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And then Ken wasmoving, his feet pounding against the grass as he ran towards the sound of thescreams.
He crashed through thetrees, branches whipping at his face and snagging on his clothes. Everyworst-case scenario flashed through his mind in a sickening kaleidoscope - amugging gone wrong, a sex crime, a homicidal maniac on a rampage. Ken burstinto a small clearing and skidded to a halt, chest heaving, sweat stinging hiseyes.
What he saw therestopped him dead in his tracks.
For a second, Kenthought he'd stumbled onto the set of some twisted arthouse flick. A statementon the human condition or some pretentious crap. He half-expected a greasydirector in a beret to pop out from behind a tree and yell cut.
But this was no movie.
Because smack dab inthe middle of the bandstand – the same spot where the brass band performed oncea month – was a young blonde woman.
Only she was locked insome kind of medieval stocks.
Hands and head boltedin place. Her ankles lashed to the base of the contraption with frayed ropethat bit into her flesh. She hung there like a ragdoll, torso slack, toesscraping the floor. The tips of her straggly blonde hair caressed the ground.Ken saw her chipped blue nail polish, flimsy floral dress, stockings that werefashionably ripped.
Ken's guts did abackflip, threatening to redecorate the grass with his morning coffee. He'dseen dead bodies before - you didn’t grow up in the inner city without seeing astiff or two. But this? This was something else. It was all real, right in themiddle of Chautauqua Park, with the sun shining and the birds singing and thesmell of fresh-cut grass in the air. Ken spotted another witness, hands claspedto her mouth, no doubt the source of the piercing scream that had drawn himhere.
More gawkers pouredinto the clearing, drawn by the screams like flies to roadkill. They clusteredaround the bandstand, jaws flapping, eyes bugging out of their skulls.
Ken knew he needed todo something, call the cops. But his feet were rooted to the spot, his handshanging useless at his sides. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe. All he coulddo was stare at the carnage in front of him and try not to puke on his shoes.
What the hell hadhappened here?
CHAPTER ONE
Ella strode from the living room tothe kitchen and back again. Back and forth, like a caged animal, wearing awaywhat was left of the hardwood floor. She needed a drink. Maybe some nicotine.Something to dull the edges of the hamster wheel that was her brain. It wasspinning round and round, going nowhere fast.
Because she couldn’t stop thinkingabout Martin Godfrey.
Mia's boy toy. The man who'd charmed hisway into their lives with his crooked smile and his silver fox swagger.
But the pieces were falling into placenow, and the picture they formed was ugly as sin.
Martin was no mere charmer. Much more thanjust a retired FBI agent and military vet.
He was Ella and Mia’s uninvited angel ofdeath.
Over the past month, four people close toElla and Mia had been targeted by an unknown assailant. Logan Nash, shotbetween the eyes in his supposed safe house. Randall Carter, smug prick as hewas, assassinated right outside his house. Trevor Garbett, Mia's scumbag ex,dumped on the side of the road like yesterday's trash with a bullet hole in hisforehead.
And Ben. Poor, stupid Ben. Ella's ownmistake, the guy she'd let get too close. He'd survived, but only just. Andshe'd seen his attacker, seen that face in the flesh. The same face she'd seenon grainy CCTV footage, standing over Carter's cooling corpse.
And yesterday morning, Ella had paid avisit to Mia’s house. There, sitting on her sofa like a king on his throne wasMartin Godfrey, and in that moment, the grainy picture finally came into view.
It was like a bolt of lightning straightto her cerebral cortex. The disparate fragments of evidence, the naggingsuspicions, all coalescing into one inescapable truth. Martin's profile, thesubtle shift of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin - it all matched. The manon the CCTV, the figure in Ben's apartment room. It was him. It had always beenhim.
Ella's subconscious had known, even if herwaking mind had been too blind to see it. The pieces had been there, waitingfor her to put them together. She and Martin had exchanged a glance then, alook that spoke volumes without a single word. Ella's stare was wide andaccusing, screaming the truth she'd uncovered.
Martin had returned the gesture. He knewthat she knew.
Ella sank onto the couch, her head in herhands. It didn't make sense. Why would Martin do this? What was his angle? Somekind of twisted white knight complex, protecting the damsels in distress?
But that was stupid. Ella and Mia were noshrinking violets. They could handle themselves, had been doing it for years.They didn't need some trigger-happy old man watching their backs.
So what then? What was Martin's game?Ella's mind spun with possibilities, each one more far-fetched than the last.Was he some kind of serial killer groupie, getting off on taking out theirenemies? A psycho who wanted to play hero? Maybe he craved the thrill of thehunt again, and this was his way of getting close to the action. What if it wasan effort to frame her and Mia? With Mia behind bars, Martin could be in lineto inherit Mia's eight-bedroom palace she called a house.
Or was it something else entirely,something she couldn't even begin to wrap her head around?
Ella groaned, rubbing her temples. Thiswas getting her nowhere. She needed to talk to someone, needed to get this offher chest before it ate her alive.
