Chapter One

Harlan Lessner cursed under his breath, shivering against the cold concrete floor. His tongue had glued itself to the roof of his mouth, and crusted sleep clung stubbornly to his lashes. When he wiped at his eyes, his fingers brushed something sticky at his eyebrow. He brought them down. Blood.

What the hell happened to me?

As he inspected his face for other wounds, flashes of memory hit like aftershocks. A hospital room. His wrists cuffed to a bed rail while a surgeon sutured the bullet wound in his right arm. The anesthetic had dulled the pain, but not enough. Each pull of the thread had threatened to upend his stomach.

I deserved every second of that pain, and I know it. Kidnapping an FBI agent. Torturing him. Mutilating him.

Glancing around, he tried to determine where he’d wound up after the hospital. The room he was in now had no nurse, no bed, no handcuffs. Just a cracked window high on the wall, held together with duct tape.

He shifted to a sitting position, cradling his right arm to his chest. The bullet wound hurt like hell, raw and angry. Using his left hand for support, he got himself to standing and shuffled to the window.

The glass was smudged, but not enough to obscure the view. Thick trees stood tall and menacing in the glow of what was probably a porch light. Otherwise, the night was dark and quiet. But lacking any sign of civilization, including everyday functional devices, Harlan could only guess at the time.

I’m in a basement in bum-fucking nowhere in the middle of the night. My chances of making it out of here alive are slim to none.

The realization brought surprising relief.

Harlan’s life had been over for a long time now, ever since an intoxicated driver ran down his baby girl, Quincy. In the years that followed, he’d fallen into a depression that never really let up. His wife left him, taking their son.

Police work had sustained him, but he’d managed to screw that up too. All because of a man named Erik Waller.

The maniac had shown up and offered Harlan a deal. The chance to get revenge on the people who killed his daughter and a shot at reclaiming something of Quincy’s life. Harlan’s ex-wife had stored Quincy’s childhood possessions in a cardboard box in her attic. Erik had stolen that box but promised to give that all to Harlan in exchange for services rendered.

He convinced me to kidnap Special Agent Noah Dalton in the name of tormenting Noah’s wife, Winter Black.

The chance to hold his baby girl’s favorite stuffed toy one more time, to remember her and keep her close to him—even if only in memory—was irresistible. His life had been nothing but empty days of quiet rage since her death.

So Harlan did the awful things Erik demanded, just to be reunited with the last remnants of Quincy’s life.

But Erik didn’t return Quincy’s memorabilia. Instead, he coerced Harlan to do something even more heinous.

Flashes of memory came to him. Holding a gun to Noah’s head while Winter pleaded with him. Eve Taggart finally shooting Harlan in the arm.

Darnell Davenport rushing in.

Harlan rubbed his wrists, recalling the metallic bonds that had secured him to the gurney in the ambulance. He’d faked a heart attack and killed an officer in his escape attempt, and Erik had helped him flee the scene.

But as they ate drive-through hamburgers in a deserted city park that night, a look of disappointment crossed Erik’s face. “Too bad I can’t give you back the box. You were supposed to kill Winter’s husband in the hospital room, and that didn’t happen.”

Never once, in fifteen years of police work, had Harlan lost his cool.

He lost it then.

Hearing that shithead give yet another excuse for keeping Quincy’s belongings, Harlan pulled his personal weapon out without thinking. Only at the last moment did he sway his hand. If he killed Erik, the location of Quincy’s box would be lost forever.

That was an outcome Harlan wouldn’t risk. Instead, he shot Erik in the leg, just above the knee.

Just as Harlan was congratulating himself on giving Erik a taste of his own medicine, he caught sight of a muzzle—Erik lifting a gun toward him.

Harlan’s memories went fully blank after that. But he understood now why there was blood above his eyebrow.

None of that matters now. Where did he take me and why?

Turning around, Harlan used the light coming in from the porch bulb to navigate the basement. The room was empty with a short flight of wooden stairs leading up to a closed door. A slender band of light shined from beneath the door.

Harlan crept up the stairs, listening for movement.

He gently tried the knob.

Locked, of course. Erik’s probably out there sleeping…just waiting to kill me.

That meant Harlan had probably two or three hours of freedom to explore his predicament and find a way out.

The wooden steps and banister were built of timber, old but not rotten and rough on the edges. The boards had never been sanded or finished. He tested the railing and found it sturdy enough to bear his full weight. But a few well-placed kicks could probably break the handrail from the balusters.

And the noise will wake up Erik, and he’ll come in here and shoot me, or stab me, or do something else.

But at least Harlan would have a weapon in his hand when he died. The thought gave him some small comfort.

Bracing his back against the wall, he put a foot on the banister and pushed. Flexing his leg a few times got it rocking slightly, but the brackets and bolts holding the handrail in place wouldn’t budge.

He picked up on a clicking sound, like footsteps on wood flooring.

What sounded like a refrigerator door opened, then shut, then opened again. Whoever was up there grunted. The familiar crack of a beer or soda can opening made Harlan’s mouth water. What he would give for even an ounce of liquid.

The footsteps retreated from the door at the top of the stairs. Shuffling and a sigh preceded the telltale watery sounds of someone urinating.

Knowing this was his best chance, Harlan shifted his position on the steps and pushed on the banister again and again. He kept it up, rocking the wooden beam with all his might until it pulled away from the wall with a loud snap.

Just as Harlan regripped the two-by-four beam to wrench it from the final post, something behind the steps caught his eye.

He paused, trying to make out what was in the shadows. He crouched. A cardboard box was tucked underneath.

The tip of a tiny pink rabbit ear spilled over the top.

Tears sprang to Harlan’s eyes as he reached in and slid the box out of its hiding place.

“Quincy…”

The taste of his daughter’s name robbed the strength from his legs, and he crumpled beside the box, reaching for the bunny.

What would Quincy think of him if she knew the things he’d done? Did he even deserve to touch her possessions, the items she’d once held in her hands with love and joy?

He trembled so hard his heart ached. Unable to resist a moment longer, Harlan clutched the bunny before scooping up a yellow baby blanket that had been folded beside it and held that close too.

He pressed the soft fabric against his cheek. Even through the musty smell of the blanket, he recalled the fruity and flowery scent of Quincy’s favorite shampoo, a mix of berries and lavender.

A sob caught in his throat, equal parts happiness and misery. Happiness because everything he remembered was right here—Quincy’s drawings, her favorite dolls, a small kite they once made together out of t-shirt fabric coated in sealing wax.

He could hardly believe his ex-wife had kept that. And that the psychopath he’d gotten involved with had gone in and stolen it from her home, using it to taunt him.

Sniffling, he stuffed everything down and folded the flaps of the box. Lifting it with his good hand, he braced the weight on his leg and hip as he stood.

Erik had to be upstairs. Whatever he wanted, Harlan would happily offer. As long as he could keep the box of Quincy’s memories, he’d kill a hundred people, cut off a thousand fingers. Nothing mattered as much as having a little piece of his daughter back, and Harlan would never again let anyone take her tangible memories from him.

He relaxed against the wall, his injured arm hanging limply at his side, the fiery ache from the wound radiating from his shoulder to his elbow. Just as he exhaled, trying to breathe out some of the pain, a click sounded from the top of the stairs, and the door above opened.

Erik stood there, silhouetted against light spilling in from the house behind him, a gun hanging loosely in his grip. “I’ll be damned.” He flipped on an overhead light and sauntered down a few steps, aiming the gun at Harlan’s face. Harlan recognized it as his own firearm.

Erik Waller was in his mid-twenties, tall with a slim build and floppy blond hair. His pale face was long and birdlike with an angular chin and big, dark eyes that light fell into like twin black holes.

Harlan couldn’t stand the sight of him.

“You found your box of goodies. I’m so proud of you.

How’s the arm, bro?”

“Hurts like hell.”

“Getting shot hurts.” Erik looked pointedly at his own leg. “I don’t recommend it.”

Harlan set down his daughter’s things and backed away from the box as Erik came forward. Stepping into the open area of the basement would give him more room to maneuver while protecting his injured arm. If he had to rush the man, he’d have the benefit of weight, years of police training, and an uninjured shoulder.

“What do you want, Erik?”

“What every man wants, of course. Money, fame, and a loving waifu.” When he spoke, spittle pooled at the corners of his heavy lips. “What did you tell the cops about me? I need to know what they know. Start talking.”

The gun tracked down to below Harlan’s belt.

He tensed his legs, knowing he could probably rush Erik and take him down. But with his aim centered on Harlan’s groin, that might mean taking a bullet in the leg, too close to the femoral artery.

Play along and see if you can get him to adjust his aim. The second that muzzle shifts, you move.

Erik scoffed. “I’m waiting, cheese dick. What’d you tell the Feds about me?”

Harlan glanced at the gun and reminded himself to pull his gaze back up. Watching an attacker’s face was always better than watching their hands.

“Who shot you?” Erik stalked closer and grinned knowingly, still holding his aim on Harlan’s crotch. “Was it Winter?”

Any talk of Winter seemed to please Erik, so Harlan refused to give him the satisfaction of any details. He shot a quick look at the box of Quincy’s things, and fat tears surfaced, wobbling in each eye.

“Thank you.” Harlan’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “Thank you for leaving that here for me.”

Erik’s face pinched. “What the hell you thanking me for? Bro, just tell me what the Feds know.”

“I didn’t tell them anything. They cuffed me, had me stitched up, and tried to take me to a third location…I recognized you. How’d you get in?”

“Shit, same way I got into your mom’s pants last night. Walked in the door and told them I owned the place. For real, bro, they only had one cop in the ambulance.”

“Where are we?”

“Somewhere and nowhere all at the same time.” Erik studied him. “You really didn’t say a word about me? Not to anyone?”

Harlan laughed, the sound almost genuine. “I wish I could say I had. All I remember is telling Davenport that I was sorry. And for him to tell Winter and Noah I was sorry.”

“Man, you are the weakest of weak sauce.” Erik pursed his full lips and mocked Harlan. “‘Ooo, wittle me is so sowwy. Pwease don’t hurt me, Mr. Powiceman.’ You’re the king of being beta bitchtastic if ever there was one. What’d that get you? Huh? What’d you get for letting them step all over your balls like that?”

Harlan stared down at the pink bunny’s fuzzy face. He could almost imagine the toy smiling at him, as if some part of Quincy were still alive and still saw value in him, despite what he’d done. “If you were a father, you’d understand.”

“Fathers suck. Trust me.”

“Yours did, and that’s why you’re like this. That’s why you hate everyone and everything.” Harlan knew which of Erik’s buttons to push too.

“You want to watch that mouth.”

“That sounds like something your dad used to say to you.”He knew for a fact that Erik’s father had mostly ignored him. With his mother dead, he’d been given money instead of love. The result of that upbringing was terrifying, the man in front of him living proof.

“I said shut your hole.”

The muzzle tracked upward from Harlan’s crotch.

Harlan leaned right, feinting briefly before launching himself at Erik, slamming him into the banister. The collision drove Erik’s injured left leg hard into the rough edge, and Harlan enjoyed a second of victory as Erik yelped, his leg twisting below the knee at an unnatural angle. Then a sound like fireworks exploded in Harlan’s ear.

That was all it was for a moment—just a sound that pulsed and echoed in the tiny chamber—as he and Erik stumbled together.

The fireworks exploded twice more. Pain erupted in Harlan’s gut both times, and he staggered back. His legs became pudding, and he collapsed on the stone floor. Roses of blood bloomed on his stomach. He lifted his hand, barely aware of the ache in his injured shoulder, and touched the wound.

Harlan’s fingers came away sticky.

Laughing, Erik kicked the box of Quincy’s things, and it skittered across the floor.

Harlan’s heart broke. “Quincy!”

“You fucked around, and you found out what happens to the non-player characters. You think you’re special?”

Harlan gazed at the silhouette of the cardboard box, everything in his heart aching to hold the little bunny and the fuzzy yellow blanket, bring them to his nose, rub them against his cheek.

Above him, Erik stood gloating and laughing. “Yo, you stupid NPC bitch. You know what I got planned for your precious box?” He turned his back and set his hands on his hips. “Light it up. Burn it to a crispy crisp.”

The gun barked again, and pain exploded in Harlan’s chest. His vision went blurry. He tried to reach for the bunny, just the one thing, but a thunder of shots rang out, freezing him in place as bullet after bullet pierced his flesh. Once, twice, and a third time, a fiery hammer slammed into his chest.

Blood flowed thick and hot from the holes in his body. He pressed weak hands over the wounds as blood pooled around them.

He thought of his children, the only markers of success he’d achieved in his miserable, wasted life, and he closed his heavy eyes hoping, though doubting, Quincy would be on the other side of this nightmare, waiting to take his hand.

Chapter Two

Winter Black-Dalton leaned against her Honda Pilot in a line of cars outside Austin-Bergstrom International. The rush and roar of planes overhead mixed with the bustle of travelers, their chatter, and rolling luggage.

A few feet away, Noah hugged his mother again and planted a kiss on top of her head. She was only a few inches shorter than him, which made her taller than ninety percent of all women, including Winter.

“Have a safe trip, Mama.” Noah yanked the pull bar up from her rolling suitcase and held it out. “Call me when you get home.”

Liv Alvarez cupped her son’s cheek and smiled, wrinkling the skin around her eyes. “I can always stay for an extra few days. I really don’t mind.”

“I’m gonna be fine. Besides, you gotta get back to your job. You’re out of PTO.”

She picked some speck of lint off his sleeve. “To heck with all that. My son needs me.”

“Your son still has ninety percent of his fingers and a hundred percent of his wife to help him. I’ll be fine. And your flight is in, like, two hours.”

“It just doesn’t feel right, leaving you two like this.” Liv looked at Winter with a soft expression. “You’ve been through hell. You deserve some pampering.

Winter laughed, remembering all the delicious meals Liv had prepared while in town. “You gave us plenty. Thank you.”

“But…” Noah’s mom cleared her throat, and her gaze floated to his left hand, which he’d stuffed into his pants pocket. “You haven’t even gotten the bandage off yet. Maybe I should just wait until you get your prosthetic.”

“I’m not even sure I’m gonna get one.” Noah rolled his eyes at the suggestion, as he’d done every time his mother or Winter or any doctor brought it up. “It’s just a finger. The only important thing it ever did was hold my jewelry. This little guy will just have to pick up the slack.” He took his hand from his pocket and did a few up-down calisthenics with his pinkie. “Exercising. One, two, three, four.”

“You’re being ridiculous and using humor to hide your pain. Don’t try to fool your mother.”

He lifted a dark brow with suspicion. “You doubt the power of my pinkie?”

Winter bit her lip and looked down at her dusty boots, feeling vaguely invisible. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he looks after himself.”

“I appreciate that. But who’s gonna look after you?”

Noah shoved his left hand back into his pocket. He never used to keep it there, but that seemed to be where it lived these days. The bruising on his face and neck had improved a lot, though yellow bags still clung under his eyes, and his nose was swollen. Considering what he’d been through—being hit by a car, kidnapped, drugged, and mutilated—he was recovering incredibly well.

“Oh, fine, you stubborn ox.” Liv met Winter’s eyes again. “Make sure he cleans the wound just like the doctor said.”

Winter smiled and nodded, stepping forward to receive her own goodbye hug.

Liv leaned in toward her ear. “If he gives you a hard time, call me, and I’ll set him right.”

“I know.” Winter gave her a final squeeze. She waited with the car while Noah wheeled Liv’s bag inside.

Winter walked around to the driver’s seat and slipped inside. Her phone pinged with a text from her best friend, Autumn Trent.

Hey girl! Is Noah doing any better?

Winter smiled at her phone, like she always did when Autumn checked in. He seems totally fine. Like nothing happened. I’m worried.

Autumn replied almost instantly. Why are men?

I think you mean *why are Marines?

Touché!

The car door popped open. As Noah slipped inside, Winter set her phone on the center console. “Do you think she’ll actually get on the plane?”

Noah clicked on his seat belt. “It’s out of my hands now. Which is a good thing, ’cause my grip ain’t what it used to be.”

She smiled for his sake. Noah had always had a strong affinity for gallows humor—again, Marines. But there’d been a strong uptick in morbid jokes lately. She wondered how many more finger puns he could possibly have left.

At least one more. Every damn time.

She merged into a slow line of cars and followed signs to the highway. It was mid-morning, no heavy traffic to worry about, and the sun was high enough in the sky that she could put up her visor and slip off her sunglasses. They drove without talking for a while, the radio playing softly.

Winter reached over and gave his arm a quick squeeze. “You doing okay?”

“Hmm?” Noah glanced at her. His dark-brown hair hung shaggy over his forehead, brushing his eyes. His beard had grown bushy on his heavy, square jaw too. “I’m good. Got everything in hand.”

She stifled a sigh.

“How are you?”

“Don’t try to flip the feelings questions on me. You haven’t said much about how you’ve been since we got you back home. I know you wanted to be tough for your mom, but you really don’t have to. It’s okay not to be okay. You know that, right?”

“This coming from you?” He leaned over and gave her a swift peck on the cheek. “I dunno, darlin’. If you must know…I’ve just had this weird feeling lately like something’s missing, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Hardy har har.”

Noah chuckled, and that had to be enough. He was handling the loss in his own way, just as she handled things in hers. The truth was she still hadn’t figured out how to melt the tension from her shoulders.

If or when the day came that Noah actually wanted to talk about what happened to him, she’d be there. Always.

“I have a present for you.” She reached into her jacket pocket and took out a small velvet pouch.

Noah reached over with his right hand—the one that still had five fingers. “What is it?”

“Don’t get excited. I got it back from Darnell yesterday. I wasn’t sure if you’d want to get it resized or…?”

He opened the pouch, and his wedding ring fell into his palm—a simple band of Damascus steel, acid-etched to show a stylized tree line, like winter reflecting in water. She’d threaded it onto a platinum filigree chain so he could wear it around his neck, seeing as the finger it was made for wasn’t around anymore.

Noah’s eyes grew soft and misty, just as they had the first time she’d given him that ring.

“The chain was Grandpa Jack’s. He caught me looking for chains online and gave me that one. I guess it belonged to my great-grandfather.”

“I honestly thought I’d never see it again.”

“I’m not going to let your wedding band rot in an evidence locker. I told Darnell I’d sneak in and burgle the place in the middle of the night if he didn’t give it back.”

“And he believed you?”

“He gave me the ring back.” Winter flashed a guilty grin. “I love you so much.”

“I know.”

She scoffed. “Okay, Han Solo. I’m gonna slap you.”

“I love you too.” Noah laughed and grinned like the Cheshire Cat. “Actually, I’m obsessed with you. It’s weird.”

He put his arm over her shoulder and kissed her neck. Winter’s insides were tingling in the most pleasant possible way when her phone rang in the dashboard mount.

“It’s Eve.” She angled the screen toward Noah and accepted the call.

“Hey, Taggart. What’s up?”

“Dalton? I didn’t know they let you out at this time of day. Where’s Winter?” Eve’s voice was still a bit scratchy. Yet another aftereffect of Harlan Lessner’s attempt to murder Noah in the hospital. He’d nearly strangled Eve to death—bashing her head against the floor multiple times to speed up the process—before he pulled a gun on Noah just as Winter barreled in and stopped him.

Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, Winter waved her free hand in front of the phone camera. “I’m here, Eve.”

“Great. Swing by my office.”

“Now?”

“I mean, unless you don’t want me to tell you everything I’ve learned about Erik Waller since we talked three days ago.”

“Erik who now?”

Eve snorted. “Erik Saulson’s real last name is Waller. Really for real, not just another alias. Now, are you going to come talk to me or not?”

“Already headed in your direction, babe.”

“Grab me a coffee?”

“Done.” Winter hung up and bit her lip. “I can’t help thinking Erik must have a stronger connection to Justin than just being one of his useless fans.”

Noah furrowed his brow. “Why do you say that?”

“I talked to Autumn about him last night while you were asleep.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“We ended up talking about that guy on death row who’s become so internet famous with all the women lusting over him.”

Noah’s head fell back against the headrest hard, as if disgust and disappointment in general humanity had broken every bone in his neck. “Lord have mercy. It’s Beauty and the Beast.”

“What?”

“Beauty and the Beast. Women who feel threatened by men, whether subconsciously or not, can think monsters are sexy.”

“I wonder what Autumn would think of your theory.”

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to tear it apart and explain why I don’t know what I’m talking about. What else did Autumn say about Erik?”

Winter flipped down the visor as their path of travel put them facing the sun. “She said a lot of men engage in hero worship, even and often especially if the hero is violent. Such men choose cruel and violent individuals as idols because that was how their first idol, their father, behaved toward them.”

“She’s thinking Erik carries around resentment and has misogynistic tendencies because his father was abusive and his mother wasn’t around to give him love and affection.”

“Pretty much.”

“It’s always the parents’ fault, eh? Makes you wonder why anybody ever has kids.”

Winter grunted her agreement. “Erik might look at Justin, and maybe others like him, as a surrogate father figure…one that gives him permission to act on the violent impulses society has told him to resist and keep buried his whole life.”

“I wonder if Justin and Erik ever met each other. Not just online, but in person.”

She shrugged, but only to suppress a shiver. She could easily find out the answer to that question. The idea had been nagging at her like an earworm. Until Erik was behind bars, neither she nor her husband would be able to fully relax and recover from what he’d already put them through. Every moment he was free, they were in danger, as were all his future victims.

Winter needed to catch him fast, and she was willing to do whatever it took. Even if that meant making herself vulnerable to an even more hideous monster.