeling so weak.

“Of course,” he answered, with no change in expression.

When they got back to the house, she ran upstairs, and turned on the shower, waiting for it to warm up. She threw her phone on the counter. It lit up, and her text tone sounded.

Private Caller. The pounding in her chest was instantaneous. She took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and read.

Did you like my gifts? Dead mice. Dead birds. Dead Kate?

“Stop this!” she yelled at the phone, tears springing to her eyes. Running to the bedroom, she picked up the house phone and dialed Detective Anderson. He answered on the first ring.

“I know,” he said without preamble. “We’ve pinpointed the IP address and are heading there now.”

“You know where this is coming from?” Kate asked, panting.

“The Starbucks on York Road. I’ll call you as soon as I know more.”