“Hey, I'm heading out for the night,” Ava says. “You need anything before I go?”

I look up from my computer and give her a smile. “No, I'm good, thanks,” I say.

“What time is Brice coming to get you?”

I glance at my watch. “About an hour and a half,” I say.

She nods. “Okay, well, security is on their regular patrols,” she says. “You need them for anything, you hit the panic switch. I don't care if it ends up being a mouse, you hit the panic switch. Keep it on you in a discreet place at all times. You got me?”

I laugh. “I got you,” I say. “I'll have this copy to you by the morning.”

“You better,” she says and grins.

“Oh hey, Ava?”

She turns back to me. “Yes?”

“Thanks for caring,” I say with sincerity.

“Caring?” she asks. “You're writing a bloody good series, and if we increase circulation to a certain point, I get a bonus. That's all this is. Don't want to get the golden goose nicked.”

I laugh and shoot her the bird. She gives me a warm smile and blows me a kiss before she turns and leaves for the night. The series of articles I'm writing have actually been received pretty well. It's even garnering national coverage. People are talking, and my name is getting out there.

But, of course, with increased coverage, comes increased scrutiny, increased heat, increased anonymous death threats, and increasingly whacked-out trolls. It all comes with the territory. Such is my glamorous life.

Truth be told though, I'm excited, and have a real fire in my belly. Freaks and crank calls notwithstanding, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Since the first article hit, I haven't received less than five anonymous death threats a day. I would likely guess many of them are coming from members of our esteemed local law enforcement department. They haven't taken too kindly to me making them look bad in the papers.

Through it all though, Ava's been my rock. She's really stepped up and made sure my security is a priority. Though I bristle at the idea of needing a babysitter, she's shown me the error of my ways. In graphic detail. After she showed me pictures of other journalists who didn't think they needed protection, I gave in, and let her assign a security detail to the building.

After all, I've been working some late hours, and I'm often the only one in the building. So, as much as I hate to admit it, having extra bodies floating around – especially large men with guns who are directed to shoot first, ask questions later – makes me feel a bit better about things.

As I proofread what I just wrote, I twist open the water bottle on my desk, and take a drink, scanning the copy for any obvious mistakes. Movement from the corner of my eye draws my attention, and I look up suddenly, my heart stuttering in my chest. One of the security guards, a tall, aging bald man named Jerry, strolls past my office. He gives me a nod and a little salute.

“How you doin’ in there, Ms. Simmonds?”

His voice is surprisingly high for such a large man. To look at him, you'd think he'd have a deep, booming voice. But, that's not the case, and it always makes me laugh. At least he has a good sense of humor about it. I can appreciate that about Jerry a lot.

“Doing great, Jerry,” I say. “Thanks for checking on me.”

“That's what I'm here for,” he replies. “Me and the boys. We're around if you need us. Let us know.”

“You guys make me feel safe. I appreciate it.”

He continues his rounds, and I listen to his heavy footfalls fading as he walks away. I check my watch again and see that I only have about forty-five minutes left before Brice picks me up. If I'm going to have the copy to Ava by the morning, I really need to get cracking.

But, first I need to go to the restroom.

Getting up from my desk, I walk down the long hallway to the bathrooms located near the back of the building. The hallway is dimly lit and completely silent. Being in the office after hours never fails to creep me out. I've obviously seen one too many horror movies and read about three dozen too many true crime books. I see bad guys and bogeymen in every shadow.

I make it into the bathroom without being attacked by a chainsaw wielding maniac, which I count as a plus. I do my business and am standing at the sink, washing my hands, when movement once again, catches my eye.

The windows are frosted but face the employee parking lot in the back of the building. I can make out the shadowy form of somebody walking by the windows. It's nothing but a dark, indistinct form, but it sets my heart racing anyway.

“It's one of the guards, you idiot,” I chastise myself.

The guards are on constant patrol, doing continuous laps in and around the building. I've met all four of the night shift guards, and they're all very competent and dedicated to their job. I have the utmost faith in them to keep me safe. I have to. Most of the time, they’re the only thing standing between a serial killer and me.

As I'm drying my hands, my cell phone chirps with an incoming message. I'm expecting it to be Brice, telling me he's either here early or coming late. When I look at the display though, I see it's neither. It's from an unknown number.

Drop the story. Walk away and leave me be.

A sliver of ice pierces my heart as I look at those nine words. This is my private number. Not very many people have it, so I can't imagine it's one of the trolls who send anonymous emails to my work address. No, the fact that this came through on my private line – it means something.

I don't want to believe it's Carlyle. Don't want to believe he went through the trouble of tracking down my private line, because that means I'm firmly on his radar. But, I can’t think of anybody else I know that it could be. Yeah, it's Halloween time, and my friends can be pranksters, but none of them would cross this line. Nobody would try to freak me out like this, given what’s going on.

Which means, it must be Carlyle. And that scares the hell out of me.

Knowing I can't show any weakness – predators like him thrive on that – I key in a quick response I hope shows strength and resolve.

And if I don't?

I wait for a few moments, my heart thundering in my breast, and a fear-fueled electricity coursing through my veins. My phone chimes again. I look down at the display.

Last chance. Drop it, or you'll be sorry.

I'm feeling increasingly unnerved by the moment, but I know I can't give in. Carlyle can't know that he's rattled me. It'd be like feeding a stray cat – he'll just keep coming back for more. I key in another message and hit send.

I will expose you. You will pay for the 23 lives you took. Your time is up.

I stand there, looking at the phone in my hand, waiting for another message to come through. When it rings a second later, I scream, nearly dropping the phone. My pulse racing, I look at the display and see that it's Brice. I stab the button to connect the call and press the phone to my ear.

“Brice, hi,” I say, doing my best to sound composed.

“Hey,” he replies slowly. “You okay?”

Other than playing text tag with a brutal killer, I'm fine.

“Yeah, sorry,” I say. “Your call just startled me. Nothing major.”

“You sure?”

“Positive,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “What's up?”

“Oh, I was just calling to tell you that I wrapped things up over at CEM earlier than I expected,” he says. “I'm on my way there to pick you up now. Give me twenty?”

“Sounds good,” I say and really mean it. “I can finish up my copy at your place.”

“Absolutely.”

“Great,” I say. “I'll see you soon. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I disconnect the call and lean heavily against the counter, taking a moment to let my pulse slow down to normal again. As I stand there, one question keeps rattling around in my brain – how in the hell did Carlyle get my private number?

After splashing some cold water on my face, I dry myself off and head for the door. I need to get my things packed up so I can work on my piece at Brice's place. The click-clack of my heels echoes off the tile in the bathroom, and I grab the door handle, pulling it open.

Once outside the bathroom, I open my mouth to scream, but he's on me before a single sound can escape.

Carlyle Hawkins drapes the rag over my face, and I'm forced to breathe deeply, inhaling the pungent chemicals. Chloroform. I struggle in his grasp, trying to break free, but he's too strong. He overpowers me, and as the darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision and my world turns to black, tendrils of ice slither up my spine, as I hear his deep, gravelly voice.

“Actually. I think it's your time that's up.”