The sheriff’s department.
That was where Malone would surface. The man was too consumed by the investigation to stay hidden for long. George could wait, watch, and follow him when he showed.
A smile crept across his face as the pieces began sliding into place. Yes. That would work.
But first, he needed something to occupy his hands. The urge had been building for days, pressing at him from beneath the surface, demanding release. He needed a new canvas. A new subject to transform into something beautiful.
And if he placed his next masterpiece in the right location...
George’s pulse quickened, his eyes narrowing as the answer snapped into focus.
“That’s it! That’s how to lure him back into the open!” The words filled the car, sharp with triumph.
He let out a low laugh and turned toward home, the frustration that had followed him for three days giving way to anticipation. He was off the next day and would have all the time he needed to prepare.
There were plans to make, details to arrange, and a woman somewhere who had no idea her final hours were already taking shape.
For the first time in days, everything felt as though it was falling into place.
“How does that feel?”
Sean let his eyes drift shut as Grace worked her hands across the battered muscles of his back and shoulder. The faint scent of eucalyptus drifted from the steamer in the corner, mingling with the sharp menthol smell of therapeutic creams that clung to Pro-Care.
“Hmmm.” A low groan slipped out as her fingers found a knot near his shoulder blade. “Like heaven.”
She shifted her hands. “There?”
He let out a slow breath and tipped his head forward. “If your hands were on me all day, I’d be a happy man.”
Her laugh drew a grin from him as she kept kneading the sore muscles along his back. “You’re impossible. My first patients are due any moment, and I’m not getting blamed if you show up late to work because you talked me into an extra half hour.”
“Ha! Fair enough.” Reaching back with his good arm, he gave her hip a quick squeeze. “Still think I should file a formal request for extended treatment.”
“There’s a waiting list, Special Agent Malone.”
“There better not be.”
The front door opened, and Tim Koppel stepped into the clinic with two patients trailing behind him. Sean glanced at the clock on the wall—it was a few minutes before eight. Once Grace finished working on his shoulder, he’d head straight to the sheriff’s department. Being sidelined these past few days had grated on him more than the bruises and road rash. Brian and the others had kept him informed, but until the orthopedist signed his health release yesterday afternoon, agency policy had kept him benched.
Tim helped an older man onto one of the therapy tables and looked over. “How’re you feeling, Sean?”
“Great. Got the best physical therapist there is working on me.”
Grace shot him an amused look before crossing to the steamer. She retrieved a moist heating pad and draped it over his shoulder, drawing a relieved breath from him. “Not that he’s biased at all.”
“No, not at all,” Tim agreed with a smile before turning his attention to his patient.
Sean had already filled the therapist in on everything that had happened. Knowing Tim was there helped. Between him, Uncle Dan right across the street, and the steady stream of patients moving through the clinic all day, Grace was as protected as she could be without Sean posting armed guards at every entrance. The thought had crossed his mind more than once, and that alone irritated him. He knew better than to let fear dictate strategy.
As Grace moved to prepare the other patient’s station, his cell phone buzzed beside his head on the padded table. Seeing Brian’s name on the screen, he grabbed it and answered. “Hey, bro.”
“Where are you?”
The strain in Brian’s voice sent Sean upright on the table. “I’m at Grace’s PT clinic and almost done. Heading to the sheriff’s department in a few. What’s wrong?”
“Don’t bother going to HQ. Meet me at the beach house as soon as you can.”
Sean yanked the heating pad from his shoulder and swung his legs over the side of the table. “The beach house? Why?”
