Chapter One

Miriam Bethesda’s vision clouded as she blinked away a crust of dried tears and the remnants of her brief, tortured sleep. She scanned the shadowy ceiling of a small room. Wherever she’d been taken, she knew it wasn’t good.

The room was dingy. Moisture beaded down stone walls, dripping onto rust-colored stains that spread across the concrete floor beneath the wooden table she was strapped to. The stench of earth mingled with a sharp, metallic tang that burned the back of her throat.

A nearby brass lamp, no brighter than a distant streetlight, was the only source of light. Ice shot through her veins as she surveyed a set of instruments glinting dully on a shelf, the lamp’s glow just bright enough to reveal each blade, hook, and rusted edge lying in perfect, haunting alignment. Every tool laid out before her—the scalpel, the meat hook, the rusted bone saw—was sharper and more twisted than the last.

Above the shelf, more tools, more threats, hung on the wall

It was as if the entire room had been prepared for her arrival, every dark detail meticulously arranged so she’d understand exactly what was in store.

Tools meant to tear, slice, and break.

Tools meant for her.

She blinked several times, working to clear her vision.

Nearby, a wine rack displayed strips of hair matted with blood atop patches of skin, each one bearing the unmistakable marks of violence. The dim light made them seem alive, casting shadows that gave the illusion they were breathing.

Scalps. Those are scalps with long hair. Like mine.

“One…two…” Miriam’s voice caught in her throat as she counted. “Three.”

Three people—women—who’d once been as alive as she was now.

Next to her, a drinking straw rose from the neck of a half-full water bottle in a cup holder attached to the table. The straw was just out of reach, mocking her with its closeness. With a labored shift, Miriam twisted her body sideways, inching her face closer to the straw. Her muscles protested each movement, but finally, her lips met the thin tube.

She practically inhaled the bottle. Cool water soothed her throat, though the effort left her even more drained.

Miriam tried to gauge if it was morning or evening—or if days had passed at all. Her bladder had already failed her once. She didn’t even remember it happening, not really. Maybe while she was half asleep or slipping in and out of whatever haze he’d left her in.

The shame of it still burned, hot and irrational. As if that one small loss of control made her something less than herself.

But what did it matter? She was already stripped bare—body, pride, everything.

Her mind was fogged, fragmented.

Focus.

But try as she might, every time she attempted to stay in the now, time slipped sideways, and her thoughts snapped back to the moment everything changed.

It had been so simple, so innocuous.

The snap of a twig on her hike.

She tried to make sense of the rush of images—the arrow sticking out of her body, footsteps crunching in the leaf litter behind her, a blank mask and unreadable eyes.

After that, the memories broke apart, half formed and fleeting. Sunlight flashing through the tree canopy. The smell of woodsy body odor. Pain shooting through her injured shoulder. Stairs.

Miriam knew where she was—a killer’s den.

Her eyelids drifted closed, only to snap open as she fought against the pull of fatigue.

Sharp, unrelenting pain stabbed through her. Each breath labored, shallow, as if her chest were shrinking. She blinked, but even that small movement sent a fresh wave of fire coursing through her body.

Her husband and his constant refrain of “hiking alone isn’t wise” reverberated in her aching head.

“You’re too stubborn for your own good. One of these days, it’s going to catch up with you.”

The pulse of agony radiating from her shoulder nearly drowned out Brad’s voice, but his face was vivid, worry lines creasing his brow, like he was standing in front of her. Though he warned her every time she went out, she always brushed him off.

Brad was on a business trip to Nevada. He had no idea where she was, and now, more than anything, she regretted not heeding his warnings about hiking alone.

I’m right here, Brad. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.

Had it been so wrong, though, to go out alone? Shouldn’t that be her right as a human being?

She enjoyed the solitude and peace the wilderness brought.

And people like her weren’t supposed to end up in situations like this.

Another wave of agony tore through her shoulder, and she bit her bottom lip to keep from crying out.

The stench of the cellar—a foul combination of mildew, sweat, and the metallic tang of blood—clung to the back of her throat. Piercing through this odor was something both sweet and rancid, polluting every breath she took. The unmistakable smell of rot, like meat left to spoil, sour and overpowering.

Her limbs were like lead, but she struggled against the restraint, jaw clenched, fighting for even a fragment of freedom.

Miriam tried to remember who’d taken her, but everything was hazy. She recalled the mask—blank and emotionless. He hadn’t said a word, not even when she pleaded for him to let her go.

She shifted on the cold wooden table, hating how the leather binds bit into her wrists and ankles. Her shoulder throbbed mercilessly as she clenched and unclenched her hands at her sides, as if trying to grasp the thoughts slipping through her mind, tangled with fear and disbelief. This place, this dungeon, seemed unreal.

Miriam wanted so badly for this to be a dream.

But the pain was too real, too constant. She was trapped here, strapped down, surrounded by all the evidence she needed to know she was in a killer’s lair and that her immediate future would be one of unbearable agony, torment, and torture.

Unless she got free.

Miriam shifted again, testing the bonds. She noticed the faintest bit of slack in the one around her right leg, just enough to spark a sliver of hope.

The tools waited, sharp and hungry. Scalpel, meat hook, bone saw. Knives, needles, pliers. Others she didn’t want to think about. So many different instruments meant for control, for evil. And beyond that, the scalps. Bile surged up her throat, acrid and burning. No question about the fates of the others. Their lives had ended here, beneath the steady hands of a monster.

How many others, though, she didn’t know.

The tableau was reminiscent of that serial killer who’d operated around here a few decades ago. She searched her mind, trying to remember what they’d called him.

A chill crept down her spine as she recalled the articles she’d read. For years, young women—athletic, outdoorsy—had gone missing while hiking alone. Initially, authorities had thought they’d gotten lost, but when their bodies were found, the truth was far worse.

Their scalps had been removed—a gruesome killer’s signature.

The Head Hunter.

The grisly details had stuck with Miriam, especially after the police had found the scalps displayed in his cellar. Now, as she stared at the tools in front of her, those dark stories seemed disturbingly close. But he was in prison now.

Dread seized her. Maybe he wasn’t there anymore. Maybe he’d gotten out.

Miriam’s breath came in sharp, quick puffs. She knew she needed to calm herself, but the thought that the ruthless serial killer had returned seized her. She needed to escape before she became just another forgotten victim, lost in the shadows of this nightmare.

Sweat beaded on her forehead as panic swelled again, threatening to take over. She couldn’t think about that now. She couldn’t afford to spiral.

Miriam twisted her leg again, harder this time. The strap bit into her skin, but it was loosening, fraying bit by bit as she worked it against the corner of the table. Time dragged on, her muscles burning with effort, her teeth gritted against the discomfort in her shoulder. The thought of what he would do if she didn’t get free kept her going.

Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity, the strap gave way.

Her leg was free.

The relief was brief, a small victory, but one enough to jolt her back to the present. She needed to move quickly, quietly. With one leg free, she managed to leverage her body to loosen the other bindings. Her hands came next, her wrists aching as she pulled them free from the leather straps. A whimper escaped as she moved, the pain now reverberating from every nerve ending.

When she finally sat up, the sudden movement sent a wave of nausea crashing through her. She placed her hand over the wound in her shoulder, her fingertips brushing crusts of dried blood. A bandage hung over the gash—rough and hastily done—but a bandage all the same. He’d treated the wound.

That realization confused Miriam, muddling with the fear and anger swirling inside. She couldn’t imagine what motivated someone who meant to torture her to patch her up first.

Under the thick smell of concrete and decay, she caught a faded scent of wine. Between that and the rack, she figured the room was once used as a wine cellar.

Miriam scanned the dark, cramped space again, slower this time. The walls were unfinished, exposed beams and stone. Though it really shouldn’t have mattered, relief coursed through her when she spotted her clothes and shoes in the corner.

Well, mostly.

Her shirt had been slashed up the back, the fabric stiff with blood and filth. He’d cut it from her while she was unconscious—like she was meat, not a person. She snatched it up anyway, fumbling it over her head, barely managing to thread her good arm through the sleeve. It didn’t cover her completely, but it was better than nothing. Her pants were shredded, useless—just scraps of denim soaked in blood, twisted like discarded rags beneath the table.

But her shoes—thank goodness, her shoes. She grabbed them and held them tight to her chest as she stumbled for the flight of stairs in the corner. She could run barefoot if she had to. But not naked. Not anymore.

Her legs shook beneath her, weak from hours of lying on her back. Despite sucking down the water in the bottle, her throat was parched. The cold cement beneath her bare feet sent shivers up her spine.

But Miriam pushed through the discomfort, heading toward the steep concrete steps. Rather than a real door, a square trapdoor sat at the top of the flight of stairs.

Her heart sank as she reached up and pushed against the heavy wooden panel.

It didn’t budge.

She had no good reason to have expected the trapdoor to open, but the disappointment still hit her hard. If he came back now, after she’d already worked so hard to escape the bindings…

She couldn’t afford to waste time.

Miriam surveyed the room, searching for anything she could use to break through the panel. Though she did not want to look at the tools, she forced herself to examine them. Scalpel, meat hook, bone saw. Knives, needles, pliers.

Claw hammer.

Putting her shoes down on the top step, she staggered down the stairs and collected the hammer. Despite the extra weight straining her muscles, she forced herself back up the stairs, positioning herself beneath the trapdoor. Miriam swung the hammer above her head, slamming it into the panel with all the strength she could muster.

Wood splintered under metal, echoing through the basement, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t.

On one upward swing, the hammer slipped in her sweaty grip, and she barely dodged it coming down on her head. But her shoulder—her bad one—took the hit. Pain exploded through the joint, sharp and blinding. She let out an angry curse, rolling her throbbing shoulder before picking up the hammer, tightening her grip and swinging again.

It took several more blows, each one sending a jarring shock up her arm. Her body trembled with exhaustion. Finally, with a loud crack, the wooden planks began to splinter and give way. She didn’t hesitate.

Gripping the hammer, she jammed the claw into the weakened wood, tearing at the boards. Each wrench splintered the trapdoor. Wood shards flew as she dug deeper.

Finally, three wooden panels gave way, crashing down into the cellar. Miriam covered her head as wood pounded her arms, scraping her skin and leaving a few splinters for good measure.

But she could get out.

Picking up her shoes, Miriam climbed up and stumbled into a small room, pushing forward despite the pain in her shoulder. Stripes of sunlight cut through cracks in the walls, casting jagged lines over the floor. As she neared the door she prayed led outside, a shadow shifted along the wall, a shape that seemed to loom and move toward her.

She gasped and instinctively pulled back, her mind reeling at the thought that someone was inside with her. But the shadow vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving only empty walls.

Miriam shoved the door open, stumbling onto a path that led to dense trees. The air smelled of damp earth, rich with the scent of pine and moss. A sharp chill of early fall bit at her skin, the drone of cicadas echoing in the quiet West Virginia wilderness.

The forest stretched out before her, dark and unwelcoming, but she didn’t care. She ran.

With each step, the pain in her shoulder flared, but she pushed through, her only thought to get as far away from that place as possible. Too afraid to stop and pull on her shoes, she kept going. She’d do that later, when she was far enough away.

Wherever she wound up didn’t matter. She only knew she had to keep running.

As she plunged deeper into the forest, branches whipped at her face and thorns caught at her clothes. The damp scent of rotting leaves and fresh rain lingered in the air, mixing with the sweet tang of wet bark. While she fought her way through bramble and thicket, the hammer slipped from her sweaty palms, where it vanished into the undergrowth, lost to the woods.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, her body screaming at her to stop, to rest, but she couldn’t.

Stopping wasn’t an option.

Not now. Not ever.

Somewhere behind her, back in that cellar, her captor was about to discover she was gone.

Chapter Two

FBI Special Agent Genevieve Steel adjusted her pack strap, rolling her shoulders to ease the strain. The pack’s weight pulled at her muscles, a steady reminder of the miles she’d covered. New River Gorge National Park was beautiful, and just fifteen minutes away from her apartment and job in Beckley.

This rugged place was one of the few reasons she was glad to be back in West Virginia.

Before her, the Glade Creek Trail twisted around trees and among brush. Sunlight slipped through the canopy in shifting ribbons of gold, the scent of damp earth mixed with pine thick in the warm air.

Three days in the woods had burned away the doubts that had chased her here. The whispers that she wasn’t ready to join the Behavioral Analysis Unit. That she was running from her past. That she was trying to prove something to a father she would never see again.

Her grip tightened on the strap. She had spent years trying to keep him from taking up space in her head, but he always found a way in.

Dropping the pack to the ground, she pressed her back against a towering pine, the bark rough through her shirt. Tilting her face upward, she let the sunlight heat her skin. She focused on the warmth, on the steady rhythm of her breath.

This was her life. Not his.

And she was determined to live it the way she wanted to.

She reached for her phone to call her friend Briony Hartley. She hadn’t planned to stay on the trails this long, but yesterday morning, she woke up craving just one more day. The screen lit up, but no signal came through.

She exhaled through her nose and shoved the phone back into her pocket. Another hour, maybe less, and she’d be back in range. Hopefully, Briony wasn’t too worried about not hearing from her. They talked almost every day, and any break in routine usually had Briony texting, Are you alive?

Pulling her water bottle from her pack, Genevieve tipped it back, letting the cool liquid roll over her tongue. By sunset, she’d be back in civilization, preparing for her first day at the Behavioral Analysis Unit. A different kind of challenge waited for her at the BAU, but for now, she hefted her pack and kept walking, taking in every last minute of this quiet.

She hummed a tune, the melody familiar, though the name escaped her. The sound filled the quiet, a steady rhythm against the soft rustle of leaves.

Genevieve tapped a pattern on her leg—four beats, pause, repeat. She’d picked it up from an inmate back in her prison counseling days. At the time, it was just a quirk she mimicked to calm her nerves. Later, during her forensic psych coursework, she learned why it worked.

Repetitive motion activated the sensory cortex, helping regulate the autonomic nervous system, and giving the brain something to hold onto when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

It wasn’t just a tic anymore. It was a tool.

Driven to madness by his relentless mind, Daniel had embarked on a journey to conquer his anxiety while behind bars. “Not like I’ve got anything better to do.” With self-help books guiding the way, he’d taught himself mindfulness meditation and various grounding techniques, eventually learning to control his constantly racing thoughts.

The tools had transformed him. By the time of his release, he was a different man, no longer tormented by his mental demons. “The demons are still there,” Daniel told Genevieve several months into his brand-new life on the outside, “but they’re not running the show.”

Mindfulness meditation was still a step too far for Genevieve. She’d tried it a couple of times and couldn’t get the hang of it. Maybe someday she’d find a teacher to guide her. But rhythmic grounding was easy and surprisingly effective. Just tapping her fingers over and over in sequence gave her a sensory stimulus to focus on.

After one more swig of water, she screwed on the top.

Movement stirred to her right. Genevieve slowed her steps, scanning the dense undergrowth. A shadow shifted, gone as quickly as it came.

Probably nothing. A bird. A squirrel. The woods were full of life, most of it harmless.

She kept walking.

Another sound, like shuffling. A bird darted off a branch at the disturbance.

An unnatural silence fell, blanketing the area, like every animal within shouting distance had gone into hiding.

Her father had taught her to pay attention to such things in the wild.

“Prey hides from predators.”

Something was out there. Genevieve strained to hear—a breath, a whisper, anything.

Silence.

She exhaled, very slowly, steadily, through her nose.

Don’t make a sound.

Don’t move.

Then…a snap. Closer.

Her hand twitched toward her hip, where her service weapon usually hung. But she wasn’t on duty, and her personal sidearm was stowed in the pack strapped to her back. She considered slipping it off, digging for the weapon, but instincts pushed her toward something faster. She reached for the bear spray instead, fingers curling around the canister in the side pocket.

Better than nothing.

A long breath. A shift of light. And then—

A doe stepped onto the trail, her fawn close behind.

Genevieve’s shoulders relaxed. The animal’s quiet grace was a startling contrast to her own tension. The doe darted past as if Genevieve didn’t exist, disappearing into the trees on the other side.

She laughed at herself. Paranoid much?

Yes. Yes, she was.

Genevieve adjusted her pack and walked on, shaking her head. She’d only gone a few steps when branches snapped in rapid succession.

Not the measured steps of a hiker. Not the light passage of deer.

Someone running. Fast.

Genevieve looked toward the sound in time to see a woman burst through the foliage. Half naked. Hair matted to her face. Arms batting at branches as she ran.

The woman looked over her shoulder and caught her foot on a root. A sharp cry tore from her throat as she pitched forward, hitting the ground hard.

Genevieve sprinted toward the fallen woman, automatically scanning the tree line, the brush, the narrow trail behind her. No one followed. No shadows moving. No sound but the woman’s ragged breathing.

Only then did she drop to one knee.

“Ma’am? I’m here to help. Are you hurt?”

The terrified woman scrambled backward, releasing a bloodcurdling scream. “Stay away from me!” Her hands clawed at the dirt, pushing herself away despite the obvious pain twisting her face.

Genevieve stopped, keeping low, hands raised where the woman could see them. Her voice remained steady, authoritative but calm. “You’re safe now. My name’s Genevieve Steel. I’m with the FBI.”

She moved forward, noting a deep wound in the woman’s shoulder. A puncture wound, not a cut or scrape. Not from a bullet. It looked like an arrow injury, if Genevieve didn’t miss her guess. She’d be surprised if the shoulder joint was intact. Fabric dangling around the woman’s shoulder was stiff with dried blood.

The woman’s chest heaved with ragged breaths, her gaze darting between Genevieve and the woods behind her. Her pupils were dilated with fear, face pale beneath the streaks of dirt and blood.

“You…you’re FBI?” The words came out low and harsh.

“Yes.” Genevieve slowly reached for her pack, maintaining eye contact. “Let me show you my credentials.” She unzipped the top pocket and pulled out her badge, holding it where the woman could see it clearly.

After staring at it for several seconds, the woman shuddered and leaned forward, bursting into tears.

“What’s your name?”

Her teeth chattered so badly, her words tumbled out in an unintelligible jumble. She tightened herself into a ball.

“I’m sorry. What’s your name, ma’am?” Genevieve pulled out a pair of her sweat pants and shirt.

“Miriam.” She looked up, eyes wild with fear. “He’s behind me. He’s after me. He…he’s going to kill me. We have to…we have to go.”

Genevieve scanned the forest again. Still empty.

Besides Miriam’s panicked breathing, the only sounds were the chirping of a bird nearby. The animal sounds had returned. No one else was there. Or at least, no one close.

“You’re safe now.” Genevieve kept her voice steady through the possible lie. She knelt to make eye contact with the woman. “I’m going to help you into these warmer clothes, okay, Miriam?”

Miriam nodded with jerky little movements of her head. “Th-thank you.”

“Why don’t you tell me who hurt you?”

“Please.” Miriam’s fingers dug into Genevieve’s arms, her grip desperate. “He’s following me. He’ll kill me if he finds me. You have to help me get away from here.”

“I need you to tell me who’s after you.”

“The Hea…the Head Hunter.”