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  Like he meant to drown her.

  The horror of it hit her with the suddenness of a thunderclap.

  My God, he’s going to kill me! A second later, on a fresh wave of horror, she thought: Like they killed Jeff.

  Like he killed Jeff?

  Anger and terror combined to send adrenaline rocketing through her. Surging upward with an urgency born of mortal fear, Riley struggled desperately but still couldn’t break free of his grip or get her face above the surface. Dying for air, she went for his eyes, just missed as he jerked back, and wound up raking her nails across the front of his mask and down the sides of his neck.

  “You fucking—” He lifted her up by her shoulders—oh, God, thank God, her face was out of the water at last; she sucked in air with a greedy, shuddering gasp—and slammed her head hard against the back of the tub.

  Riley saw stars.

  Just as quick as that, he pushed her back down under the water and held her there with one hand locked around her throat.

  She barely managed to press her lips together. Her lungs were empty. The blow to her head had made her exhale.

  No, no, please, I can’t breathe.

  Panic blinded her. No, it was her hair, loose now, swirling in a dark cloud in front of her face. Her body writhed, twisted, as her empty lungs screamed to be filled. The feel of his rubber-gloved hand squeezing her throat was nightmarish. She grabbed his forearm, clawed at it, tried to knock it aside. As if in retaliation, his hand tightened with excruciating force, and then he let go. She shot upward, only to be caught again before she could reach air and breathe. Clamping on to her shoulders, he forced her down even deeper. Trapped.

  He kept her shoulders pinned to the bottom of the tub. Her head swam; her ears rang. The smooth sides of the tub provided no purchase for her desperately scrabbling hands.

  I need air. Her burning lungs cried out for her to inhale. It was all she could do not to give in to the increasingly urgent need, but if she did . . .

  I’m going to die.

  As the reality of that slammed into her, her heart pounded like it would burst out of her chest. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

  Without warning he hauled her up so that her head was out of the water once more.

  Oh, thank God.

  Sucking in air for all she was worth, Riley coughed and choked and hacked up water and sucked more air into her starved lungs in a series of frantic wheezes.

  “Pay attention, bitch.”

  He was talking to her. Water streamed from her hair, which hung down in front of her face and partially blocked her air intake and her vision. She tossed her head, slinging the soaked mass of it back, and to her surprise found herself looking at her attacker’s face. In the same shocked instant in which she registered that his ski mask was gone she realized that he must have pulled it off when he’d switched to the one-handed grip on her throat. She’d grabbed his mask: had she dislodged it somehow so that he couldn’t see properly?

  It didn’t matter: the damage was done. He was no longer making any attempt to hide his features. Her eyes widened on a bony, sallow, thirty-something face with a long chin, large nose, full mouth twisted into a snarl. Short brown hair. Raised scar near the nose. Ugly. Scary.

  I can see him clearly. I can identify him. He doesn’t care if I can identify him.

  Panic made her pulse rate skyrocket. It sent cold shivers racing down her spine.

  “You scream again, or give me any more trouble, and I’ll make you sorry.” His voice grated. It had a faintly foreign intonation. It also left her in no doubt whatsoever that he meant what he said. He pushed her against the back of the tub, gave her shoulders a warning squeeze. As they dug into her flesh, his fingers hurt her. She trembled beneath them. “Understand?”

  Dizzy with fear, Riley wheezed and coughed and nodded. She sat waist-deep in the sudsy remains of her still-hot bathwater with her legs stretched out in front of her and her hands braced on the bottom of the tub, rigid with dread and the suppressed energy of the fight-or-flight reflex that she had to control because at the moment she could do neither. His hands pinned her shoulders to the smooth tile wall behind her. The faint scent of roses hung in the air, grotesque to her now. Her eyes stung; she blinked rapidly to clear them.

  Crouched beside the tub, her attacker loomed over her, so close she could see that his eyes were brown. And hard. And mean.

  The eyes of a killer.

  The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

  She was naked, and her nakedness didn’t interest him. He wasn’t there for that.

  He didn’t care if she saw his face.

  The truth was inescapable.

  He’s going to kill me. Oh my God, is this how it happened to Jeff?

  Her blood congealed into an icy slush that clogged her veins. Her heart thumped hard and fast.

  “Where’s the phone?” His fingers dug deeper into her shoulders. Cringing, Riley made an involuntary sound of pain. Fear tasted sour in her mouth. She swallowed, and looked at him out of what felt like enormous eyes.

  His grip didn’t ease. “Where’s the fucking phone?”

  Jeff’s phone. He had to be talking about Jeff’s phone. He knew she had it! Oh, God, how did he know?

  “Answer me.”

  “I—I—” she stuttered, caught in a terrible quandary. If giving up the phone was the price of her life, she was willing to part with it that very second. Nothing, no link to Jeff’s murder or anything else, was worth dying over. But if the phone was what he was after and she told him where it was, what reason would he have to keep her alive? He could kill her, take the phone, and be gone. What she needed was a plan.

  He didn’t give her time to even attempt to work the problem out, or finish her answer. Instead he let out his breath in an impatient hiss and shoved her beneath the surface again.

  Caught by surprise, Riley swallowed water and choked on it. Her lungs convulsed in protest. Needing to cough, needing to breathe, able to do neither, she thrashed violently.

  No, no, no. Please . . .

  Just when she thought her lungs would explode, he hauled her back up above the surface. Gasping, shuddering, blinking against the water that cascaded down her face, she inhaled, coughed like she was bringing up a lung, looked at him fearfully, and blurted, “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you, okay?”

  “So tell me.” His tone was implacable. His eyes bored into hers, ruthless. Pitiless.

  Her thoughts raced as she feverishly tried to come up with some way out.

  Think. Think.

  “It’s—the phone’s in my office. At the car dealership. Where I work.” It was a lie. Her hope was that she could persuade him to let her get out of the tub. At least then she had a chance at making a run for it. Her voice shook. The rest of her was shaking, too, she realized. “I could take you there, right now. It’s after closing, but there’s a security guard. He knows me. He’ll let me in.”

  He smiled at her, a slow smile that revealed a gold-edged front tooth. It was a predator’s smile. Her heart lurched.

  Dear God, I need help—

  “We traced the phone’s signal on the night your Jeff died. Funny thing—when his phone left the mansion, after the time that we know he was already dead, we picked up another signal that was traveling at the exact same moment on an identical path. Yours. Then Jeff’s phone went dead. But yours—it continued on to this apartment with no deviation in the route.” His tone was almost gentle. It, plus the look in his eyes, petrified her like nothing had ever done in her life. “I think it is here now. I think you are lying to me.”

  His eyes gleamed, his hands tightened, and she knew he was about to force her beneath the surface of the water again.

  “No, wait!” She pressed back against the smooth porcelain behind her and babbled, “You’re right. It’s here. I’m sorry I lied. It’s—there’s a locked drawer in my desk. It’s in there. I’ll give you the combination.” Her voice wavered, broke. “Just don’t hurt me.” />
  “You will get the phone for me.” His fingers dug into her shoulders.

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  He started hauling her up, out of the tub.

  Was this man the last person Jeff had ever seen?

  There it was again, the anger, spurting hot, only to be immediately swamped by the iciness of overwhelming fear. It was fear that dried her mouth, twisted her stomach, charged the air around her. Clumsy with it, she got one knee beneath her, pressed a hand to the bottom of the tub for balance—and touched something long and narrow and hard that was lying there on the slick porcelain beneath the water: the plastic tail of her comb. Sometime during her ordeal it had fallen from her hair.

  Her breath caught. Her heart tripped. The end was pointed, sharp . . .

  Even as he pulled her all the way to her feet, her fingers closed around the comb. Scooping it up, she kept it out of sight, pressed close against her thigh, clutching it so tightly that the teeth dug into her palm.

  He warned, “If you lie to me—”

  Her heart thumped like a piston, so loud she was afraid he might hear it. She could feel the outline of the comb burning like a brand against her skin.

  Oh my God, do I dare?

  Stepping out of the tub, she stumbled, catching her foot on the edge and pitching forward—

  “. . . a second time,” he continued, steadying her as she lurched heavily against him. Her weight threw him just a little off balance. He had to let go of her shoulders and grabbed her upper arm instead. “I will hurt you. You will wish to die before—”

  It’s now or never.

  Electrified by terror, she clenched her teeth and reared back and slammed the long pointy handle of her hard plastic comb into the side of his neck with all her might.

  The feel of it sinking into his flesh made her think of a skewer plunging through meat.

  He screamed, staggering forward. She screamed, too, loud and shrill as a siren, and ripped her arm from his hold and shoved him hard and ran like her life depended on it, which it did. From the corner of her eye she saw him go down on one knee even as he yanked the comb from his neck. Blood spurted out in a thin scarlet stream, spraying over the smooth white porcelain of the tub and adding a splotch of horrible color to the puddle on the floor.

  “Suka! You fucking bitch!” he howled as she tore into her bedroom.

  Without pausing to look back, she raced past the end of her bed even as she heard him coming after her, praying the wound she’d caused would slow her attacker down enough so that she could get out.

  Alive.

  — CHAPTER —

  FIVE

  Run.

  The word ricocheted through her brain. Screaming until her lungs hurt, practically jumping out of her skin with terror, Riley flew through her apartment so fast her feet barely touched the carpet. Out of the bedroom, across the living room—it wasn’t far, but the distance to the door seemed to stretch out endlessly. She felt like she was trapped in one of those slow-motion nightmares, being chased by a monster while making no progress at all.

  Please God please God please.

  A panicky glance over her shoulder found her attacker barreling through her bedroom door. His hand was clapped to the side of his neck. Blood flowed red between his fingers.

  “Koorva! Suka!” he snarled.

  That the foreign words he was hurling at her were curses, she had no doubt.

  Oh, God, if he catches me . . .

  Her heart thundered. Her pulse raced. Her feet felt like they had lead weights attached. He was closing fast: she could hear him, hear the breath rasping in his throat, the rustle of his clothing, the rushing thud of his footsteps. She could feel the hate and anger rolling off him in waves.

  “Help! Fire!” she screamed, as a trick she’d been taught in a rape prevention class years before burst into her mind. She grabbed one of the lightweight dining chairs as she passed it, slinging it behind her to land with a crash in his path like it might actually slow him down.

  It didn’t. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him dodge around it even as she reached the door.

  Hurry, hurry, hurry.

  Dancing from one foot to the other, so frightened that she felt like her body was electrically charged with fear, she fumbled with the lock—the chain was off, thank God the chain was off!—and twisted it open. Then she grabbed for the knob.

  “Help! Fire!” she screamed as she yanked the door open.

  Risking one more terrified glance over her shoulder, she saw that he was no more than a few feet away, his face contorted with fury, both hands—one horribly red and shiny with blood—stretched out to grab her. More blood covered the side of his neck, disappeared into the open V-neck of his shirt. She could see that it still poured from the wound she had made.

  “Get back here!” He snatched at her and missed, the rough warmth of his fingertips just brushing her back as she leaped out into the wide, dimly lit hall with its many closed doors, screaming “Help! Fire!” at the top of her lungs.

  “I will kill you! Suka!”

  “What the fuck?” The roar was loud enough to be heard even through her eardrum-shattering screams. It came from in front of her.

  Head snapping around, Riley discovered that (thank God, thank God!) there was a man in the hall. A large man in a dark suit. He ran toward her from the direction of the elevators, responding to her screams, she thought, and he had a gun in his hand.

  “Help!” She sped toward him with the urgency of a heat-­seeking missile. Behind her, her attacker erupted through her apartment door with an enraged cry. Another terrified glance over her shoulder told her that he, too, had acquired a gun. He must have had it on him all along.

  “Look out! He’s got a—” She screamed a warning at the man racing toward her, breaking off before she got the all-­important last word out as he lunged at her, hooked an arm around her waist, snatched her off her feet, and whirled around with her.

  Bam! Bam!

  The gun—her attacker’s gun—fired twice, in rapid succession. Face muffled in her rescuer’s chest, Riley screamed. The sound of two hands smacking the wall one right after the other not a foot to her left and the resultant shower of plaster chips told her where the bullets had hit. The man holding her—­having already put his back between her and the weapon, she realized—threw her to the ground and dropped down on top of her, shielding her with his body. Hitting the floor hurt and having his considerable weight crash down on top of her hurt, too, but abject fear of her attacker was what had her screaming like a crazy woman into the suffocating curve of the wide chest that now arced above her face.

  “Get down!” her rescuer yelled, presumably at someone who’d stepped into the path of possible gunfire.

  A woman’s cry. A man’s shout. Running footsteps. A curse. The sounds were muffled by the big body above her.

  From his position—one arm was braced beside her, holding the bulk of his weight off her, while the other seemed to be extended back down the hall toward where her attacker should be—she got the impression that he was aiming his gun but for whatever reason he didn’t fire.

  As her scream died away, the silence was deafening. She could hear nothing except the thumping of her own—or was it her rescuer’s?—heart. A silk tie—black? Dark gray?—dangled in front of her. A smooth white shirt front pressed down against her cheek. She could feel the heat of his body beneath it, feel his chest rising and falling as he breathed. His legs in their suit pants were long and muscular and heavy against hers. She could smell—what? A hint of something fresh: fabric softener? Along with the earthier scent of man.

  “Shots fired. Be on the lookout for an armed white male heading down the west fire stairs,” her rescuer barked. From the sound of it, he was speaking into a phone or maybe a radio, which confirmed her impression that he was some kind of law enforcement. “Caucasian, short brown hair, about six foot, one eighty, dark polo shirt, jeans. Bleeding from the neck. Get the locals, watch the stairs and elev
ators, pick him up if you can.”

  “Is he gone?” A woman’s voice quavered from some little distance away.

  “Yes, ma’am,” her rescuer replied, and then added, “It’s all right, I’m with the FBI,” and moved, shifting to one side, restoring his gun to his shoulder holster before levering himself off her.

  As her field of vision opened up she looked quickly, fearfully past the big body that still hovered above her toward where her attacker had been and beyond, down the long hall in the direction in which he must have fled. He was nowhere in sight, and the relief of it prompted her to draw in a shuddering breath. The college-age couple who lived two doors down—she didn’t know their names—were straightening away from where they’d been huddled against the wall just outside their apartment’s open door. Mrs. Grant, the nosy, elderly woman who lived across the hall, peered through the gap in her chain-secured, slightly open door. Farther down the hall, she could see a few more barely opened doors with the shadows of people standing cautiously inside them.

  “It’s over. He’s gone. You’re safe,” Mr. FBI told her quietly, having paused in the act of lifting himself off her, checked by her death grip on him.

  It was only as she saw her hands that she realized that she had a death grip on him: her fists were wrapped in his shirt front. There was a soothing note to his deep voice that both served to reassure her and, paradoxically, made her start to shake. Her teeth chattered when she tried to open her mouth. She deliberately clenched them to stop the sound. She was light-headed with reaction, and breathing way too fast. Her heart raced. Her stomach churned.

  “You’re safe,” he said again, then added, “He’s not coming back.”

  Riley could almost feel the adrenaline that had been rushing through her bloodstream begin to ebb. She took a deep breath, and just about managed to regulate her breathing. There was nothing she could do about the tremors that racked her. She had to work to let go of the crisp cotton of his shirt, forcing her fingers to open almost one by one.