Chapter One
Josh Duvane broke from the surface of the water, pulling the regulator out of his mouth and then shoving back his mask. “We found her,” he called to the team up on the boat.
He heard someone swear. Probably the local sheriff. Josh knew the guy had been hoping to find the victim alive. No such luck. Josh swam to the boat. The ocean water lapped against him, dark and rough because a storm was coming. If they were lucky, they’d be able to get the victim up before the storm hit.
A big if.
He grabbed for the ladder on the back of the boat and pulled himself up.
“Are you sure it’s Tonya?” Sheriff Hayden Black asked as he reached out a hand to Josh.
Tonya. Tonya Myers. The twenty-two-year-old college coed who’d vanished a week ago. And, yes, unfortunately, he was sure. “It’s her.”
He glanced back at the water. The waves rocked against the boat. As one of the FBI’s elite USERT members—Underwater Search and Evidence Response Team—his job routinely took him to the deepest depths. He searched for clues, he searched for evidence and, on damn unfortunate days—days like today—he searched for the dead.
“That makes three bodies,” Hayden gritted out. The waning light glinted off his blond hair. “Three bodies in the last three weeks.”
And that was why Josh was there. The FBI knew they had a serial hunting in the quiet coastal town, and Josh had been sent to provide backup to the local Bureau team—and to the sheriff.
Josh and Hayden had crossed paths in the past. Once upon a time, they’d trained together as SEALs. They’d worked together on a few missions years ago, then had gone their separate ways. Josh had joined the FBI and Hayden—hell, Josh never would have figured the guy for a small-town sheriff.
I would have figured wrong.
“This town has already had enough heartache,” Hayden muttered. “The people need peace, not more fear.”
More divers went into the water. Josh had done his job and located the body. His team would work to bring the victim to the surface.
“We just put one killer behind bars.” Hayden raked a hand over his face. The sheriff’s star on his uniform gleamed. “Theodore Anderson’s trial is barely over. Now some other jerk is terrorizing my Hope.”
Not just terrorizing the town of Hope, but killing mercilessly. The victims taken were all women in their twenties, attractive, fit. And they weren’t locals. Hope was a beach town along the Florida Gulf Coast—popular in the early summer for its pristine white beaches. The victims had been tourists.
The killer had a twisted MO. He took the women, then he immediately called the sheriff’s station, taunting the authorities. Telling them to hurry and find the victim before it was too late.
But so far, they’d always been too late. Each victim had been stabbed to death. The first two victims had each been stabbed five times, and then their throats had been slit. Josh was betting that when the ME had a chance to check the body of Tonya Myers, he’d find the same wounds on her.
After he’d dumped his victims in the water, the perp made a second call to the authorities. A brief call that just gave longitude and latitude coordinates. The dump site location for the body.
In Josh’s experience, most killers didn’t offer up their victims that way. For someone to do that—to deliberately call the authorities and just spill the location of the dead—it meant one thing.
The perp wants attention. He wants the world to know what he’s doing.
And the guy was getting that attention. News crews were camped out in Hope, desperately trying to get a scoop on the new case that was transfixing the nation. Murder was always big business.
“He’ll be going after a new victim soon,” Josh said quietly. His wet suit stretched as he strode to the bow of the boat. “You need your deputies to be on high alert. You need to warn the people in this area to stay extra vigilant. Because if we aren’t careful...” His words trailed away. The killer was very careful. He didn’t leave evidence behind, none of his taunting calls to the sheriff had been traced back to him...he was always one step ahead of the authorities. “If we aren’t careful, soon I’ll be searching for another body.”
*
THEY’D FOUND THE VICTIM. Cassandra “Casey” Quinn tensed when she saw the black body bag being unloaded from the boat. “Another one,” she whispered as sadness tightened her heart. Another woman who’d been struck down in the small, coastal town.
“Should I start filming?” her camerawoman asked.
She should say yes. The other camera crews were already rolling, capturing the moment when that body bag was transferred out of the boat and onto the stretcher. The ME was there. He’d be taking the body back to his lab.
“Casey?”
How long had the woman been in the water? One day? Two? Tonya Myers had finished up her bachelor’s degree at Florida State University just two weeks before. She’d gone to Hope to relax. To have a little fun in the sun.
Not to die.
“We’re missing the shot, Casey,” Katrina Welch snapped.
Right. The shot. The story. That was why she was down there, after all. Why she’d left New York and flown down to face the already blistering Florida heat. “Keep the camera on me and the sheriff,” she directed. Not the body bag. I just... I can’t. “Maybe I can get him to share an exclusive with me.” Doubtful. So far, Hayden Black had been like a vault.
Good thing she was pretty good at safecracking.
There were about half a dozen reporters gathered on the dock. Most of them were filming the body bag. Some were rushing toward the ME, and yes, two others had tried to go after the sheriff. He waved them back. She heard the growl of “No comment” that came from Hayden. Typical. She’d discovered that even though he was a native Florida boy, Hayden wasn’t exactly big on the southern charm.
Her gaze darted over him. Tall, blond, strong...the sheriff walked with a furious intensity, his body practically vibrating with tension. He didn’t like what was happening in his town. Not one damn bit.
But there was another man with him. Also blond, but his hair was a darker shade, shaggier than the sheriff’s. This man moved with a predatory power, and his gaze swept the scene, as if looking for threats. Dangerous. This guy is seriously dangerous.
“That’s the USERT guy in charge, right?” Katrina asked as she pressed closer. “I think I saw him go out on the boat that retrieved the body.”
Victim, not body.
“He looks mad.” Katrina lifted her camera and aimed it toward the sheriff. “They both do.”
“Probably because they don’t like finding dead women.” She swallowed. “And, yes, he’s USERT. His name’s Josh Duvane.” As soon as the USERT group had arrived, she’d begun digging up information on them. Digging up information was sort of her thing...almost a compulsion. She didn’t even date a guy without doing a full background check, and Casey knew that was weird. But with her past, it paid to be careful. “Ex-SEAL, tough as nails, swims like a fish.” And he’d been the guy to find all three of the victims.
She swallowed. “Maybe he’s the one who’ll talk.” Maybe. She smoothed back her dark hair, straightened her already straight blouse and lifted her chin. “Let’s just see what happens.” Briskly, she walked toward the two men, with Katrina at her heels. “Sheriff Black!” Casey called out brightly. “Can you confirm that the body of Tonya Myers has been recovered?”
Hayden turned toward her, and his golden eyes were sharp with barely leashed fury. “No comment, Ms. Quinn. None.”
Figured. The guy was far too tight-lipped.
She lowered her microphone. Voice softer, she said, “Don’t you think the public has a right to know what’s happening here? People are dying, Sheriff. And if you found Tonya’s body, then that means another victim will be taken soon.”
He stared at her. Then he gave a grim nod. “Film me.”
He’d just said—her eyes widened and she gestured to Katrina. Film the man. Film the man! Before he changed his mind.
Hayden stared into the camera lens. “There is a predator hunting in our city. I would like to ask every citizen to be extra vigilant. If you see anything suspicious, please do not hesitate to call the sheriff’s office. I am working in conjunction with the FBI to track down and apprehend this criminal, and I ask that all individuals—particularly women in their twenties who may be visiting our area—take every precaution—”
“Is that because the Sandy Shore Killer has a special victim type?” Casey cut in. “He only kills women in their twenties? Women who are vacationing in Hope, not locals?”
His eyes glittered. “Turn off the camera.”
Well, at least they’d gotten something. Casey waved toward Katrina and made a quick, slashing motion across her throat.
Katrina’s sigh was very, very loud.
“The Sandy Shore Killer?” It wasn’t Hayden who’d spoken. It was the FBI agent—the USERT supervisor, Josh Duvane. His voice was deep, dark and sexy. Not that Casey found the guy sexy. She was at a crime scene for goodness sake. She had a job to do. She wasn’t there to lust after some agent.
Her gaze swept over Josh Duvane, studying him, assessing him. Tall, over six feet, with broad shoulders. His thick blond hair was still a little wet. His skin was tanned—probably because of all the time he spent in the water—and his hard jaw appeared freshly shaven. He had a faint scar on his right cheek, a slash of white that told her the scar was old. His eyes were hazel. Not a warm and cozy hazel, though. They were stone-cold.
Chilling, she would say.
Or maybe that was just the look he was giving her. Like an ice glare. He’s freezing me out. Because if Casey had to guess, she’d say that FBI Agent Josh Duvane did not like her very much. A pity. When sources didn’t like her, they had a tendency not to share information. She really needed him to share.
“Who the hell gave the guy the moniker of the Sandy Shore Killer?” Josh wanted to know.
She nodded briskly. “That would be me.”
He rolled his eyes and cursed. “Lady, giving the guy attention—”
“Cassandra. Or Casey. Either one works.”
His lips—rather sensual lips, nicely sculpted—pressed into a thin line. “Giving the guy attention...giving him a freaking name...does nothing but feed into his fantasy. You’re building him up when we want to be tearing him down.”
She didn’t let her expression alter. Casey hadn’t wanted to give the guy a nickname, but her producer had insisted. “You can only call a guy the unknown perpetrator for so long, you realize that, right?” She gestured to the beach behind them. “And he does place his victims in the water off the sandy shores here. It seemed fitting at the time.” The name had certainly stuck.
“Vultures like you just do more damage.” Josh turned away from her. “You don’t help anyone.”
She didn’t flinch, but his words shot straight to her heart.
Josh and the sheriff headed toward the parking lot.
“I’m not trying to do damage.” Maybe she should have kept her mouth shut but...no, he’d just insulted her. Casey figured that she deserved a chance to defend herself. “I’m trying to help this investigation. I’m trying to help the victims. They deserve justice.”
Josh put his hand on the sheriff’s shoulder. He leaned in close and said something quietly to Hayden. The sheriff nodded and then strode to his patrol car.
Josh turned to glance back at her.
“If looks could kill,” Katrina muttered, “I think you’d be dead on the ground right about now.”
Casey swallowed. She thought Katrina might be right. If possible, Josh’s gaze had grown even colder. “Why don’t you go back to the hotel? I’ll meet you in a little while.”
Katrina nodded and hurried away. She took the camera—and Casey’s microphone—with her. Katrina’s red hair was cut short, a pixie cut that accentuated her delicate features. But there was nothing delicate about Katrina’s personality. The woman was a fireball, and Casey normally loved working with her.
Right then, though, she wanted some space. If she had a chance to speak alone with Josh, she might be able to convince him that she wasn’t the bad guy.
Possibly.
Josh crossed his arms over his chest and studied Casey in silence. She wondered what he was thinking. What did he see when—
“Are high heels really the best choice for the beach?”
She glanced down at her heels. No, they were a terrible choice for the beach. Wretched. But when she’d left the hotel earlier, Casey hadn’t realized she’d be going to the beach. She’d thought that she would see Hayden Black at the sheriff’s station. She’d known she’d be on camera, so she’d had to wear what she thought of as her full reporter getup.
She walked toward him and her high heels wobbled a bit on the uneven pavement of the parking lot. The lot was right in front of the dock—and the stretching, white sand beach waited to the right. The scent of the ocean teased her nose.
“I don’t want to be your enemy,” she said and she gave him what she hoped was a warm smile. She’d practiced that smile a lot when she first started reporting. That smile had taken her from a spot in small-town Illinois to the big-league fame of a prime-time show in New York City. Her smile was warm. Friendly. Approachable. That was her deal—her producer said she was relatable. That she came across as caring.
The truth was...she really did care. Often, far too much. She couldn’t turn off the cases that she covered, and late at night, when she was alone, they haunted her. “I’m not the bad guy.”
“Didn’t say you were.” His head cocked as she approached him.
“You just thought it.” She inclined her head. “And you did say I was a vulture.”
The other reporters were clearing out. The ME had left. The body had been transferred. The sheriff was gone.
Other than a few stragglers at the lot, she was left with Josh.
“I’ve seen your work before,” Josh murmured. “I know plenty about you, Ms. Quinn.”
“Cassandra,” she corrected quickly. “Or—”
“Casey, right.”
His expression was so hard and unyielding. He was a handsome man, but...tough. A dangerous vibe seemed to pulse just beneath his skin.
“You don’t seem to have a lot of respect for reporters,” she murmured, though she rather thought her words were a serious understatement.
He looked at her, considering, and then his gaze darted to the water behind her. He rolled back his wide shoulders and sighed. Some of the tension appeared to leave him. His face didn’t soften but it seemed less...angry? “You know what? It’s my baggage, and I’m sorry.”
Wait—he was what?
“I’m being a jackass to you, and I apologize.” He sounded as if he meant those words. “It’s been a hell of a day, and when I find—”
He broke off, but she knew what he’d been about to say. When I find a body...
“I’m not at my best,” Josh finished as he raked a hand over his face. “But I shouldn’t be a jerk to you, and I apologize.”
“Apology accepted,” she said quietly.
He gave her a quick, searching glance. “May I tell you a story, Ms. Quinn?”
“Casey—”
He stepped toward her and her breath caught. He was...definitely strong. He wore a white T-shirt and shorts and she knew he’d changed out of his diving gear on the boat. The muscles of his arms and chest stretched the fabric of that T-shirt. He didn’t look like the typical, straitlaced FBI agent.
Probably because he wasn’t.
“A few months ago, I worked a real big case over in Fairhope, Alabama. We were after the Sorority Slasher...you remember that one?”
Her heart shoved into her throat. “Everyone remembers him.”
“Another stupid serial killer name. Folks should have just said they were looking for Dr. Cameron Latham, the genius psychology professor who decided killing was just too much fun.” His lips twisted into a bitter smile. “A reporter from that area was covering the case, trying to get all the headlines and make a name for herself.”
The breath she took seemed to chill her lungs. “I—I know what happened to the reporter.” Everyone knows. Because a story that terrible wasn’t easily forgotten.
“No, you know what was reported. You know that Dr. Latham killed the reporter. He wanted to send a message, and she was the perfect target. That’s what people know. But I was there.” He edged even closer to her. His body brushed against hers as he lowered his head—and his voice. “I know exactly what he did to her. And everything I’m about to say is off the record.”
She should back away. Put some distance between them. But she just looked up into his eyes. He’s trying to intimidate me. I won’t let him.
“I saw the blood-soaked room. I saw the body. I saw the way he’d wrecked her. He enjoyed hurting her, and her last moments—they were just of terror and pain. He left her alive in that room, you see. He let her know that death was coming, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.”
Casey licked her lips. Her mouth felt desert dry.
“So, yeah, I’m a little...sensitive to reporters right now. Because I think that reporter—Janice Beautfont—her death was a waste. She pushed herself into the spotlight, and he made her a victim. So when I see the reporters crowding around, wanting to spread the sick stories of this killer’s crimes...I remember Janice, and I hate what happened to her. I hate that this guy is feeding off the attention he’s getting, and I wish you would all just take a step back.”
Her skin felt too cold. It was a summer day on the Florida coast. Cold was the last thing she should be feeling. “I’m not trying to be in the spotlight.”
He raised one brow.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. “You don’t know me. I get that. But you’re wrong here. I want the focus on the victims. I want them to have justice.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he murmured. “And it’s always easier to do my job when I don’t have a reporter dogging my steps.”
So much for having a partnership with him. Desperate, she tried again as she said, “I can help you. I’ve been talking to the victims’ family members and their friends. I know things about the victims. Maybe I can help build a profile—”
“We have agents from our Behavioral Analysis Unit who do that.”
He was definitely shutting her down.
“Watch your step, Ms. Quinn,” he said again, but she knew he wasn’t talking about her high heels and the broken pavement in the parking lot. “Because you never know when a killer is close.”
And the guy just turned and walked away from her.
Her right foot tapped on that uneven pavement. “Casey,” she called after him. “My name is Casey. Remember it—because you’ll be seeing me again.” If he thought she was just going to give up, the guy needed to think again. She wasn’t going to be scared away.
Giving up wasn’t in her personality.
If Josh Duvane wouldn’t help her, well, then she’d just go find someone else who’d be ready to talk. A good reporter never gave up.
And Casey didn’t just want to be good at her job. She wanted to be great.
*
THEY’D FOUND TONYA. He’d watched as the reporters and the authorities slowly loaded into their vehicles and left the scene. They’d found her faster than they’d discovered his last victim.
But then, he hadn’t taken Tonya as far out this time. He’d left her closer to the shore, a deliberate choice. He’d needed to dump her body quickly and then get ready for the next kill.
He already had a new victim in mind.
He could see his prey right then.
She stood in the middle of the parking lot, tapping one high heel. Her dark brown hair fell to her shoulders, a sleek style that even the humidity of Florida couldn’t seem to muss. She had on a crisp white shirt and a formfitting black pencil skirt.
She was pretty...almost perfectly so with her fine-drawn features. He’d studied her often enough; he knew every detail of her face. Her wide-set, dark eyes, her bow-shaped mouth, her softly curved chin. He’d watched her on the news, marveling at the way she seemed to stare right at him.
As if she could see him.
I see you. He’d seen her all along. He’d seen everything she’d done. All the secrets she’d tried to keep. All the sins that she thought no one knew about...he’d seen everything.
She thought she was safe. She thought no one knew what she’d done.
But he knew.
He’d always known.
And before he was done with her, she’d be begging to tell the world her story.
They always begged.
And then they died.