She bit her lip. “You should worry more about your career, considering you just slept with a nineteen-year-old student. Your student. We’re done.” Slamming the door in his face, she leaned against it. Tears prickled in her eyes. “Jerk,” she whispered.
“I’ll call you tomorrow. We’re not done,” he said through the door.
The man was crazy. Tripping over her suitcase, she moved through her front hall to her wide kitchen with its cheerful whitewashed cupboards and granite countertops. Dust and a sense of emptiness surrounded her. God, she had to have some wine somewhere. She dug through the cupboards and drew out a bottle of Shiraz. Perfect. Opening it took a second, pouring a few more, and by then, she decided to get over Carl the asshat and now.
She took a deep gulp. Spice and warmth exploded in her stomach.
Her living room stretched before her, the leather furniture and bright pillows welcoming her home to her bachelorette pad. She’d always be alone. Her heart ached. A picture taken of her with her father around her seventeenth birthday caught her eye. He’d received a commendation for stopping a robbery and stood so proudly next to her in his police uniform, his strong arm over her shoulder, his green eyes a perfect match for hers. “I am never going to find a man like you,” she murmured, letting the room blur for a moment.
What she wouldn’t give to be able to call him right now. Of course, if he were still alive, he’d drive to her small Washington coastal town and beat the shit out of Carl. The thought made her smile.
She eyed the round table in the wide nook, piled high with magazines and mail. Mrs. Polansky from next door had done a good job of sorting it all into piles.
With another gulp, Anya strode toward the table and sat. With ten months still to go on her research project, she would give anything to be able to return to teaching the next day. To get on with her life without Carl. She angrily shoved away tears.
She took the mail and organized it further, into garbage, somewhat interesting stuff, and bills she’d already paid online.
Four envelopes—the regular white kind—caught her eye. Her name and address were scrawled in strong handwriting across them. No return address.
She frowned and pushed the wineglass away. Then she opened the top letter.
A picture fell out.
Squinting, she lifted the snapshot to the light. A girl of about eighteen looked into the camera. Tears filled her pretty blue eyes, and her long red hair was splayed over her shoulders. What in the world? Chills clacked down Anya’s arms.
She reached for the letter to unfold and read it. The scent of lavender filtered around her.
Dear Anya,
This girl tried to be you, to make us, and she failed. Nobody can be you. I’m afraid she’ll have to be punished.
XO
Me
Anya’s stomach roiled. “Punished”? Was this some kind of sick joke? She grabbed another envelope and ripped it open. Another photograph spilled out. This one was of another redhead, who appeared to be in her midtwenties with brown eyes. Tears glimmered on her face, too.
Dear Anya,
Did you like my last present? I haven’t heard from you, but that’s okay. We’ll have plenty to talk about soon. This girl also tried to be you . . . she tried so hard. But she failed as well. Her death is deserved. They’re calling me the Copper Killer now. How cute is that? Until we meet in person, my love.
XO
Me
The psychologist in Anya roared to the forefront. Either this was an incredibly sick joke or something horrible was going on. Her hand shook as she reached for the third envelope. She bit back a scream when the picture fell out.
A totally different redhead looked blindly at the camera, her eyes dead, her mangled neck bruised.
Anya cried out as she stood and shoved away from the table, falling against the edge of the counter. Her hands shook. That quickly, her gaze caught on the stack of newspapers next to the mail. The top headline read: COPPERKILLERTAKESANOTHERLIFE.
Oh God. She backed out of the kitchen, her hands trembling, her breath panting. What was happening? She looked wildly around the quiet apartment. Help. She needed help. So she turned and ran for the room she used as an office, flipped through her address book, and quickly dialed.
“Special Agent Jackson,” her half sister answered with authority.
“Loretta?” Anya breathed, tears sliding down her face. Her entire body had gone cold. “Loretta?”
“Yes? Anya?”
