He crept past the kitchen to the master bedroom, where he could hear her lightly snoring. A small fan on her bed table created white noise by her head, turned toward the window. She slept on her side, her hair messy around her face. For a while, maybe too long, he watched her sleep. Watched her eyes flicker behind her eyelids.

All prey had instincts.

She frowned in her sleep and her feet moved beneath the covers. Then she slowly opened her eyes.

He struck, covering her mouth with his gloved hand.

Nobody heard her scream.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Three

Laurel hesitated and then stopped inside Walter’s hospital room. “Hi.”

He was sitting up with tubes crisscrossing all over his body and liquids dripping into a port at his vein. A nasal canula was strung over his ears, and his coloring was that of just-laid cement. “Hi.” His hair was mussed and his breathing labored. “I’m so sorry, Laurel.”

She put the plant her mother had insisted she bring on the counter. “Just get better. None of this is your fault.” It was the killer’s fault, and she’d find him.

“What happened to your arm?” Walter’s hands trembled on the blanket covering most of his body.

“Colles fracture.” At his frown, she moved closer to the bed. “Broken wrist. Huck and I were shot at last night and the truck flipped over.” She wanted to look at her phone to see if the lab had any results, but good manners dictated she concentrate on Walter. “The doctor said you’re going to be all right.”

“Yeah. This is a wakeup call.” Walter looked down at his bulging belly. “If I’d been in decent shape—”

Laurel reached for his wrist, patting it. “You still would’ve been shot three times. This could’ve happened to any of us.” She lowered her head, surprised by how painful it was to stretch her neck. She’d been ignoring her health as well. “I failed to predict how desperate this guy was to shoot an FBI agent and kidnap a suspect from her home in the middle of the day, even with an FBI agent covering her.” Christine’s kidnapping and murder was on Laurel.

Walter snorted. “Profiling isn’t psychic knowledge. This was out of character for the guy, as far as we knew.” He wiggled on the bed and then groaned, all the color leeching from his face. “Everything still hurts.” Then his gaze caught on her cast again. “You think it was the same guy?”

“We should know shortly,” she said. “The techs were able to retrieve several bullets from the truck, and we have the ones removed from your body, so they’re making a comparison.” She was certain it was the same guy. “He’s already proven that shooting people is acceptable to him.”

“You think it’s a new part of his MO? Using a gun?”