Detective Kara Quinn was like no one he’d met before. He didn’t know whether that was good—and would help him solve this case—or if he should just cut her loose.

20

Spokane
4:40 p.m.

He stared at the cop standing behind the podium. He didn’t hear anything the FBI agent was saying, all he saw was him.

The man who had destroyed his father.

The man who had taken everything from him. Everything.

He took a deep breath and realized the FBI guy was saying something important, and he needed to listen and focus. He stopped the recording, pressed Rewind, and started from the beginning. Nothing he didn’t already know. Until the federal agent spoke.

He closed his eyes so he could pay attention to his words.

Okay, he knew they’d connected the murders—he’d read the articles out of Missoula, but they hadn’t gotten very far and everything died down after a few weeks. There was one local article on the anniversary of the cop’s death and no new information.

You knew this day would come.

He wasn’t done. He hadn’t finished his mission. How much did they really know? How much did they have?

They don’t have anything. You’re not stupid. You’ve covered all your tracks. Stick with the plan. It has served you well for years. It’s still the perfect plan.

He breathed deeply, controlled the fear that crept up. The fear that he had made a mistake.

He hadn’t made a mistake. He needed to focus. There was more here, more for him to do!

Tonight, late tonight, he would kill again. That kill would calm him down.

He picked up his knife and flipped it in the air. Caught it. Flipped it; caught it. A dozen times and he was calm.

Why are the feds here so fast?

Damn, he missed what the agent—Costa, his name was—said. He rewound the news report a third time and listened. Focused.

Weak? He called me weak?

He frowned. He wasn’t weak. He lifted weights nearly every day. He ran regularly. He was strong—very strong. How dare the FBI call him weak.

You are a coward. You’re a coward because you never stood up to your old man. You never told him to go to hell. You did what he told you because you were scared. Weak. Just like he always said.

No. He wasn’t weak. He didn’t give in to the destruction of alcohol. He didn’t lose his job, lose his house, lose everything!

“You’re an idiot, and I’m glad your mother is dead so she can’t see what a weak, sniveling brat you’ve become. She’s rolling over in her grave right now, watching you cry like a fucking baby.”

He shook his head, trying to get his father’s voice out of his head. What he said wasn’t true. It fucking wasn’t true!

He kicked the coffee table and it toppled over, spilling his soda and chips everywhere. Dammit, it’s all that FBI agent’s fault.

His jaw clenched and he shut off the TV. He couldn’t watch anymore, not now. He would later—when he was calm again. He paced the length of the house. Back and forth. Thinking.