LITMIR.BIZ

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rel="nofollow" href="#ulink_b5b11827-6b33-5ced-b070-bcf9a22b0405">Chapter Three

      “Why now?” Maggie asked as she walked into her living room. “And how long have you been up?” she added, noticing the pillows and blankets she’d put on the couch for Scott looked untouched. The guest room bed she’d made up for Ella was probably still made, too.

      She glanced at her watch—10:00 a.m. Which meant she’d been in bed for about four hours. Not that she’d slept much. She’d spent most of the time trying every combat nap technique she’d learned from Scott, who’d trained with military special operations teams for his HRT sniper position. Still, every time she’d drifted off to sleep, she’d startled awake almost immediately.

      Despite having gotten out of bed at five in the morning when she’d called them over, Ella and Scott looked wide-awake.

      Ella handed her a cup of coffee. “We stayed up.”

      “What did I miss?” Maggie asked, looking back and forth between them. But neither of them needed to answer. She could tell from their faces. “You talked about how you were going to protect me, didn’t you?”

      “Don’t be ridiculous,” Scott said. “We both know you can take care of yourself.”

      “Thank—”

      “But that doesn’t mean we’re leaving you alone,” he cut her off, putting a hand on her arm. “Get ready for some houseguests. Or pack a bag. And don’t even think about arguing.”

      Maggie was both annoyed and relieved. If it was one of them in trouble, she’d be doing the same thing. They were a team; they always had been.

      “Okay. But I want to stay here.” They could take turns staying with her—she knew there was no stopping them—but she didn’t want to bring trouble to their doorsteps.

      Especially since neither one lived alone. Ella’s fiancé, Logan, was a cop, and Scott’s girlfriend, Chelsie—who’d moved in with him a week ago—was FBI. But neither of them had signed up for this, and although Maggie knew they’d help if she asked, she didn’t want to drag them into it, too.

      Scott looked surprised at her easy agreement, but he changed the subject, probably worried she’d change her mind. “Maggie, you haven’t told Mom and Dad about the letters, have you? Or Nikki?”

      “No.” She took a sip of coffee, and the hot liquid burned the back of her throat, clearing her head. “And I don’t plan to now, either. What are they going to do from Indiana, besides worry?”

      She got ready to fight Scott on it—her parents had worried enough about her, ten years ago. She didn’t want them repeating it now. And Nikki had only been twelve then, so they’d tried to keep the details from her. Nikki knew now—since the Fishhook Rapist had never been caught, she’d read about him in the news over the years. But Maggie didn’t want her little sister to worry, especially not while Nikki was just moving into her first apartment, starting her first job.

      “I agree,” Scott said, surprising her.

      “You do?”

      “Yes. We both know Mom and Dad will just call you constantly, insisting you come home. And you don’t need the distraction. We need to focus on stopping him. I want this September 1 to be just another day.”

      So did she. Getting together with Ella and Scott once a year, praying a new victim wouldn’t turn up, was a tradition she’d love to forsake. But September 1 was never going to be just another day for her.

      “Good,” she said. “Then let’s get started.”

      “You don’t have access to the case file, do you?” Ella asked.

      Maggie snorted. “No.” She knew more details than the average victim, because the task force had asked her questions over the years. But they’d never let her officially investigate. She suppressed a shudder at just the idea. Even if it could help, the thought of looking through all the other victim files—and her own—made the coffee churn in her stomach.

      “It probably wouldn’t tell us a lot more than we already know, anyway.”

      She didn’t have to say why. The news gave them enough details about where the Fishhook Rapist had been, and it was no secret he’d stuck to a pattern. Victimology and the crime itself hadn’t changed.

      He always struck once a year, on the same date. And he always chose the same type of woman: someone in her late teens or early twenties, with a slender build and long, dark hair.

      Maggie touched the hair she’d cut into a bob years ago, after the second Fishhook Rapist victim had surfaced, looking too much like her. She’d worked hard on her physique, too. No longer was she thin and willowy, but lean and muscular.

      She turned her back on Scott and Ella, in the pretense of heading for the chair in the corner, but really to give herself a second without being scrutinized to get her game face on. The face she used when she went into a SWAT call and needed a perp who weighed more than twice as much as she did to recognize her as a viable threat. She could do this. She could talk about what had happened to her, with the two people closest to her in the world.

      Her bruised back protested as she sat. When she raised her eyes to theirs, she could tell Ella and Scott weren’t fooled. In some ways, this would be easier with total strangers.

      Clutching the arms of her chair too hard, she asked Ella, “Why now? Why isn’t this year the same as every other one? Do you think he plans to target a new victim, too? Or just come back for me? And what—” She choked on the rest of the sentence, but she could tell Ella knew what she was going to ask.

       What did he plan to do to her this time?

      Ella settled onto the couch across from her, her face scrunched up, and Maggie knew what was coming. A detailed profiler’s analysis.

      Ella looked pensive as she started, “It was a sophisticated crime. He didn’t leave us any forensic evidence, not even the first time. He was probably in his late twenties a decade ago. Young enough to fit in around a college town, but old enough to be self-sufficient, with his own vehicle and the ability to leave town permanently afterward without attracting attention.”

      Scott was nodding from his perch next to the couch as Ella continued, “He’s closing in on forty now, and he’s still grabbing women in college or just out of it. It’s not as easy for him to blend in anymore. He’s starting to realize he needs to think about changing his approach. He’s starting to realize his pattern for the past decade has to change, at least in some ways. It’s made him reminisce. And ten years is a significant number, in terms of standard anniversaries.”

      Intense lines appeared on Ella’s smooth olive skin, and even her tone changed as she got into what Maggie recognized as her profiler groove. “To this perp, September 1 is more important than any standard anniversary. He’s not married, never has been, and for him, this crime dominates his life.”

      She looked apologetic as she continued, “You’re important to him because that day was the start for him. It probably wasn’t his first offense, but it was the first time he used the brand.” Her voice caught as she said, “And that’s his signature. As he’s been planning his next attack, he can’t stop thinking about how it all started. He’s looking for that same thrill, the way it was the first time he decided to act—the fear and excitement and—”

      Ella closed her eyes again, and Maggie realized this was as hard for Ella to profile as it was for Maggie to hear. Ella had been there that day, when Maggie had stumbled back to their dorm room, drugged and only able to remember fragments of what had happened. Fragments were all she had today, and in some ways, she was grateful for that.

      Scott was standing beside the couch, his jaw locked, his nostrils practically flaring, as he listened silently.

      Maggie got up and walked woodenly to the couch, sitting beside Ella, who’d befriended her and Scott when she’d moved down the street from them when

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