LITMIR.BIZ

      To Patience Smith, who made my dream of publication happen. Thank you.

      To Brenda Harlen, who brainstorms with me during dinners and road trips. What an extraordinary CP and friend. And to my wonderful family. You mean everything to me.

       Chapter One

      “What do you mean, he’s escaped?”

      Dr. Claire Lamont gripped her cell phone tighter and stared out her kitchen window at the slashing rain. Two days ago, she had sent FBI agent Andy Forrester to Ridsdale Psychiatric Hospital for evaluation. Now he was out?

      Gene Welland, her contact at the Bureau’s Cincinnati office, said, “At eight o’clock Forrester was in his room, an hour later he was gone.”

      The explanation didn’t make sense to her. Not with the state-of-the-art security measures at the facility. “How could that happen?”

      “We think he had inside help.”

      “You suspect Ridsdale staff?” she asked, pacing between the wall oven and the granite-topped island. “Or someone within the Bureau?”

      “Too soon to point a finger,” Gene said, clearly in no mood to speculate. “I’m calling because a nurse at the hospital reported he threatened to kill you.”

      Dread twisted in her stomach. Her gaze darted to the patio door. One forceful blow would smash the glass, then Forrester could slip a hand inside, twist the lock and—

      She stopped pacing. Exhaled a deep breath. A long day of interviews and flight delays had set her on edge. “Forrester probably lashed out at me without meaning it.”

      Or maybe he did mean it. Maybe he was in such a rage about her confining him to Ridsdale that he’d try to harm her.

      She resumed pacing, her mouth dry, her palms sweating. Thunder rumbled in the distance and a streak of lightning sliced through the sky.

      “I’m not taking any chances,” Gene said. “In fact, I’ve already sent an agent to pick you up, so get ready to leave.”

      “I’m just back from Minneapolis. My luggage is still in my front hall.”

      “Then you’ll be set to go when our guy gets there.”

       What if her enraged patient showed up first?

      “I have a better idea,” she said. “You know the coffee shop where we met last month?”

      “Java Heaven?”

      “That’s it. I’ll meet him there.”

      After a short silence, Gene relented. “Okay, Lisa is calling Brent to redirect him to that location.”

      Brent? As in Brent don’t-waste-my-time Young?

      Please let there be another agent in the Cincinnati office with the same first name.

      “Who are we talking about?” she asked.

      “Brent Young.”

      Damn. That was the field agent she’d met several weeks earlier when Gene had asked her to talk to his team after the shooting death of a colleague, Pete Sanderson. No degree in psychology was necessary to interpret Young’s slouched posture, guarded expression or impatient tapping of his foot. Obviously, he viewed her presentation about counseling options as useless and had only shown up because he’d been ordered to.

      Young’s disdain for counseling hadn’t surprised her. What had surprised her was the surge of attraction she’d felt for him. With his linebacker shoulders, coal-black hair and cheekbones that hinted at a Native American ancestor, he looked like a hard-core renegade. But there had been something appealing about his smile—which he’d let loose a few times in response to his colleagues’ wisecracks. Against all logic, she wished her remarks had elicited the same response.

      The wind rattled the panes of glass. The storm was getting worse.

      “You can count on Brent to protect you,” Gene said, correctly interpreting her silence as a lack of enthusiasm for her escort.

      The overhead light went out, plunging the room into darkness. “Oh no,” she muttered.

      “What’s wrong?”

      “The storm just

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