Steps ahead of her, he came to a door with a padlock on it and fired once, shattering the thing. Then he yanked the door open, grabbed her, and literally tossed her through the entryway. As she fell to the ground, she looked back to the alley just in time to see him take one step toward her.

Then he disappeared from her sight, hit by the hood of the car. She heard the thud of the vehicle against his body and then another one seconds later when he landed. It was quieter than she expected, as if he’d traveled a great distance.

The car tires squealed as it braked hard. She saw the taillights illuminate as it backed up until she could see the front passenger seat. The automatic window rolled down and the driver looked over at her with a wolfish grin on his face.

“Hi, Junebug,” her father said.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

For the briefest of moments, Jessie thought she was dreaming.

She’d had so many nightmares in which her father appeared out of nowhere to harm people helping her that she wasn’t entirely sure it was real this time.

It was only when he got out of the car and slammed the door shut that her brain snapped back into reality. The alley was real. The rain was real. The car that had just hit Murph was real. And her father, the serial killer she’d been assured was dead only minutes earlier, was real too.

He looked much as he had the last time she’d seen him, when he ambushed her in her apartment only weeks ago. He still had the lean, lanky body, though he appeared more hunched over than before. His dark hair, dotted with visible gray even in the half light of the alley, was longer than before. But his green eyes, the same shade as hers, had lost none of their maniacal gleam.

Ignoring the pain in her hip where she’d landed on the floor, she scrambled to her feet, reaching for the small pistol in her ankle holster. Her adrenaline was pumping so hard her fingers shook slightly.

Even as they settled down, she had trouble freeing the gun and looked down to see what the issue was. The holster was snagged on the cuff of her pants. She ripped the cuff and yanked out the gun, pointing it back at the alley. Her father was gone.

She backed away, her weapon pointed at the car. She could feel herself hyperventilating and mentally shouted an order to slow her breathing. It would help her get a more accurate shot and, equally important, not pass out. As she exhaled, a voice called out.

“Your marshal buddy doesn’t look too good, Junebug. One of his legs is bent the wrong way. It’s kind of gross. I think I’m going to put him out of his misery. I’ll be right back.”

She heard footsteps move in Murph’s direction and shouted out to the emptiness.