“Where are you, Davenport?”

“Moffett crime scene. Dante and I want to see—”

“Where?” Followed by another scream of static. “I need you—”

Monica spun around, instinct driving her as her gaze dropped to the tracks. “When was the last time your men were out here?”

“Wednesday.” Static. “Come to the office… parents… missing…”

Her eyes rose. The tall pines around the house swayed back and forth. Oh, yeah, this connection would be dying soon. “Be there in thirty.” Monica wasn’t sure if he heard her.

Wednesday.

She clipped the phone back in place on her hip. She always checked out the weather before one of Hyde’s trips. She liked to know what she was getting herself into before she hit the road or the skies.

Thunderstorms had ripped through the area Wednesday night. A tornado had even touched down right outside the county lines.

In the days since, this part of Mississippi had been nothing but hot and dry.

And that meant the tracks were fresh.

So who the hell had been out here?

“Monica!”

She tensed at Luke’s call, then took off in the direction of his shout. Her legs pumped as she rounded the edge of the house. She jumped over a fallen pine, ducked her head to avoid a slap from a branch.

There. The early sunlight filtered through the treetops in a hazy glow. Luke stood near a line of pines, his hands on his hips.

“Dante, what’s going on? What’d you find?” The gun was up, her body on full alert.

He glanced back at her. “Something I think you should see.”

She hurried to his side. His finger pointed through the brush. “I caught sight of it when I was doing a perimeter check.”

Her eyes narrowed. Trees. More trees and—

Holy shit. Her breath caught.

A twig snapped beneath her foot when she stepped forward. Watch the scene. Don’t screw up any—

Luke’s hand pressed against her back. A warm, steady weight. Almost reassuring.

But she didn’t need reassuring. Didn’t need him.

“Looks like someone’s been digging, huh?”

She managed a weak nod. Right in the middle of the clearing, there was a patch of dirt—not a patch, about a six foot span—higher than the rest.

Fresh dirt. Someone had definitely been digging.

No, not digging, burying something.

“You thinkin’ what I am?”

Yes. She shoved her gun back into the holster. “We’ve got another girl missing.”

Dante looked back at the mound of dirt. “Not anymore, we don’t.”

The punch in her gut told her that he was right.

What scares you?

“We don’t know what is buried here,” she said and was surprised by how cool her voice sounded. How calm.

Ice.

“One way to find out.”

She couldn’t take her eye off that mound. One hell of a way to die. Buried in the woods, shoved in the dirt.

Monica yanked out her phone. Quickly punched in the number she’d memorized that morning.

One ring. Two. Good thing she had a stronger signal this time.

“Davis.”

Monica wet her lips. “Think I’m going to need you to come to me, Sheriff. We found… something out at the Moffett scene.” Something. A body.

Right size.

She’d seen holes just like this before on her cases. Too many. She’d told Dante they didn’t know, but, she did.

“Fuck.” A snarl from Davis.

Yes, she felt the same way. She’d joined the FBI to stop the killers.

Not to keep finding the dead.

Would the scales never balance?

Her eyes closed as she said, “And, sheriff, when you come… you’d better bring some shovels with you.”

CHAPTER Four

A half-dozen deputies were on the scene in less than ten minutes. Luke watched them running around like ants, hauling out yellow police tape and attaching it to the swaying pines.

Sheriff Davis stood in the middle of the chaos, a shovel gripped in his hands. He hadn’t started digging yet. He just stared at the ground, his jaw clenched, his face white. Every few seconds, he’d mutter the same thing. “Sonofabitch.”

Over and over again.

Luke rolled his shoulders and glanced back at Monica. Her eyes were narrowed and locked on the freshly turned earth. He walked to her side. “You know they’re screwing the evidence trail.” All those bodies. Trampling over everything.

“She hasn’t been missing long.…” Monica’s voice seemed distracted. She ran a hand through her hair. “He dumped her so fast.”

The sheriff drove his shovel into the earth.

“He did it too fast,” Monica whispered, stepping forward, and Luke knew she wasn’t talking about the sheriff.

Luke grabbed her arm and tried hard not to notice the silky feel of her skin. “What are you thinking?”

But she still didn’t look at him. “He likes to play too much for this.” She shook her head. “Too fast,” she said again.

Deputy Lee reached for a shovel. “Damn shame,” he drawled, his voice carrying easily to them.

Monica wrenched her arm free and shoved past the deputy. “Sheriff! Sheriff, we need to talk.”

Davis looked up at Monica. His face flamed beet red. “What we need to do is dig. Right damn now.”

“But why dump her? And here? Why—”

The shovel drove deep again.

Lee hesitated behind her.

Her hands knotted into fists. “This isn’t the way he plays.”

He. Luke knew she was in the killer’s head. No surprise. Monica always seemed to be in his head. She knelt and her fingers hovered over the dirt.

“Monica?” Maybe they should back off a bit, and let the locals claim their dead. At least the parents weren’t here. They didn’t need to see their baby girl get hauled out of the ground.

“Sonofabitch.” This time, the snarl came from Monica. She jumped to her feet and grabbed the shovel from Lee’s hand. And started digging. Hard and fast.

Davis blinked.

“Dante, help me!”

In two seconds, he had a shovel in his hands. In three, the shovel dug into the dirt.

More deputies joined them. No one spoke, but they worked fast, seeming to catch the desperate energy vibrating through Monica. He glanced up once and caught Davis eyeing Monica with a hint of suspicion in his eyes.

No ice now for her. Her movements were fast, jerky, and—

“Stop!” Her voice broke on the word.

Every man—and the one female deputy there—froze.

Monica leaned in close. “Do you hear that?”

Oh, the hell no, she wasn’t saying—

She fell to her knees and began shoving dirt away with her hands. He saw the wood then. A faded brown.

And he heard…

Something.

A whisper.

A moan.

No damn way.

Monica’s fingers pressed against the wood. Then she aimed her shovel, catching the tip under the wood and wrenching it back.

Boards snapped. More dirt flew.

Luke caught a glimpse of flesh. Looked like the back of an arm lying so still.

“Take it!” Monica tossed her shovel at a slack-jawed Deputy Vance. She caught the broken boards with her hands, began to pull and wrench—

Luke crawled down beside her. The wood bit into his palms and groaned like an old man when he pulled it back.

Snap.

Blood dripped from Monica’s palm but she kept working and then he saw…

Long red hair.

Monica shoved her hands into the makeshift coffin and locked her grip around the body. She jerked the woman up, turning her so that Luke could see—

A young, pretty face. Smooth and unlined. Eyes closed. Lips pale. Skin chalky.

Dead.

His jaw clenched. For a minute there, the way Monica had been acting, he’d sure thought—

The woman’s eyes flew open, and she sucked in a sharp gasp of air. Then she screamed. A loud, broken screech of pain and fear. Her hands came up, nails broken, fingers bloody, and she clawed at Monica’s hold.

Vance jumped back, swearing, and Davis rushed forward. “Get the EMTS—get ’em now, get ’em—”

Monica caught the woman’s wrists and held tight. “It’s okay. You’re safe. It’s—”

But the woman in the broken coffin kept screaming, and Luke knew she didn’t believe them.

Not that he blamed her. Not one bit.

“I want to see my daughter!” Monica looked up at the fierce demand, her eyes locking on the woman who was all but crawling over the nurses’ station.

“The mother’s here,” she told Dante and rose slowly to her feet. Her right hand had already been bandaged. No stitches, luckily. She hadn’t realized how deeply the wood had cut her.

Too busy trying to get to the vic.

Knew she was alive.

No way would the perp have let his prey go that easily.

Where would the fun have been in a quick kill? There was no fear in a fast death. No time for the victim to realize what was coming.

A man with stooped shoulders grabbed the woman’s arms and pulled her back.

“I want my daughter!” She fought his hold, not even seeming to realize she’d just elbowed the guy, probably her husband, in the eye.

Such was the way with fear.

Monica slanted a quick glance at Luke and found him watching her. Eyes steady. Seeing too much.

“How’d you know she was still alive?”

Monica swallowed. “I—I didn’t.” She hadn’t known, not at first.

The fear, the hope, had slowly built within her as she studied the scene. He’d attacked too fast. Dread had tightened her body and squeezed her heart until she’d had to dig.

Get. Her. Out. The mantra had screamed in her head.

He rose, his body brushing hers. His fingers feathered over her cheek, pushing back her hair. “Yeah, you did.” His gaze held hers. “I saw it in your eyes.”

She’d have to watch that. No, watch him.

“He enjoys his game,” she told him, and this was the truth. “The more I thought about him…” She forced a shrug and realized the heat from Luke’s body surrounded her, and she could smell him. All these years, and the guy still wore the same cologne. “He likes for his victims to suffer.”

His hand fell away from her. Stupid, but she missed the touch. “But why bury her? Why—”

She jerked her thumb toward the parents. The mother was crying now. No quiet tears there. Loud, shuddering sobs. “I’m betting they’ll be able to tell us why.”

Monica broke away from that green stare. She squared her shoulders and walked across the tiled floor. She felt Dante’s stare on her, then heard the tap of his shoes as he followed her.

The mother looked up at her approach. Mary Billings, retired third-grade teacher. The guy patting her shoulder—definitely the husband Alan—looked scared to death.

Smart man.

Monica cleared her throat and flashed her ID. “Ma’am, I’m Monica Davenport with the FBI, and I need to—”

The sobs stopped. “You saved my girl.”

She blinked. Saved. Laura Billings had been close to catatonic when they brought her in to the ER. Her eyes had been fixed on a nightmare vision only she could see. After they’d pulled her out of the grave, she’d stopped screaming and hadn’t said another word. But at least the woman had still been breathing.

“I—I… ah… know this is a difficult time for you…” Not like she really ever got to talk with the families in a non-difficult time. Not with the cases she worked. “But I—”

Mary Billings threw her arms around Monica and squeezed hard enough to take her breath away. “Thank you.” A whisper in her ear.

Monica froze. The woman smelled of peppermints.

“Mary…” Alan reached for her.

With a loud and wet-sounding sniffle, Mary pulled back.

Emotion. It always got her. She didn’t know what to say. What to—

“Agent Davenport is happy she was able to help your daughter.” Dante’s smooth voice. “And she will be even happier once we manage to apprehend the person who took Laura.”

Right. Took—was that the new euphemism for buried? But Luke was a charmer, and he always knew just what to say. She could connect with killers, but Luke had always been the one to link with the victims and the one to get the witnesses to talk. When he wasn’t being an ass, he could be charming.

He’d charmed her right into bed.

Mary gave a weak nod.

Alan’s face reddened. “Do you—do you know who the bastard is?”

“We’re working on it,” Dante said. “And we need your help.”

Mary blinked. “O–our help? Wh—what can we—”

“This may sound odd, Mrs. Billings,” Monica interrupted, “but can you tell me, does Laura have any phobias?”

The woman’s brown eyes widened.

Monica licked her lips. Had to be careful now. “I mean, is she afraid of flying or heights or—”

“Laura’s claustrophobic,” Alan said softly.

Bingo.

Mary shuddered and, for a moment, it looked like she might hit the floor. Alan’s hands tightened around her.

“Is there a reason for her fear?” Luke asked quietly. “Did something happen to cause Laura’s—”

A tear tracked down Mary’s cheek. “She got locked in a closet when she was eight. Sh–she was playing hide and–and seek at a friend’s. She got tr–trapped in—the knob broke on a closet. They couldn’t find her, at first. It took two hours t–to get her out.”