When my phone rings, a pleasantly surprised smile crosses my face. I’ve just walked in my front door, and I don’t even bother to glance at the name of the incoming caller as I swipe my thumb across the screen.

“Hey, I—”

“Shaw.”

The voice that interrupts me, although familiar, isn’t the one I expect, and I shut my mouth. The pause must make him question whether or not I’m still on the line, because he tries again.

“Ronin?”

Finally, I clear my throat. “Uh, yeah. Watson?”

My muscles have cramped up, my mind going blank. The blood rushes in my veins, but I still feel sickeningly cold as I absorb the fact that the detective from my wife’s unsolved homicide case is calling me out of the blue.

Hearing from him can mean only one thing. As that revelation sinks in, my breath hitches and the emotions I felt all those years ago when I lost Elle come surging back.

Bitter regret.

Anguish.

Rage. So much rage.

Lance Watson clears his throat. “I’m going to get straight to the point, Ronin. Something new has come up concerning your wife’s case.”

Standing rigid, stock-still, a rash of chills rush up my spine. “What’s come up?”

Watson continues, like he can’t get the words out fast enough. Having been on the force after returning from my final deployment, I remember how it feels to be working on something that suddenly snowballs, the rush of adrenaline that comes from discovering new evidence.

“There’s been another murder. The details of the new homicide match the ones from Elle’s case to a T, Ronin. This might be the break we’ve been waiting for.”

There’s no hesitation. I turn right back around, opening my front door and heading toward the elevator at the end of the hall. The one that will take me down to the parking garage and straight to my truck. “I’m coming in.”

His tone takes on a note of warning. “I’ll show you what we’ve got, because I know you. But you stay out of the way, got it?”

Grinding my teeth together, I remain silent. I’m not making any fucking promises. Not about this. “See you in a few.”

The drive to the police station takes less time than it should. But tonight, red lights and speed limits are not stopping me from getting there fast.

Detective Lance Watson looks up as both of my hands land on top of his desk. Heavy brows furrow above dark brown eyes, and concern is written across his expression. Screwing his face up, he studies me. “Did you run every red light to get here?”

Ignoring him, I glance at the paperwork strewn across his desk. “Tell me about the new case.”

Dropping down into a chair beside him, I watch closely as he pulls a folder toward us. Opening it, he removes several photos and sheets of papers. Sliding them my way, he leans back in his seat and taps a pen against his chin while I study them.

There’s a stack of crime scene photos, and I flip through these first. The murdered woman lies sprawled out on a white tiled floor. She’s flat on her back, her legs bent beneath her, her arms spread out beside her head. Her throat is cut; the amount of blood on her clothes and the floor around her is massive.

My stomach churns as the memories stir.

My mind flashes back to the day my world went dark. My gorgeous wife: long, black hair, heart-shaped face with perfect, full lips. Petite, lush body. All covered in blood, the life leaked completely out of her.

Revulsion rises in my throat, but I swallow it and tamp down my reaction. Glancing up at Watson to find him watching me with sympathy in his eyes, I push the photos aside and pick up the crime report.

Scanning it, I bypass the victim’s name and personal details. That’s not what I need to know right now. When I find what I’m looking for, I pause and read more closely.

Murder weapon: steak knife from the victim’s own kitchen.

No sign of forced entry, which means the victim let her attacker in.

Partial boot print left near the victim.

There. This is where the similarities go from being coincidental to tying this case to Elle’s. The killer had used the knife to scratch a note on the kitchen table. Four words that once meant the end of my world: dead girls don’t talk.

“Son of a bitch!” Slamming the folder closed, I breathe deeply through my nose several times, attempting to exhale the fury so that I can focus.

“It’s been seven years, but he finally reared his ugly head again, Ronin. We’ll get him.”

No. I’ll get him.

Someone exits an office across the room and calls Watson’s name. A superior, from the looks of him. Watson claps a hand on my shoulder as he walks by. “Be right back.”

As soon as he’s enclosed in the other room, I pull out my cell phone. Opening the case file, I snap a photo of the crime report and each photo. I’m sliding my phone back in my pocket just as the door opens and Watson returns.

Standing, I raise my chin in farewell. “Keep me posted.”

He nods. “Will do, Ronin.”

There’s a determination in my step as I leave the police station and head for my truck that I haven’t felt in a long time.

A brand-new fire burns in my blood: I’m going to be able to avenge my dead wife.

Hope blooms red.

As I settle in the driver’s seat of the truck, my phone rings. The dashboard lights up with the incoming call, and as Olive’s name jumps out at me in blue, lighted letters, I frown. The jumble of emotions is making me feel exhausted. This night has been full of strange highs and lows, and I can’t fully understand the reason behind the high I feel from seeing her name on my caller ID. Especially right now, at this moment.

It feels wrong.

Pressing the hands-free answer button on my steering wheel, I greet her. “Olive? Didn’t expect to hear from you tonight.” My tone is flat. The flirtatious banter I had with Olive earlier feels so long ago.

Like another lifetime.

My head rests back on the seat and I close my eyes.

“Ronin?”

Opening them again, I sit up straighter. Olive’s voice is higher than normal, and there’s a note of panic edging her words. “What’s wrong, Olive?”

Without even thinking about it, I start the truck’s big, growling engine.

“It’s my…my house. Someone’s been here?”

My blood chills for the second time tonight. “What do you mean, ‘someone’s been there’?”

A deep inhale on the other end of the line. “It’s…someone broke in. I just walked in the door, and…there’s stuff everywhere, Ronin. Not my stuff…I don’t know how this happened.” Her voice breaks on the last word.

Christ. “Olive, I’m on my way to you now. Get out of the house.”

Her voice drops to a raspy whisper. “You think…” She pauses, and I can hear her swallow. “They might still be here?”

I put the truck into drive and pull out of the police station parking lot. Trying to keep my voice even so she’ll stay calm is tough. My pulse races, ramping up to match the speed of my driving. “I’m not sure, sweetheart. Just get out.”

“I left my car at the office I rode with Ken. I was going to catch a ride with one of the girls to work in the morning.” Her voice is breathier than I’ve ever heard it, and something in my chest squeezes painfully tight at the sound.

“Is he there with you?” At that moment, I really hope the dude walked her inside. But something tells me he didn’t, or Olive wouldn’t be on the phone with me.

“No.”

Trying to instill urgency in my words without scaring her to death, I speak slowly. “Okay, Olive. Just get outside. If there’s a neighbor you can hang out with until I get there, go there. I’m not far.”

I picture her nodding as she answers. “Okay. I have a neighbor…Macy. I’ll head to her house until you arrive. Um…thanks, Ronin. Should I call the police?”

“Is there any reason you wouldn’t want to?” It’s a question we ask our clients all the time. Our first priority is to protect them, and that can sometimes involve bending the law to work for the client, or for us.

“No.”

Good. That makes this a lot less complicated. “Then call them. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

When she ends the call, I stomp down hard on the gas pedal. The need to get revenge for my wife is still lingering in my mind, but my immediate need is to make sure Olive is safe.

Jeremy asked me to look out for her while he’s gone, but that’s not the whole reason I’m running every red light to get to her. There’s something about Olive that calls out to me whether I want to acknowledge it or not.

Pushing that thought down, I focus my attention on the road in front of me.