Devereaux helped him to his feet while he had his hand clamped around Devereaux’s wrist.

“Do you need medical attention?” Devereaux asked, his brow furrowing.

He shook his head and rasped out, “No. Thank you, sir. You’ve been kind. But I’m all right. I just tripped. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“You weren’t a bother,” Devereaux said kindly.

Then to his surprise, Devereaux reached into his billfold and pulled out several twenties. He held the money out to him, urging him to take it.

Even better. He now had something that had been in Devereaux’s possession, which had his imprint all over it.

“Have a blessed day,” he said to Devereaux in a gravelly voice that sounded as aged as he currently looked. And then he turned and shuffled away, careful to keep the guise of an old, homeless man. A smile hovered on his lips and adrenaline pumped through his veins, giving him a euphoric high that could only be topped when he had Ramie St. Claire at his mercy.

TWENTY-THREE

“THE eyes aren’t right,” Ramie said, frustration beating at her temples.

She scrubbed a hand over her face and closed her own eyes momentarily. She tried to force herself to relax and allow her mind to hone in on her stalker’s features. But every time she pulled up his face it was all a giant blur.

Her head pounded viciously. The harder she tried to bring the image into focus, the more her head hurt. It felt as though she could burst a blood vessel in her brain at any moment.

“Do you need to take a break?” Dane asked.

His concern was evident as his gaze swept over her. Judging by his reaction, she must look pretty terrible. If she looked even half as bad as she felt then the expression death warmed over applied.

“We can stop for a few moments,” Eliza said gently. “Maybe get some fresh air. Would you like something to drink?”

“My head,” she moaned, pain assaulting her over the two words she verbalized. She sandwiched her head between her hands, pressing her palms to her throbbing temples.

“Are you all right?” Dane demanded. “What about your head?”

“Migraine.” It was all she could or wanted to get out. Her voice was so loud in her ears that even the three words she’d uttered felt as though she’d screamed them.

Eliza cast a worried glance in Dane’s direction.

“Do you have meds?” Dane asked. “Or do we need to call a doctor to come see you?”

Ramie’s brow wrinkled. One eyelid twitched spasmodically, one of the many side effects of her migraines. Any direct exposure to the sun or bright lights made the twitch more pronounced.

“Doctors don’t make house calls, and if we leave to go to the ER, I’ll be waiting for hours and it will be that much longer before we get a likeness of his face distributed. For his next victim, every minute counts.”

Dane shrugged. “Doctors make house calls when you’re Caleb Devereaux.”

“Of course,” Ramie muttered, pushing her fingertips in a tight circular motion at her temples. “And I did have medication but I used it sparingly because I don’t have a regular doctor anymore and I can’t just walk into the ER or an urgent care center and demand migraine meds. I lost it, and everything else I owned, escaping my stalker in Oklahoma.”

“I’ll ask Tori for a pill for you,” Dane said, his gaze gentle and his tone matching.

She wondered just how awful she looked and sounded for Dane and Eliza to be on virtual tiptoe around her. Then, as she took in what he’d said, she frowned and shook her head. The very last thing she wanted was to involve Tori. It was better for everyone if Tori remained in blissful ignorance locked behind the walls of her bedroom.

“Her doctor prescribed the medication after what happened last year because she gets debilitating headaches when she has visions or dreams. It might make you a little drowsy, but that wouldn’t be a bad thing,” Dane said pointedly. “I imagine you could do with some actual rest rather than running on fumes like you are now.”

As he spoke the last, he rose from his seat on the couch and made a gesture to the artist, who’d patiently tweaked and rearranged each time Ramie got it wrong.

“Take a five-minute break. I’ll get her something for her headache. There’s no sense in pressuring her more right now. A few more minutes won’t make a difference if he’s already moved on to his next victim.”

Mocking laughter echoed in Ramie’s mind and she squeezed her eyes shut, her hands trembling violently in her lap. She wouldn’t let him unbalance her. He wasn’t really there.

The ache in her head intensified, the pressure building so much that it felt as though something inside her would shatter into a million pieces. It was as though someone was piercing her skull.

Too late . . . ​

The thought drifted through her mind leaving her to question whether it was her own manifestation of her deepest fear or if the killer had truly communicated with her through their link.

Of course she wasn’t imagining it. She wasn’t an idiot and it had been as plain as day the night before last when he’d told her there was nowhere she was safe from him. She wasn’t a hysterical person by nature, though to anyone seeing her now it would appear she was a complete nutcase.

Dane didn’t wait for confirmation or for her to refuse his offer. He simply left the room.

When he didn’t reappear within a few minutes, Eliza frowned and checked her watch. Her foot tapped impatiently on the floor and then she glanced at Ramie, apology in her eyes.