But she hadn’t known. And it wasn’t her fault.

If her mother had ranted and raved to her sometimes, about how faithless men were, how never to trust one, she hadn’t known for certain. If her mother had thrown out a number, had even spewed out names, she hadn’t known her mother had talked to a reporter. She hadn’t known. So it wasn’t her fault.

She shouldn’t have to pay. She shouldn’t be hurt. She shouldn’t have to be afraid.

She’d done her best. She’d worked hard to solve other people’s problems.

She’d covered for JJ countless times, and this is what he did to her. She wept and wept, bitter, self-pitying tears, until the sobbing, the ringing in her ears had her heaving in the toilet.

Exhausted, she dozed, then shot awake again when she heard the front door slam.

Giving in to hysteria, she dragged at the chain until her wrist bled. She screamed until she had no voice.

No one heard. No one came.

Routinely, when JJ killed, he spent weeks, sometimes months, learning about his prey, observing her, recording her habits, analyzing her weak points.

It was, for him, a highlight of the process.

He considered himself an intellectual. After all, look at his father. A professor in one of the nation’s most prestigious universities. He himself hadn’t wanted or needed all those years in classrooms.

Boring!

All those rules, all that structure would have stifled his innate intellect rather than enhanced it.

Hadn’t he learned, almost entirely on his own, how to pick locks, subvert alarm systems, steal cars? And most important of all, how to disappear in plain sight.

He knew how to blend, how to become part of the landscape.

Which meant, he considered as he drove—at precisely three miles an hour over the speed limit—he needed a shave, a haircut.

He’d lived the life of a solitary prepper in the wilds of Wyoming for the past couple years. Keeping to himself, making no waves. Just a hard-bitten, flag-waving (when appropriate) survivalist who lived alone on his scrub of land, whose visits to the bumfuck town for supplies were few and far between and unremarkable.

He made no friends, made no enemies.

Whenever he took one of his extended trips for what he considered his mission in life, nobody noticed or cared.

He blended wherever he needed to be. A hipster here, a businessman there, maybe just a traveling man wandering on the road of life.

He knew how to look harmless. A white man of average height and weight with no distinguishing marks.

He had two sets of fraudulent identification at all times. After paying the exorbitant fee for them when he’d first gone off the grid, he learned to make them himself.

He kept them, and his cash, in a fireproof steel case under the floorboards of his cabin.

Along with them he kept the photographs of each woman he’d killed. Those taken during the stalking phase—using a long lens—those he’d printed out from any social media or media articles.

After he’d killed the wrong woman in Foggy Bottom, he’d taken a photograph after death to make sure never to make that mistake again.

You lived and you learned.

He’d often considered going back to rectify that mistake, but the mistake itself rubbed him wrong.

He had his identification for this trip, the driver’s licenses, a Visa card, a voter registration, his gun permits. He didn’t expect to get stopped, but accidents happened because people were idiots. His problem here, of course, was driving his sister’s car. Or it would’ve been a problem if he hadn’t spent the time and effort to make a fake registration that should pass any casual cop stop.

Bases covered, he thought, adjustments made.

He’d intended to head north and west from DC, spend a little time camping near Traveler’s Creek.

Since he’d spent years observing Adrian Rizzo, he’d calculated a week, tops, before he ended her.

The bitch had challenged him. She’d done that stupid, arrogant, bullshit video to mock him, and that couldn’t stand.

He’d planned to wait until August, those lazy dog days, to take her out, but he’d moved up the timeline.

A good thing, and luck was obviously in his pocket. If he hadn’t come early, if he hadn’t been right in the house when his idiot sister opened the door to that asshole cunt, he wouldn’t have known anyone had started piecing things together. He wouldn’t have known anyone might be looking for him.

He couldn’t figure out how they had, and that troubled him.

He’d been smart; he’d been careful.

Had to have come from the reporter, but why go there after all these years? He’d have to ask the son of a bitch before he killed him. But right now, he needed a boost.

The detective—probably a dyke—had said the names on the list. And one was a reporter, not so far away, so she’d stand in for the asshole in Pittsburgh for now.

He hadn’t done more than basic research on Tracie Potter, but he knew enough, and would find out more.

So he headed down to Richmond. He’d get himself a cheap motel room for a day or two. Three, tops. One if that luck in his pocket held.

But one day or three, she’d be dead before he left Richmond.

And since the dyke had left her fucking calling card, he’d pay her a call, too, on his way to Traveler’s Creek.

He’d take his time with Adrian. Oh yeah, he’d waited years to take his time with the bitch who’d killed his father, ruined his life.

And when he’d finished beating her to death—the only just method—he’d head back to DC. By then, he figured he’d have decided on what to do with Nikki.

Let her go or shoot her in the head.

He figured the second option had more weight because God knew you couldn’t trust a woman.

When the idea sank in that he’d kill four women—including the slut who’d started it—inside a couple weeks, he felt happier than he had in months.

New record! High score!

If he tracked down Browne in Pittsburgh, he’d cap the streak off there—five for five!—before he headed back to Wyoming.

And decided what, or who, came next.

Adrian sat on her porch on a perfect summer evening going over Kayla’s links for furniture and decor choices on her tablet. She had a glass of wine, a bowl of tart green grapes, and her dog snoozing at her feet.

Close to perfect in her estimation, she thought a moment before Sadie’s head lifted with a woof.

Then she saw Raylan’s car coming up the hill, and decided: Perfection reached.

Apparently Sadie agreed, as her tail began to thump.

She watched Raylan get out, Jasper leap out.

“Where are the rest of you?”

“Bradley’s getting a guitar lesson. Mariah’s having a birthday party sleepover with her second best friend. Her first best among six others are also attending. I pray to the gods of sanity for the parents.”

He came up on the porch while Sadie and Jasper licked faces.

“Jasper wanted to see his girl. I wanted to see mine. And give her this.”

He put the graphic novel on the table. “Hot, so to speak, off the press.”

“Oh God, it’s the real deal. It’s gorgeous!” She grabbed it up, trailing a finger over the cover image of Cobalt Flame, spear in hand, riding her dragon. “I love, love it.” She flipped through. “Oh, the art, Raylan, it’s fantastic. I’m going to devour every page all over again.”