Duke met her gaze. “Not unless we’re somehow connected to it.”
Her brow furrowed. “Let’s talk that out.”
“What if this is someone you helped put behind bars? Or someone I crossed paths with? Or a case we worked—together or separately—that didn’t end the way someone wanted?”
Andi nodded slowly. “If we can figure out that connection, maybe we can figure out who’s doing this.”
“Exactly.”
She took a breath, steadying herself, then squared her shoulders. “But right now, we need to find Kate. If this man grabbed her then we don’t have much time. At least, that’s what my gut’s telling me.”
Duke didn’t argue.
He trusted his instincts. And right now, every one of them was telling him the same thing.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t circling them anymore.
The person behind these crimes had already locked in on his team, and they were also in danger.
CHAPTER
FORTY-THREE
Darkness pressedin on Kate from every direction.
She sat on a cold concrete floor, knees drawn to her chest, arms wrapped around herself for warmth as much as comfort. The air smelled damp. Earthy. Old. Somewhere above her, something hummed faintly—pipes, maybe. Or a furnace cycling on and off.
A basement, she assumed. She couldn’t see anything without a speck of light in the space.
She didn’t know where she was. Only that it wasn’t LA. The air felt wrong for that. Too cool. Too still.
Her wrists ached. They were still bound and sore. The circulation was cut off just enough to hurt. Her ankle throbbed where she’d twisted it trying to pull away.
She squeezed her eyes shut, and memories of her abduction surged forward, sharp and unwanted.
It had started with the showing.
The man had emailed her late that afternoon, apologetic about the timing, explaining that his schedule made evenings easier. She almost said no—she usually did. Night showings were a line she tried not to cross alone.
But the house was different.
A newly renovated craftsman in a quiet neighborhood. Good lighting. Clean lines. The kind of listing that meant a solid commission. And he’d sent over his preapproval letter without being asked—legitimate, thorough, from a lender she recognized. He could afford it. He was serious.
So she’d agreed. Just this once.
When she arrived, the house was already unlocked, porch light glowing warmly against the dusk. She remembered thinking how peaceful it looked—how quiet the street was. Too quiet, in hindsight.
She hadn’t even made it past the entryway.
The man came up behind her so silently she never heard him approach. One moment she was flipping on a light, the next there was a presence at her back—too close, too sudden.
Her breath hitched.
Then the pressure.
A hand clamped over her mouth, rough and unyielding, forcing a chemical-soaked rag against her face. The smell hit first—sharp, bitter, wrong—and then the world tilted.
He didn’t hold it there long enough to knock her out completely.
