Authors: Melinda Leigh
“Bowls are over the range.” She sat at the table, glad to have a solid piece of furniture between them. “While I’m thinking of it…” She gave him the location and combination for the gun safe. “In case of emergency. It’s of no use if you can’t access it.”
“Got it.” Cereal tinged into ceramic. He poured milk, then turned and leaned against the counter while he ate. Brooke grabbed her coffee with both hands and chugged it. Her wild response to Luke had to be a remnant from her sleepiness. Surely the caffeine would wash it all away. She could go back to normal.
Luke turned and rinsed his bowl in the sink. Brooke watched the muscles of his broad shoulders and back shift under his shirt.
Ack!
“Could I use your shower? I’ll be two minutes.”
“Of course.” Getting those erotic visions out of her head was not getting any easier. “Use the one in my bedroom. Towels are in the linen closet in the hall.”
“Thanks.” He stopped in the den for his bag and disappeared down the main hall. Brooke heard his footsteps ascend the stairs.
He was going to be naked in her shower. She couldn’t handle the mental image. Needing a distraction, she switched on the countertop TV and poured herself a bowl of cereal.
She ate her way through the weather report and a traffic update. “Now for a special update on the vicious assault of a young woman in Coopersfield.”
The camera panned to another news desk. The same relentless
blond reporter that had chased her through the community center parking lot Monday night. Dressed in a striking suit of cobalt blue, the blond sat in a modern newsroom. “The victim of Monday night’s brutal assault has been released from the hospital and is recovering at home.”
The reporter rehashed the attack. Then Brooke’s picture appeared in the corner of the screen. Fear turned her stomach.
The blond continued, “Tuesday night’s hero, Brooke Davenport, is no stranger to violence. At age twenty-two, her friend and roommate, Karen Edwards, was murdered by an estranged boyfriend in the basement of their apartment building.”
Karen’s photo appeared next, then a picture of the apartment building where they’d lived. The pictures that flashed onto the screen looked nearly identical to the ones she used for her own presentations. And she suddenly had no desire to ever see them again.
“Ms. Davenport teaches math at the Westbury High School, and she devotes much of her spare time to helping others as well. Once or twice a week for the past decade, Ms. Davenport has taught a women’s self-defense class in the surrounding communities…” The newswoman droned on.
Brooke tuned out the rest of the story.
“Well, that’s a problem, isn’t it?”
Brooke’s head swiveled. Luke stood in the entrance to the kitchen, freshly shaven, his hair damp. She stared at him, but his eyes never left the screen. He didn’t move, except for the twitching of a muscle in his jaw.
When the piece was over, the program switched to a soldier homecoming piece that didn’t lighten the dead weight in Brooke’s chest.
Luke turned to her. “That reporter broadcast everything except your address and phone number.” He paced, raising a hand to his temple. “If that creep didn’t know who you were ten minutes ago, he does now.”
The phone rang. The hour of the call sent alarm buzzing through Brooke. The phone was on the counter next to Luke. He looked at the caller ID: I
AN
D
AVENPORT
.
“My ex.” Brooke reached for the phone. “Hello.”
Ian’s voice came over the line. “I just saw the news report. Are you all right?”
She sighed. “I’m fine, thanks.”
“I doubt you really are,” Ian said. “Have you seen the therapist?”
“Not yet.” Irritation rubbed at Brooke’s frazzled temper. “It just happened, Ian. Give me some time.”
They both knew she probably wouldn’t go. The last one wanted her to take a break from teaching self-defense, to stop beating herself up about Karen’s death, to let go of her guilt.
Something Brooke wasn’t able to do.
“Brooke…” Disappointment carried on the connection from Philadelphia to Westbury.
“Ian, I have to go to work. Thanks for calling.”
Anger and bitterness crept into his voice. “I don’t understand why you just can’t let the past be in the past.”
“I know you don’t.” She shot back. “That was part of the problem.”
She ticked off the seconds of silence. One, two, three.
“Let’s not argue. That’s all water under the bridge at this point.” Ian’s voice was cool as usual. “I’ll see you next Friday when I pick up the kids.”
“Right.” Brooke jammed the phone back in the charging cradle. In her opinion, a few good arguments would have been better than Ian’s chilly reserve.
He’d married her assuming a few trips to an expensive psychiatrist would restore the carefree woman he’d dated in college. He’d been very disappointed to learn Karen’s death had changed Brooke forever. He’d been disappointed in everything about their marriage. He’d grown up in a country club, au pair, dress-for-dinner kind of family. But their kids weren’t the perfectly mannered violin prodigies he’d envisioned. They were loud and boisterous, often covered in mud and grass stains. Rather than embrace the chaos, Ian had kept his distance.
He’d said it best the day he’d moved out: They just weren’t compatible.
Luke had withdrawn into the den to give her privacy. He came back out. “Everything OK?”
“Fine.” It was too early in the morning, and she was still reeling from the news report. There was no way she could have a discussion about Karen now. She needed to compose herself and get to work. “Ian was just checking in.”
Luke raised a disbelieving brow. Feet thudded down the stairs. Chris skidded into the kitchen, feet sliding on the tile. He gave the stove a hopeful glance.
“Did you want me to make you breakfast?” Brooke asked, surprised.
“No!” Chris opened the pantry and pulled out a box of granola bars. “I mean, I’m not hungry yet. And it’s a little late. I’ll take these with me.”
Haley swooped in, grabbing two bars and shoving them into her backpack. “Ready.”
Brooke set her coffee aside.
Luke was quiet with the kids in the room, but his expression told her their discussion wasn’t over. Like everyone else, he was going to ask her questions she couldn’t answer.
Time to catch up on the news. Specifically, his news. What did the media have to say about him this morning? Was he still a star? With a jittery stomach, he placed his mug and a plate of scrambled eggs on the coffee table and settled on the couch. He picked up the remote. The TV was already set to the local news station. It was all he’d watched since Monday night.
Five minutes into the hour, the same female reporter sat in the newsroom and began her spiel. Maddie was home! Now
that
was good news. Appetite whet, he dug into his breakfast. The police had no leads.
No kidding.
Except for the scratches, he hadn’t left them any.
The reporter started in on Brooke Davenport’s history. He hit the record button on the remote. No interview. Interesting. Was she uncooperative? Did she eschew the spotlight?
He went granite hard in one beat of his heart, the response he
used
to have at the thought of any of his kills. Was that what was missing lately? A good fight? That spark of hope that had to be beaten out of a victim? The rush of adrenaline when she realized all her efforts were pointless. He was going to hurt her, and then she was going to die.
The strongest woman was powerless against him.
“This isn’t Brooke Davenport’s first encounter with violence.”
He shut down his imagination as the reporter detailed Brooke’s involvement in an old murder. The cold eggs in his mouth became tasteless. His fork bounced off the carpet.
It was Karma, fate, divine influence for those who believed in that sort of thing. Brooke Davenport’s maiden name was Peterson, and she’d once found the body of her murdered friend.
His stalking options burst wide open. A beam of light and chorus of… The heavenly metaphor didn’t ring true. Did demons sing? Probably not.
He’d followed dozens of women over the years, tracked their every move, predicted their every response. Watched. Waited. Then leapt with precision and timing to rival the best natural predator. But he’d never let one of his subjects know he was on the prowl. To have them anticipate their encounter with the same intensity as him. It was a rush to know that as he was planning their fate, they were fearing his intentions.
He pictured Brooke’s lovely face. She would know.
Every time she closed her eyes, she’d think of him.
Her life was going to come full circle, from her friend’s death to her own, and he was going to make sure she knew her end was coming the exact same way.
If he killed her, he might have to move. She was too well-known in the community. People would insist her case be solved. Even if he managed to brush the crime off on someone else, staying here for next year’s kill wasn’t an option. He’d lived here a long time, too long maybe. Change wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Avoiding patterns was important. And the winters here sucked. Cold, damp, and nasty weather from December through April.
Maybe he’d head south. No Texas or Florida, though. Those states were way too quick to flip the switch for his comfort. Death
row was practically an express lane. New Mexico maybe. They’d abolished the death penalty a few years ago. Not that he was going to get caught, but it paid to be careful.
He would kill Brooke Davenport, then he’d move to New Mexico.
On the TV, the reporter had moved on from Brooke’s background to a bit of information about the young woman she’d saved. The victim’s name wasn’t given, but he knew it was Maddie. He bristled at the praise for her actions, her will to live, her fighting spirit.
Maddie hadn’t cooperated the way he’d predicted. Why? What personal trait had he missed in his evaluation of her that allowed her so much spirit?
He went down to the basement. Maddie’s file was in the first storage container. He spun the combination lock and lifted the lid. The manila envelope filled with pictures, schedules, and notes rested on top of an empty scrapbook. Acid-free to preserve his memories for as long as possible. Rocking back on his heels, he opened the file and paged through his notes. Nothing. He returned to the main floor and fired up his laptop. He reviewed his virtual catalog of potential victims. Maddie shone here as well. Every aspect of her behavior indicated she was perfect for him. Nothing predicted her refusal to give up, nothing rebellious in her background. Perhaps Maddie was an anomaly.
No worries. Maddie would learn her lesson in time.
He moved two fingers on the touchpad, absently scrolling through his early notes on all the candidates. A new thought flashed into his head with the Billy Mays enthusiasm of an As Seen on TV commercial.
But wait! There’s more. This week only, kill two women for the price of one, the ultimate BOGO.
After all, what did Brooke care about more than herself? What act would break her the way that stopping his annual hunt was torturing him? He would make her watch him rape and kill another before he extracted his pleasure from her. Her dread would make the act so much sweeter.
He took his notes upstairs. He was going to start a new book on Brooke. Catching two women at the same time would take some planning, but he was up to the task.
The thrill rejuvenated his enthusiasm.
It’d been a long time since he’d taken on a new adventure, demanded something extra from his skills. Had he gotten lazy? Maybe. But that was no more. His new scheme broke the rules that had kept him from detection over the years. There would be consequences. But the payoff would make the cost worthwhile.
His next hunt would be double the challenge and twice the pleasure.
“
X
equals fifty-two,” Brooke said as she wrote the answer to the problem on the dry-erase board in black marker. She turned to face her Algebra I class. “Does anyone have any questions about today’s lesson?”
She scanned the classroom. Twenty-eight faces blinked back at her with varying degrees of comprehension. In the front row, Sara, a pretty blond with perfectly straight hair and teeth, copied the problem with her usual diligence. Derek dozed in the back row, head tilted back, long jean-clad legs stretched out under the seat in front of him. Brooke sighed. Derek would snooze his way to an effortless A on the next test, while poor Sara would scratch and claw for a C.
The bell clanged.
Lunchtime.
Brooke raised her voice over the sounds of bodies moving, backpacks zipping, and chair legs scraping on linoleum. “Don’t forget, page seventy, problems sixteen through thirty for tomorrow.” She pointed to the other end of the dry-erase board, where she’d written the homework assignment.
Students bottlenecked at the exit. Brooke wiped the eraser across the board, clearing the lesson for the next class. The door opened and the change-of-class cacophony of voices, footsteps, and slamming lockers filled Brooke’s classroom. She dropped into her chair.
Sara stopped in front of Brooke’s desk, twirled the blunt end of a few blond locks. “Ms. Davenport, I’m really confused. Are you going to be here in the morning?”
Poor Sara worked her tail off.
“I’ll be here about twenty minutes before homeroom tomorrow. I’m available eighth period and for a little while after school today.”
Sara shook her head. “I have field hockey practice after school. I’ll come in the morning.”
“OK.” Brooke set her marker on its ledge. She watched the perfect fall of Sara’s hair swish out the door.
After the room emptied, Brooke locked the door and started toward the math teachers’ lounge. Her stomach rumbled, and she wished she’d brought more than yogurt and a banana for lunch. Was she hungry enough to trek to the cafeteria?
Abby emerged from her classroom and fell into step beside her. “How’s the knee?”
“Better today.” But probably not better enough to zip down to the cafeteria and back in her short lunch period. Yogurt and fruit would have to suffice, which was probably a good thing since she hadn’t exercised since Monday.