Another song. More movement. She blinked to see broad hands on a steering wheel. Somebody whistled with the radio. She fought to stay awake, but she fell again.
She jerked awake. How much time had passed?
The air chilled her, and her eyelids struggled to open against some type of cloth. Fear slammed through her, and she bit her lip to keep from screaming. She sat on what felt like a sofa with her hands tied behind her back and a blindfold covering her eyes. A fire crackled and provided heat in front of her.
Memories of the attack flashed through her mind in rapid succession. God. Was Heath all right? He’d been blown across the room. What about Denver? Tears pricked her eyes, and she willed them back. She had to think. It had to be the Copper Killer. Or maybe it was Cobb and that crazy doctor who’d created Heath. But why would they take her? No, it had to be the killer.
Her nerves turned raw. Where was he? Terror filled her. She opened her mouth and screamed.
A large male hand clamped over her mouth hard enough so she couldn’t bite. Her jaw protested, and pain slashed into her temples. When she stopped trying to scream, her heart ramming her rib cage, he removed his hand. “Scream again, and I’ll cut out your tongue.”
She whimpered.
“I like that sound.” He spoke near her ear, his voice low.
She tried to focus past the blood rushing through her head. Did she recognize his voice? Maybe a little? “Wh-what do you want?” she asked.
He chuckled. “I think you know.”
She swallowed. “Why am I blindfolded?” That hadn’t been in any of the reports.
“I find it enhances the experience,” he said, moving away from her.
Chilled air swept around her. Terror caught her in such a strong grip her limbs felt frozen. Her entire body shuddered.
Pots and pans clanked over in what sounded like a kitchen. She quickly took inventory, noting she was still wearing her jeans and sweater, although he’d taken her socks and shoes. She curled her toes into a roped rug. When did he put the women in the burlap? Static buzzed through her brain. Concentrate. She had to get him talking. “What kind of gas knocked me out?” she asked.
“A special concoction,” he said. Another pot clanked. “I hope you like steak.”
Should she say yes or no? Criminal psychology textbooks didn’t account for pure terror. “If I don’t, would you let me go? Find somebody who does appreciate a good steak?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“No.” His voice was at her ear again.
She yelped and tried to jump away from him.
He squeezed her shoulder. “I like that you talked to me through the news people. It’s as if you also knew we belonged together.”
She shivered. “How do you move without making a sound?”
“Maybe you’re not listening well enough.” He released her.
She tilted her head but couldn’t hear anything. A second later, more noise came from the kitchen area. “My name is Anya.” Didn’t she read somewhere that personalizing oneself to a killer might forge some sort of connection?
“I know.” The sound of chopping emerged next.
“I know you know. We’ve met.” A scream rose up inside her, and she ruthlessly shoved it down. He had a knife. But he was just making dinner. “Right?”
“You know we have.” He chuckled.
God. Who the hell was he? “Are we having salad?” she asked, trying to balance the conversation with politeness.
“Of course,” he replied. “Anya is such a pretty name. As is Loretta.”
Pain filled Anya’s chest. “Why did you kill her?” she asked, her voice breaking. More fear swept ice through her. This man had killed her sister. Her trained, tough, kind, FBI agent sister.
“Because she wasn’t the one,” he said, his voice catching.
God, when had she met him? Shouldn’t she recognize his voice? “Why me?”
