And it was in the dour spirit of having to leave Caldwell that he walked out of the Marriott, Jim’s gun with its silencer packed at the small of his back, a baseball cap he’d bought at the gift shop pulled down tight to the sunglasses.

The day was warmish, and with the spotty cloud cover that had rolled in overnight, the temperature probably wasn’t going to improve much—

“Out for a morning stroll to the candy store?”

Matthias stopped and turned around. Jim Heron had magically appeared behind him, and somehow, that wasn’t a surprise.

What was a shock was the emotion that hit as he looked into the other man’s eyes.

Jabbing his palm out, he said gruffly, “Thank you.”

Dark blond brows popped, and Heron went preternaturally still as pedestrians broke pattern and swung wide to avoid them, the herd of rushing people re-forming on the far side.

“What,” Matthias said, keeping his hand where it was. “Too proud to accept a little gratitude?”

“You’ve never thanked me or anybody else before. For anything.”

In the silence, a moment of clear resonance set up shop in the center of Matthias’s chest, the kind of thing that told him that the statement was true.

“New leaf,” he muttered.

As Jim clasped what was offered, he said, “What’s the gratitude for?”

“Taking care of my girl last night. I owe you one.”

After a pause, Jim said in an equally rough way, “You’re welcome. And I can take a guess about what’s gotten you up and moving. Come back to my place—I’ve got plenty of ammo there.”

Considering that would conserve cash, Matthias gave the idea a big fat yes. “Where you parked?”

“Over here.”

A quick trip across the street, and then he was sitting side by side with the guy in a black Explorer.

As they hit the main highway, for some reason he kept having the urge to look into the backseat, and he gave in to the paranoia from time to time. There was nothing/no one back there, however.

What the hell—

“So how’s your memory doing?” Jim asked.

“Same as.” Matthias left things there, because the whole back-from-Hell theory seemed too weird to put out there. It was one thing to share that shit with Mels. Spouting it to Jim seemed…like he was dropping his trou in front of the guy.

Not going to happen.

Matthias reached out and put the radio on. “—body of a woman found at dawn on the front steps of the Caldwell Library. Trisha Golding, second wife of Thomas Golding, CEO of CorTech, was discovered with her throat cut and some of her clothes removed early this morning by a street sweeper. CPD units responded immediately, and are still on site. Officially, the homicide department is downplaying the possibility of another serial killer in the city, but a source inside tells WCLD exclusively that the term is being used in connection with this victim and the case of another young blond woman found…”

As the report droned on, Matthias noticed that Jim’s hands gripped the steering wheel tight enough to turn the knuckles white.

“What’s the matter?” he asked the guy.

“Nothing.”

Yeah, right. But it wasn’t his job to pry, and besides, he had enough shit on his own plate.

Just one more night here, he promised himself. One final night with Mels, and then he was going to take his last hundred dollars, spring for a bus ticket, and…go down to Manhattan.

There was something he needed there. He could feel it.

But man, what a tall order. New York City was how big? And he had how little cash left? And yet he had the sense that if he got to the Big Apple, he was going to be directed to…whatever the f**k it was.

Which was why he had to ammo up—he wasn’t taking any chances on what might be waiting for him.

Hadn’t been a lot of nice surprises lately.

Except for Mels Carmichael.

33

Mel didn’t make it into the CCJ.

Her phone rang just as she left the house, and as she got it out of her purse to answer, she groaned. There were three voicemails that she hadn’t picked up over the course of the night, and this was Dick the Prick.

Something had happened while she had been…otherwise occupied.

“Hello?”

“Don’t you check your damn phone.”

“I’m sorry.” And no, she was not going to explain that she had been “busy” or Dick might jump to the conclusion as to why—and be right for once. “What’s up?”

“You know, a reporter’s job is twenty-four/seven, Carmichael.”

Well, the last two days were the first time he’d really treated her as one. “Has something happened?”

“Didn’t your radio wake you up this morning?” When she said nothing, he cursed. “There’s another dead blonde—found on the steps of the Caldwell Public Library. I wanted you there an hour ago—”

“I’m on my way now.”

This got her a heartbeat of silence—like he’d been looking forward to shanking her on a get-moving rant. “Don’t screw this up.”

“I won’t.” Mels smiled to herself. “By the way, I’m working a special angle on that prostitute with a source at the CPD. I know something no one else does.”

Now he actually sounded a little impressed. “Really?”

“More later.”

As she hung up on him, she left out the “hopefully” part, because she didn’t want to be equivocal with her boss—and besides, there was no way Monty wasn’t going to let her come forward. He was going to need the hit that snitching provided him.

Turning the radio on, she—

“—homicide department is downplaying the possibility of another serial killer in the city, but a source inside tells WCLD exclusively that the term is being used in connection with this victim and the case of another young blond woman found…”

Gee, wonder who that “source” was?

Monty was not monogamous, that was for sure.

Caldwell’s municipal book repository had always reminded her of the one in Ghostbusters—a.k.a. the New York Public Library. In fact, you had to wonder if there hadn’t been some conscious modeling on the bigger-and-better that was down in Manhattan: Across the facade, there were the requisite Corinthian columns and up above, a pediment with the gods and, yes, even two massive stone lions stood guard on either side of the imposing Neoclassical entrance.

Parking her mother’s car at a meter, she put in four quarters and jogged across Washington Avenue. It was obvious where the body had been found, and yeah, score one for visibility: The screening that had been put up was smack-dab in the center of the stone stairway that rose to meet the three main doors.

With police tape running from one lion’s perch to the other’s, all access was cut off, so she hung back, trying to find Monty.

For some reason, he wasn’t around, and like the other reporters, she didn’t get much from anyone else: nobody from the CPD was saying anything other than, “News conference at eleven.”

Eventually, Mels took a break and hit the Au Bon Pain across the way, scoring a piping-hot no sugar/no cream and a pecan roll the size of her head. Back out by the crime scene, she ate her sugar bomb and found the walkie-talkie was not her friend. Fueled by stimulants, her mind replayed every second of the night before….

Although all of her thoughts weren’t of the boom-chika-wow-wow type. Doubts lingered in the spaces between the kisses that she remembered, a strange, ambient fear making her edgy.

Even if they had dinner tonight, he was still leaving.

And other issues remained…

With a grim resignation, Mels took out her phone. Hitting up Tony’s cell, she waited one ring…two…three—

“Where’s my breakfast?” he said.

Mels laughed. “Still at Mickey D’s, I’m afraid.”

“You know, I could always make you borrow my car again.”

“I’ve got my mom’s today. Tomorrow, though? We could be in business again. Listen, did you happen to talk to any of your ballastics guys?”

“Oh, crap. Yeah, I did. I have one who’s willing to meet with you.”

“I don’t suppose he’s on the force?”

“Mind reader, are you?”

“Well, I have to go over to H.Q. for a news conference in about an hour, so I’ll be down there.”

“Okay, here’s the thing. He’s a little uncomfortable about it. He doesn’t want any trouble, and he’s only doing this because I set him up with his wife a couple of years ago. His name’s Jason Conneaut, and he’s in the CSI unit. Let me give him a call and see how he wants to handle things—he may not want to meet you on CPD property.”

“Thanks so much, Tony. Just call or text me.”

“Roger that.”

As she hung up, she thought, man, wasn’t it going to be awkward if the casing she’d found in her pocket with her change matched certain others.

And part of her wasn’t sure she wanted to know—but that anxiety was precisely why she had to follow through. It was one thing being off-kilter because she was falling in love and she didn’t want to get hurt—and the guy in question was not a safe bet emotionally speaking. It was another to let that crap get in the way of her job, her safety, or the public interest.

Staring over at the library steps, she really didn’t like where her thoughts went.

And it wasn’t just the unknowns about Matthias.

For so long, she had lived a tamped-down, flat life, frustrated but unwilling to make any changes, trapped in neutral in Caldwell—to the point where she hadn’t even recognized the hole she’d dug herself.

The question now was, What was she going to do about it all.

“So you’re going to see the reporter again, right?”

As Matthias sat on Jim’s sofa and loaded the borrowed gun, he really didn’t want to talk about Mels. “Thanks for this. And for the early lunch.”

The pastrami and ryes that the guy’s roommate had shown up with had seemed a little much to tackle at eleven a.m., but his stomach had gotten on board, and now, all that was left of the meal was the crumpled paper the sandwiches had been wrapped in, and a bunch of dead-soldier potato chip bags.

“Aren’t you?” Jim said again.

Matthias rubbed an eyebrow with his thumb. “Yeah. But after tonight, I’m leaving.”

“Where to?”

“Here and there.”

“Caldwell’s a good place to be. Big enough to get lost in, small enough to be able to control.”

Not the point, Matthias thought. And, as much as he trusted Heron on some levels, he wasn’t saying a damn thing about going to Manhattan.

Over in the corner, the decrepit TV flashed the logo of the local NBC affiliate, and then cut to the news desk. The instant the change happened, Jim shifted around and stared at the screen, his focus so intense, his eyes looked like they might blow the thing up.

“—WCLD-Six news team bringing you the latest in news, weather, and sports.” The anchorwoman was an Almost There, her hair a little too blond, her voice a little high, her hands a little twitchy, the package not quite on a New York level, but certainly a cut above the Midwest markets. “Our top story today is the discovery early this morning of a victim on the steps of the Caldwell Public Library. Caldwell Police Chief Funuccio held a news conference at eleven this morning and our crew was there….”

Matthias let the report drone on in the background as he focused on the change in Heron. And he wasn’t the only one: the roommate came in with the empty trash bin, took a look at Jim, and did a one-eighty with a curse, heading right back out the door.

What the hell was going on?

“—a strange pattern on the lower belly of the victim. The images that we are about to show you are graphic, and viewer discretion is advised.”

On the screen, a close-up of what was clearly skin and scratches was flashed, the etches that had been carved into the flesh appearing to be some kind of language—

Matthias blinked once. Twice. And then a part of his brain broke free so violently he let out a holler and threw his hands up to his head—

A black prison…bodies writhing…one who didn’t belong…

Oh, God, there was one who hadn’t belonged….

Pain racked him, his body remembering things that had been done to him on a visceral level as memories careened into him, the nightmare he’d had the evening before revealing itself as a vital living memory, what had happened in the recent past locking onto him with teeth that tore and claws that ripped through him—

“Matthias? Matthias—what the hell’s happening?”