Prologue
He didn’t feel late January’s bite, even though he sank to his knees in the thick snow. Instead, the sparking thrill of anticipation poured through his veins with the heat of a first love. Oh, the woman in the desolate cabin was neither his love nor his first, but for now, she was his purpose.
For weeks, she’d been his sole focus, and now he could wait no longer. Dreaming about her wasn’t enough. He knew how to calm the rage inside him. Finally, he’d learned, and it was all so clear. He had been shown the way.
Now he knew his purpose and could be whole.
Another siren’s song whispered on the frigid wind, and he’d already left her his calling card, which meant a new project had begun. Although he did like to have one or two projects going at a time, it was time to end this one.
She’d cheated him out of what he needed, and she had to pay for that. She’d completely deserted him and the life they could’ve had. She hadn’t even said good-bye. Out in the middle of nowhere, she’d thought she could hide from him? Avoid the roles they both needed to play? The lover’s presents he’d planned to shower upon her had been irrelevant to her—and she must have known he’d made plans.
He had meant nothing to her.
He’d found her hiding place, and then he’d played a little. Leaving her an oddity here, a scary sign there. Just enough to have her catching her breath and then convincing herself that she was imagining things in the middle of nowhere. He was smarter than she was, and it was time she realized that fact. Not only smarter, but more powerful.
Life was about power, was it not? He’d learned that the hard way.
Darkness hung heavily above the mountains as another winter storm punished the trees. Brutal snow pummeled the over-loaded branches and assaulted the ice shielding the creek. His woman, for right now she was his, always emerged about this time to trudge around a series of rocks to the primitive outhouse. He had opened the door one night and poured water on the hinges.
How she’d struggled to shut the door the following morning.
He’d watched from a vantage point across the creek, nearly doubling over with silent laughter. When she’d given up the fight and just used the toilet, he’d snapped pictures with his long-range lens. His groin tightened at the memory.
It was amusing she thought she could hide from him. Oh, she was smart enough to cower where she couldn’t be traced—unless somebody had put a tracker on her vehicle. When she’d left her compact to drive an enclosed side-by-side with tracks from the deserted public boat launch, he’d been on her tail already, easily following her trail to this hideaway.
He wasn’t a god, but to her, he might as well be.
His gaze caught on an ax beneath an eave near a covered pile of wood.
That would do.
Chapter One
The victim’s hands had been removed—most likely with the ax left leaning against an ice-covered pine tree. Her wrists were bloody stumps resting on cut logs, which the killer must’ve used to position the flesh for his strike. Perfectly preserved, burgundy-colored flowers littered the ground in every direction around the body, several petals frozen solid to rocks at the edge of the ice-encrusted river. Their stark color leeched into the white snow, creating icy pools of frozen blood.
The victim was female and naked, her flesh frozen to a grayish-blue hue, her facial structure shattered beyond recognition. Blood marred the snow all around her. The techs had worked all morning to gently uncover her and the surrounding area without causing damage.
Laurel Snow crouched on the craggy bank of Witch Creek, a hidden tributary of the Sauk River in northern Washington State. Icy snow clung to her knit hat and pinged off her snow boots. “There’s not enough blood here. The mutilations happened post-mortem,” she murmured, looking up at FBI Agent Walter Smudgeon, who had bent to study the ax.
He straightened. “Not much blood on the ax.” He turned, his wide cheeks ruddy, his belly hanging over his belt. “Broken face and stolen hands. Somebody definitely wanted to keep her from being identified.”
Laurel scrutinized the ligature marks around the woman’s neck. “She was strangled. We’ll know more after the autopsy.” She studied the woman’s hair, which was black with a clear demarcation of gray—maybe three or even four weeks’ worth. “She was due for a hair appointment.”
“What does that mean?” Walter wheezed.
Laurel stood. “I’m not sure.” Her phone buzzed from her pocket, and she ignored the caller. Again.
“What’s with the flowers?” Walter asked.
“It’s interesting,” Laurel said, the wind burning the exposed skin on her face and ears. “I think these are black dahlias.”
“Black? Those are red,” Walter said, pulling his winter coat lower to cover his wide belly, his jowls moving as he spoke.
“They’re burgundy colored, and I believe they’re black dahlias,” Laurel repeated, a sense of isolation cutting through her, even as state crime scene personnel worked efficiently around her. She tilted her head toward Captain Monty Buckley, who was photographing the petals closer to the creek. “Did you find the personal locator beacon?”
The victim had activated the PLB, which sent a distress call through satellite to emergency services around midnight the night before, but searchers had to wait until light because of the devastating snowstorm that had only just abated. The second search team had found the body, which had already been mostly covered with snow and ice, except for her feet, which lay in the moving creek, shoved carelessly beneath a jagged layer of ice.
Monty looked up, his eyes blue and his hair a silvery gray that was turning more white from his recent cancer treatments. “Not yet.” He surveyed the snow still gently falling to cover the earth in every direction. “It’s a long shot that we’ll find it at all.” He grimaced at the flowers. “What’s up with the red petals? Some symbolic thing?”
