Maverick Callahan.
The name alluded to rough nights of passion and wild kisses in the moonlight. Standing against a palm tree with his arms crossed, the light breeze tousling his shoulder-length whiskey-colored hair, he was the epitome of male perfection.
Plus, an excellent representation for the book’s hero.
Rough and tumble.
Refusing to take shit from anyone.
Savoring acts of violence.
And finalizing the dirty deed by catching the violent criminal red-handed.
With a little blood sprinkled in for good measure.
Exhaling, I gingerly placed the book on the coffee table, brought out of my sweet moment of reverie by another clap of thunder. So much for fantasies.
I continued tearing through the house while the television in my kitchen blared on with the morning news. Why the hell was the man’s deep voice thumping in my brain? Okay, not thumping exactly, but smashing together like two huge cymbals. Oh, my God, my head was killing me.
Why, oh, why did I start my workweek by turning on one of the local stations? There were never any happy stories. No hot firefighters rescuing puppies from a burning house or some swoony cop flying in to save a damsel in distress on the side of a dark, foreboding road the night before. Death and criminal activity. That’s what I was used to hearing.
As I flew into the kitchen, fluffing my curls with my fingers as I did, the next morning news story proved my point.
“The Miami-Dade police have widened their search for Ashley Boudreaux, an attorney from Rogers, Wilkins, and Jacoby, who’s now been missing for almost two weeks.”
“See?” I said out loud, pointing to the small flat screen. I quickly read the corresponding information about the situation scrolling across the bottom. The attorney was a responsible human being, had never simply left without telling anyone where she was going. She didn’t take her phone with her.
Blah. Blah. Blah.
If you asked me, from the way her boyfriend was showing off his crocodile tears, I’d say he should be the number one suspect.
Sighing, I was just about to grab the remote when something shiny caught my eye.
Oh, thank God.
With a hard lunge, I had the keyring in my hand, already mentally chastising myself. Of course they were right by my purse, both tossed onto the counter mere moments after I’d arrived home. All I’d cared about at the time was kicking off my shoes, putting away the few groceries, and cracking open the bottle of wine.
All of which I’d done in record time.
Now I had to get my ass in gear. With my purse slung over my shoulder, I took long strides, snagging the remote. Just before I pressed the ‘off’ button, another story popped on the screen.
An instant lump formed in my throat.
Where the sound of the television had been overwhelmingly and painfully loud before, I smashed my finger on the up button, bringing the sound to just below an explosive level.
“In breaking news, Samuel Wells, known throughout South Florida as the Python Killer has been scheduled for execution two weeks from this Thursday. At this point, without the governor issuing a stay, the act will be carried through on the scheduled date. You might remember the case from over thirteen years ago. Mr. Wells was tried and convicted of kidnapping, torturing, and killing twelve young women all under the age of eighteen.”
One reporter turned to the other morning anchor, nodding as the man finished his statement.
I was forced to grip the edge of the counter, my legs shaking.
“From what I understand, the governor currently has no plans to intervene. This was quite a disturbing case for all Floridians,” the male anchor continued.
The periphery of my vision began to fade.
“I remember the story, John. When the story broke, the killer finally caught, it was my first week here at the station. At the time it seemed everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Those poor girls who were taken and killed. I can’t imagine. I have a daughter that age and it’s crazy to realize how precious life truly is. Thank goodness he was captured.”
“Yes, and by a lone FBI agent and his canine companion. From what I remember, his heroic deed wasn’t well received by his agency.”
