With a shiver as the morning air sliced through the fabric of her secondhand coat, Joy turned in a slow circle. Her eyes took in the narrow road that had been plowed during the night, piling the snow into a ridge along the sidewalk. The white clapboard buildings next to her were silent, the residents either at work, or students who’d gone home for the holidays.
Overhead the sky was a sullen gray that bled into the misty fog that surrounded her. The sort of morning a person wished they lived on a tropical beach.
Someday . . .
There was no one in sight, but Joy had the heightened senses of a girl who’d spent her entire life surrounded by rough, aggressive men who were eager to take advantage of any weakness.
“I know you’re there,” she called out, her hand slipping into her coat pocket. She never left home without her handy-dandy can of pepper spray. “Hello,” she called again. “Step out where I can see you or I’m calling the cops.”
There was the crunch of footsteps on snow, then a dark form appeared from a nearby alley.
Joy frowned. The stranger looked to be in his mid or early twenties with a heavy jaw and sleepy eyes. He was short and stocky beneath his parka, with dark hair that was cut short and stuck up with cowlicks at the back. He had small, dark eyes and skin that was oddly yellow, as if he was jaundiced.
Weird.
He held up a gloved hand, and a nervous smile twitched around his lips.
“Wait,” he said, moving slowly forward.
Joy took a step backward. No need to panic. It was broad daylight on a public street. Right?
“Who are you?” she demanded.
His lips were still twitching with a nervous smile as he approached.
“Josh.” He held out his hand. Like she was actually going to shake it.
She took another step back. “Why are you following me?”
“I wasn’t following you.”
She made a sound of disgust. “Yeah, right.”
Something flashed through his eyes. “This is a public street. Just because I was walking behind you doesn’t mean nothing.”
Her fingers tightened on the pepper spray. “Look, I’m not stupid. You weren’t walking behind me. You were hiding in the alley.”
He hunched his shoulders. “Okay, maybe I wanted to see you.”
“Ew.” She wrinkled her nose. He reminded Joy of her oldest stepbrother. The sort of boy who was always trying to get a peek of her in the shower, or fingering through her underwear drawer. “You’re a creeper.”
“Don’t call me that.” His expression became petulant.
“Why not? It’s true.”
“I was just trying to work up my courage to talk to you.”
“Men who want to talk to me don’t hide in the alley.”
“I’m shy.”
She rolled her eyes. “Shy?”
“I am.” He continued to move toward her, his movements slow and lumbering like a sloth. “Can we just talk?”
“No. Stay back,” she said.
“Please.”
She brought the pepper spray out of her pocket, holding it out in warning.
“I said stay back, you perv.”
“Why do you call me names?” He scowled, but he continued forward. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. His footsteps sounded unnaturally loud. “That’s not very nice.”
“I’ll spray you.”
He stopped right in front of her. Close enough she could catch the foul scent of his breath.
Coffee and stale cigarettes.
Gross.
“There’s no need to be a bitch,” he groused.
Her upper lip curled in disgust. “God. Jerks like you make me sick.”
“He told you not to be a bitch, Carrie,” a voice whispered directly in her ear.
Joy parted her lips to scream, belatedly realizing that the crunch, crunch she’d been hearing hadn’t come from the man standing in front of her. But before she could make a sound, a gloved hand clapped roughly over her mouth and she felt a pinprick at her neck.
Instantly her brain went fuzzy.
Shit. She’d been drugged.
The man who called himself Josh moved in close, watching her features slacken with the concentration of a child watching an ant being fried beneath a magnifying glass.
Strong arms wrapped around her from behind, catching her as her knees went weak. Her last thought was . . .
They have the wrong woman. My name’s not Carrie.
December 23, Missouri
Griff had a firm understanding of his strengths. And his weaknesses.
He had an above-average intelligence. He could outrun most casual joggers without breaking a sweat. He could coax a computer to do anything he wanted.
But people . . .
He was usually clueless.
With Carmen Jacobs, however, he seemed to sense exactly what she was feeling. Which was why he kept her busy with the need to check out of the hotel and to return her SUV to the rental agency. He kept his truck for the long drive. He also insisted that she purchase a plane ticket to Baltimore.
If she was being electronically monitored, he wanted whoever was watching her to think she was going to spend the next twelve hours traveling from airport to airport.
By the time she’d regained command of her shaken composure, they were already heading along I-70 to Louisville.
“I still think we should go to Baltimore,” she complained, sitting stiffly in the leather seat as she studied the crowded highway that stretched in front of them.
It was two days until Christmas and everyone was anxious to get to their destination.
He risked a quick glance at Carmen, taking in her tense profile.
He sympathized with her urge to try to track down the stalker. The thought that there was a potential killer out there hunting more women made his gut twist with dread.
But he wasn’t going to let her charge into an obvious trap.
Besides, he couldn’t dismiss the flower order. It might have been a typo, but he didn’t think so.
From the beginning the stalker had tried to establish an intimate connection with Carmen.
If he was just a random whackadoodle who’d been inspired by her book, there would have been no need to send her the pictures. Or follow her to Kansas City. Or send her the flowers.
This was personal.
“We could chase shadows. I’m sure that’s what the bastard wants,” he said. “Or we can try to figure out who he is.”
She clicked her tongue. “I don’t know why you’re so convinced that it’s someone from my past.”
He slowed as a car raced past him, spraying snow and ice and rock salt onto his windshield.
“Who else would call you Carrie?” he demanded.
“It could have been a clerical error,” she insisted.
Griff ’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. He didn’t miss the edge in her voice. This was about more than her need to track down the killer.
She didn’t want to go back to Louisville.
“I assume your real name is Carmen?” he asked. There was no use in demanding to know why she was reluctant to go home.
Carmen would tell him when she was ready. And not a second before.
“Yes,” she said. “My mother was an amateur opera singer who loved Bizet’s Carmen. She was determined to name her first daughter after the opera.” There was a brief hesitation before she continued. “My father agreed with the understanding that I would be called Carrie.”
“He wasn’t an opera fan?”
“Actually, that’s how they met,” she said, her voice strained. “His parents were sponsors of a small community theater and my mother was performing. I remember my father telling me that it was love at first sight.”
“So why Carrie?”
“My father thought Carmen made me sound too adult. He wanted me to stay his little princess.”
“It sounds like he loved you very much,” he said in low tones.
She gave a short, humorless laugh. “Not hardly. My father didn’t know how to love.”
Griff resisted the urge to tell her that she wasn’t the only one with a father who didn’t know squat about loving a child.
Right now this was about Carmen and who might be tormenting her.
“Tell me about your family.”
There was a rustle of fabric as Carmen wiggled out of her coat. He heard a hiss of pain as the movement jostled the wound on her upper arm. Anger flared through him. When he found the bastard responsible for attacking her, he intended to make sure there was some serious payback before he was handed over to the authorities.
“My grandmother died when I was twenty and my grandfather passed two years ago,” she said as she settled back in her seat.
“They weren’t your only family, were they?”