I can’t do this.

  Brynn presses a trembling hand against her lower stomach.

  She doesn’t care about Quincy’s trap, or the police catching the killer, or having to live with the consequences if they don’t.

  At this moment, all she cares about is her baby.

  The damned cop isn’t answering her pleas, and she can’t even use her cell phone to call for help.

  I have to get out of here. I have to get to a doctor.

  She abruptly turns to flee—and screams.

  Unmistakably outlined in the door’s glass pane is the figure of someone looming on the porch, watching her.

  Parked in the deserted lot of a bait-and-tackle shop that’s been boarded up for winter, Quincy stares at the crackling two-way radio in his hand and bites out a curse.

  “Still no response up there. Something’s wrong,” he tells Connelly, standing just outside the car in the rain, training a pair of binoculars on the mountainside in a futile effort to see something.

  “What do you want to do, then? Go up?”

  “I don’t know.” Quincy’s stomach burns as this morning’s acrid coffee mingles with his growing uneasiness about Brynn Saddler.

  For a long moment, Quincy stares through the windshield, gazing up at the forested incline now mostly obscured by low-hanging clouds and wisps of mist.

  Somewhere up there, he believes, an unwitting Brynn Saddler is vulnerable and unprotected.

  But if you and Connelly go barreling up there, and everything is fine, and it’s just a communications problem because of the terrain or the weather or whatever—

  Then he’ll have tipped his hand.

  And enable Rachel Lorent, if she’s lurking nearby, to escape.

  But if you don’t get your ass up there right now and check things out…

  Brynn trusted him. He can’t let anything happen to her.

  Quincy jerks his head toward the mountain in a decisive nod. “Let’s go.”

  “Who’s there?” a voice demands, as the key turns in the lock.

  But it isn’t Rachel’s voice, Brynn realizes.

  No, it’s a man’s.

  A cop…It might be one of the cops. It must be. Because a stalking serial killer wouldn’t be asking who’s in here; he would know.

  Nonetheless Brynn instinctively backs away in dread, both hands splayed against her abdomen as if to shield her unborn child.

  “Brynn?”

  The door opens…

  And she recognizes his voice in the split second before she sees him.

  Patrick Hagan.

  Thank God.

  Her knees sag in relief as they stare at each other.

  Pat is wearing a red and black checked wool jacket, jeans, boots. His hair is sprinkled with droplets of rain. He blinks at her in confusion.

  “I thought that was your car,” he says, shaking his head like a wet puppy and rubbing a hand through his damp hair. “What are you doing here?”

  “Fee said I could use the cabin whenever I wanted,” is her lame reply.

  She watches a frown begin to cross Pat’s face, only to be chased away by a flash of remembrance.

  He forgot she was dead,Brynn realizes.

  For a second there, Pat was obviously annoyed with his ex-wife’s open invitation to their shared property.

  Now, however, he’s shrugging and offering a slightly sheepish grin.

  “I’m glad you took her up on it, then,” he says graciously. “I’m the only one who ever comes up here—it’s kind of nice to have some company for a change. Hey, I brought donuts.”

  She realizes he’s holding a white paper bag in one hand, a take-out cup of coffee in the other.

  Brynn shakes her head, still trying to reconcile her relief at the ordinariness of Pat’s intrusion with the stark terror of the last few minutes.

  “Are you sure? I’ve got glazed and—”

  “Pat, listen, I need you to help me. This isn’t going to make any sense at all, but…”

  “Are you okay, Brynn?”

  “No.” Her voice breaks. “I’m not okay. I have to get out of here.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m pregnant…and I’m bleeding.”

  His jaw drops and he starts toward her. “Sit down. I’ll get you some—”

  “No, Pat, I can’t stay here. We can’t stay here. There’s something…” She gestures helplessly at the floor in front of the closet door. “Do you see that stain? What is it? Paint or something? Has it always been there?”

  She watches his gaze drop to the floor, sees him frown. “No, I don’t know what that is.”

  He strides toward the door, jerks it open, and stiffens.

  “What is it?” Brynn asks, somehow knowing that her worst suspicion has just been confirmed.

  It was blood.

  Pat turns away and she sees his stunned expression.

  With a muttered oath he grabs her arm, pulling her toward the door. “We have to get the hell out of here, Brynn. Come on.”

  “Is it…Is someone…in there?” she manages to whimper as she allows Pat to propel her across the porch, down the steps through the rain to his Jeep.

  “Hell, yes.” Pat is breathing hard, his hand clenched almost painfully on her upper arm. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here before—”

  He doesn’t finish the sentence, opening the door and practically tossing her into the passenger’s seat, looking over his shoulder at the cabin as though someone is going to come after them.

  Brynn follows his apprehensive gaze. The porch is empty.

  Then she shifts her eyes toward the woods where, she now senses, Quincy’s men lie among the wet, fallen leaves like the discarded prey of a still-circling vulture.

  Ashley forgot her backpack in Aunt Dee’s car.

  She probably should have said something when they came out of the restaurant after breakfast and Aunt Dee casually tossed it from the floor of the front seat into the backseat.

  Mom never would have done that. She would have known Ashley would forget it if she couldn’t see it.

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  Oh, well, she thinks, heading toward the cafeteria. Sister Mary Joseph gave her money so she’ll be able to buy lunch, and the other teachers told her not to worry about not having her folders, notes, or textbooks.

  Everyone is being so nice to Ashley today.

  They feel sorry for me,she knows, and wonders how long it’s going to last.

  Will anyone ever treat her like a regular person again?

  All this coddling kindness is making her miss her mother all the more.

  What Ashley wouldn’t give to hear her say, “Pull your hair forward a little, Ash. And stand up straight.”

  But, she keeps reminding herself, she’ll never hear Mom’s voice again.

  Pat speeds away from the cabin as though they’re being chased, keeping one eye on the rearview mirror. The tires catapult gravel along the sides of the road; the wipers beat a steady rhythm on the windshield to keep the downpour at bay.

  Huddled in the passenger’s seat, still reeling, still clutching her stomach, Brynn realizes she left her purse behind. And no way is she going back for it.

  “Do you have a phone?” she asks Pat, who shakes his head.

  Dammit. Hers was in her purse.

  “We have to stop somewhere and call Quincy.”

  “Who?”

  “The police,” she clarifies. “That person…the one in the closet…He was a cop.”

  “What?” Pat shakes his head. “No, he wasn’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He wasn’t wearing a uniform.”

  “He wouldn’t have been. He was undercover, there to protect me.” She shifts her weight in the seat and wonders if she’s still spotting.

  “What are you talking about, Brynn?” Pat takes a hard curve too quickly; the tires make a high-pitched squealing sound on the wet pavement as, cursing, he swerves to avoid an oncoming car.

  “That guy is flying,” he mutters, shaking his head. “What were you saying, Brynn?”

  “I’ll explain everything later. Just drive,” she murmurs, still trembling, and not just from the close call on the curve. “Don’t stop anywhere; we’ll call when we get to town.”

  Nodding grimly, Pat presses the gas pedal a little harder, putting more and more distance between them and the cabin.

  Sinking onto the cabin’s steps, Quincy buries his head in his hands as Connelly tersely radios for backup.

  The young cop lying face down on the closet floor had his throat slit so forcefully he was almost decapitated.

  The same thing happened to the two who were concealed in the woods. Large footprints in the mud showed that somebody crept up on each of them and attacked from behind before they knew what hit them; no sign of a struggle. Their necks were probably sliced open before they could make a sound.

  The security detail he promised Brynn Saddler was wiped out just like that: one, two, three. Gone.

  And so is Brynn herself.

  Quincy was certain they would find her body. Her car is parked right here; her purse is in the cabin. But there is no Brynn, mutilated and wearing a pink party hat. No cake, no party decorations, no gift box.

  Thank God.

  Still…

  Quincy is certain she’s not safe and sound. No, she wouldn’t wander off without her purse—without hercar . She must be here somewhere.

  With Rachel.

  Or…

  Suddenly, he remembers the Jeep that came barreling recklessly around that curve before, on the way up here. Somebody was hell-bent to get down the mountain.

  Back to Cedar Crest.

  And those footprints in the woods…

  They were made by boots—not necessarily a man’s, but still too big for a woman affectionately described by her brother as “a tiny little thing.”

  Quincy stares unseeingly at the oppressive forest surrounding the cabin, his stomach burning as he realizes that, for the first time in a long career, his gut instinct might have been wrong.

  “Wait, where are you going?” Brynn asks Pat as he turns down Tamarack Lane.

  “I’m taking you home.” He glances at her, touching the brakes to slow the Jeep. “No?”

  She shakes her head. “I need to get to a doctor, or the hospital.”

  “I thought you wanted to call the police.”

  “I do. All right,” she decides swiftly, “We’ll stop at my house, I’ll call them, I’ll call my doctor, and…”

  And I have to call Garth. What happened last night doesn’t matter anymore.

  I need him to know about the baby…

  Before I lose it.

  I need him with me. No matter what he did ten years ago. He’s right. It doesn’t matter.

  And he forgave me, so I can forgive—

  Pat reaches out and pats her clenched hand. “It’s going to be okay. Hang in there, all right?”

  She nods, wondering what she would have done if he hadn’t come along.

  You would have gotten out of there anyway. You were on your way…

  Or would someone have emerged to stop her?

  Was the killer there, concealed, ready to strike?

  Probably.

  And Pat’s unexpected presence saved her life…

  For now.

  We gave Rachel a chance to get away. Now I’ll always wonder where she is…and when she’s coming back for me.

  But she can’t think about that now. She hugs her midsection as Pat pulls into the driveway, parks the car, and hurries around through the rain to open her door for her.

  He helps her down with a steadying grip on her arm and escorts her toward the door, still glancing over either shoulder. She looks, too, and is reassured to see that they weren’t followed.

  “Come on, Brynn.”

  They splash through the rain to the front door. Glad she had her keys in her back pocket, rather than left in her purse back at the cabin, Brynn opens the dead bolts and steps into the familiar dry warmth of home.

  Pat closes the door behind them.

  “Lock it,” Brynn commands, “the dead bolts, too.”

  “We’re not even sticking around,” he protests. Then, seeing the look on her face, he obliges.

  “I’ll call the police,” she says, and starts for the phone in the kitchen.

  In the doorway, she stops short.

  And screams.

  Using Ashley’s keys from her backpack, and trying one key after another, she manages to unlock the door on the third try.

  She steps swiftly and silently over the threshold into the dim interior, all but certain the place is deserted.

  But if it isn’t…

  Then I’m dead.

  This time, for real.

  Or maybe not. He’ll hurt her only if her growing suspicion about him proves to be correct.

  If she’s wrong, and he’s harmless…

  Then I’m safe for now.

  And so is Brynn.

  She moves quickly through the room to the end table beside the couch, and pulls open the drawer, remembering what Ashley told her earlier.

  “I was looking for a pencil and when I opened the drawer, I saw it.”

  The silver rose sorority bracelet.

  It was in a white box, on a square of cotton. Ashley confessed guiltily that she opened it and snuck a quick peek; her father was in the shower.

  “I figured he must have bought my mom another one because she liked the first one so much, since she kept it.”

  No, Ashley. He didn’t buy the first one for your mother.

  He didn’t buy the second one, either—for her, or anyone else.

  And it isn’t Ralph Lauren.

  Ashley thought it was, she said, because of the silver letter charms hanging from it:R.L .

  Rachel Lorent.

  That bracelet was on Rachel’s wrist the night she disappeared.