“Fuck no.” Ryker took a rock and threw it across the dirt.
Heath’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah. I kinda figured that.”
Ryker cocked his head. “I’m leaving as soon as I can.”
Heath’s knees wobbled. “Maybe I could come with you?” The two of them would be stronger together.
The boy studied him as if he could peel Heath’s skin back and see all the way to his bones. Finally, Ryker nodded. “Are you a dickhead who tortures animals?” he asked, jerking his head toward the bigger boys.
Heath breathed out, his lungs finally relaxing. “No. Like the kitten yesterday, I try to save ’em.” It seemed like Ryker needed to be saved a little. Maybe they could be friends. If nothing else, they could cover each other’s backs. “You?”
“I don’t torture, butsavingseems a waste of time.” Ryker’s mouth turned down.
Heath leaned against the shiny car. His chest puffed out. He could help Ryker get the hell out of this place. Maybe not be so alone. Then Ryker could help him find the dick who’d killed his mom.
The bruises on Ryker made Heath’s stomach clench again. They would survive. He’d make sure of it. “It’s gonna be okay, Ryker. I promise.”
The dog yelped from a bigger boy throwing a rock at its legs. Heath’s body heated, and he pushed away from the vehicle.
“Where are you going?” Ryker asked.
“To save the dog.”
CHAPTER
1
Present day
Pictures of dead girls lined the east wall of the small home office, their eyes somehow accusatory. Anya Best paced the new carpet in the temporary apartment in Snowville, Washington, trying to avoid looking at the faces. On the west wall, a corkboard held the layout for an article she was writing on the criminal mind and how it related to social media. Being on sabbatical from her job as a professor should have made it easy to write. The other wall held a murder board. Pictures of viciously killed redheads with neatly typed notes beneath each victim. She’d profiled their killer, but it was their faces that haunted her at night.
They all looked a little like her. Red hair, youngish, bright eyed. Before they had been strangled to death.
Her cell phone rang from the makeshift desk, and she jumped for it. “Hello?” she asked breathlessly. Was her sister finally checking in?
A male voice cleared. “Is this Anya?”
She drew up, her breath heating. It wasn’t Loretta. Her temples thrummed. “Who is this?”
“Heath Jones of Lost Bastards Investigative Services. We met briefly last week in Salt Lake when I, ah, collaborated on the Copper Killer case with Loretta.” His voice was low and authoritative. Smooth and deep.
She exhaled. “Right. I remember.” She and Loretta had been in Salt Lake with the serial killer task force, tracking down a lead. Another missing girl. “How did you get my number?” Heath had spent an hour with Loretta, who was a special agent with the FBI, and they’d compared notes. Anya had been working in the other room.
“I’m a P.I. We get numbers,” he said, the tone lacking humor.
“Oh.” Anya swallowed and turned away from the murder board. “Loretta isn’t here.”
Silence. “Ah, what do you mean?” he asked, his tone dropping. Tension slammed through the line.
“She’s undercover and has been for nearly two days.” Anya should probably be watching her words, but Loretta had trusted the guy, at least a little. “Do you have any updates on the case? I’ve been profiling the killer and could use any new information.” She didn’t reveal the rest of her involvement.
“You’re, ah, a profiler?” he asked, almost as if gathering his thoughts.
She frowned. “Criminal psychologist.” Sure, she just taught at the college, but she had the skills and knowledge. She’d been forced to use them.
He was silent longer this time.
“Mr. Jones?” What in the world was going on? She’d met Heath only once, very quickly, but she remembered him well. Tall with broad shoulders wide enough to play professional football. Stunning green eyes with gold flecks, and an intensity that had given her pause. Danger.
