Standing at her kitchen island, Amantha Leblanc plunked a lime green mixing bowl down on the butcher-block countertop. The rubber rimmed bottom landed with a thump. Stainless steel measuring spoons rattled in protest. She ignored the calamity and, with a shove, pushed the white sugar and vanilla beans to one side. She’d need those later, but right now, flour came next on her hit list.

Heavy paper crinkled as she grabbed the bag and dragged it front and center. Digging in, she dumped four cups of All Purpose into the waiting bowl. A white puff drifted up, clouding the air as she glanced at the clock hanging on the wall between the windows in her living room. The cheap plastic frame looked back at her, second hand ticking, sounding impatient in the silence.

Music would’ve helped quell the quiet.

She refused to put any on. Not at three in the morning. No matter how low the volume, the paper-thin walls acted like speakers, piping noise into her neighbors’ apartments. Amantha huffed. So not advisable. The last time she’d unleashed iTunes (and rocked out to Brian Adams), Ronald had banged on her door. Something she never wanted to experience again. The guy freaked her out, and it wasn’t just about the cowlick. The cold glint in his eyes gave her the chills. Toss in the awful vibe he threw off like pollution and…

Amantha stifled a shiver of revulsion. Total Creeps-ville. Absolutely worth avoiding, so…scratch the music. It wasn’t worth the unwanted attention, no matter how much she needed a good tune to help her stay awake.

Rubbing the grit from her eyes, Amantha shook her head. She should be used to it by now. Hell, she’d signed up for early morning bake-offs. Had gone countless rounds with her professors at Le Cordon Bleu Ottawa for the privilege of sleepless nights and, oh yeah…earning top of her class as a Pastry Chef. Her mouth curved as she sorted through her measuring spoons. Surviving until graduation day had been tough, but one hundred percent worth it. Independence came in unexpected ways and different packages. For her, the dream started with getting her degree and ended with owning her own business.

So close. She was so damn close to realizing step one in her five point plan.

Brushing her bangs out of her eyes, Amantha cracked eggs into a separate bowl. Six months. One hundred and eighty days—give or take—and she’d have enough saved. Enough to invest in the right equipment. Enough to rent an empty storefront not far from the Royal Mile, next to thriving businesses and the tourist traps near Edinburgh Castle. A gold mine in the making, but first…

Amantha snuck another peek at the clock.

She needed to finish baking for her regular customers—the cafes who hired her to make fresh pastries for the coffee and croissant crowd who stopped by every morning. She’d started with one—a place called Perk Up in the business district. Now, she worked for three different places. A great boost. Better money and more time spent doing what she loved, but…

She blew out a long breath. A lot less sleep too.

Dumping the rest of the ingredients into the bowl, Amantha eyed the list stuck to the fridge with a pineapple shaped magnet. The apple, pecan and rhubarb pies were made. The brownies and cupcakes with frosted icing and extra sprinkles done. Her scones and coffee cakes sat in boxes by the front door alongside containers of croissants waiting for the delivery guy to show up. Suppressing a yawn, she refocused on the recipe in front of her.

“Muffins,” she murmured. “Double batch of each.”

Brushing flour from her hands, she formulated a plan of attack. Muscle memory took over. Her hands did the rest, throwing together the wet ingredients before adding it to the dry mix. She didn’t have a lot of time. Just a couple of hours to get the blueberry, cranberry-walnut, apple spice, and plain old bran muffins baked. Easier said than done, and…yup. She was cutting it close tonight. Not her usual habit, but worry always screwed with her timeline. Stress piled on, making her clumsy, drawing her mind away from the task at hand, reminding her Elise was still missing.

Vanished. Disappeared. Taken. Use whatever word worked.

Nothing changed the facts.

Her best friend was gone. No explanation. No clues to follow. She’d simply walked out one evening and never returned.

Tears threatened, tightening her throat. It didn’t make any sense. Elise was the most responsible person she knew. She never would have left the country without letting her know…no matter what Scotland Yard said. The insinuation made her want to hit something. Or someone—her first choice of target being Detective Inspector Ross. The guy deserved it for his lack of attention. How could he not care? How could he be so dismissive of her concerns?

With a scowl, Amantha picked up a wooden spoon. “The butthead.”

Why wouldn’t he do his job?

Every time she visited the station, she got the same old song and dance. The police always turned her away. None of them wanted to hear about a Canadian girl gone missing in a bad neighborhood. Especially with a serial rapist on the loose in one of the more affluent boroughs in Edinburgh. The attacks had been all over the news. In every newspaper and on-line journal in the past month too. Which pissed her off. How could Ross say, with any certainty, the creep wasn’t responsible for Elise’s disappearance? Amantha watched all the crime shows. Knew a thing or two about procedure and how law enforcement zeroed in on perps. So…she frowned and tossed a cup of cranberries into the muffin mix…what indicated the guy was a stay-close-to-home offender, sticking to the same area instead of hunting in different parts of the city?

“Great question.” One the detective had yet to ask. With a bang, Amantha tapped her wooden spoon on the bowl edge. “Ross needs to get a clue.”

A suggestion she’d made more than once to the Detective Inspector, which prompted him to shut the door in her face. Super effective, standing in a hallway arguing through a door with a man who refused to listen. Amantha huffed. The jackass and…now, it was official. Creepy neighbor living down the hall. Serial rapist on the prowl. Best friend missing, and a lazy detective who didn’t give a damn.

No need to convince her. She lived smack dab in the middle of psycho central.

The realization made her want to barricade the door with heavy furniture and never leave the house. Too bad for her but staying home wasn’t an option. Not today. She planned to visit Ross again. For the tenth time. Maybe this trip would be different. Maybe she’d get some answers. Maybe, if she got lucky, Ross would listen for a change and take Elise’s disappearance seriously.

A long shot, but well, hope sprang eternal.

It had to, simply couldn’t let her down right now. The idea of Elise being hurt—or dead in a ditch somewhere—plagued her. She couldn’t sleep. Wasn’t eating well either. Her stomach turned every time she tried. The only thing that made sense anymore was this—her tiny kitchen in her rundown apartment, baking for businesses that served the hustle and bustle of city streets miles from where she lived.

With a quick turn of her wrist, she checked the consistency of the batter. Just right, no lumps or bumps, which needed to change. Eye-balling it, she poured in walnuts and folded the nutty goodness into the mixture. Next up, the ice cream scoop. Palming the handle, she spooned the batter into muffin tins. As she finished the last one, the timer buzzed.

Wiping her hands on a tea towel, Amantha turned toward the double ovens. The duo qualified as a Godsend, the best of all finds while apartment hunting a year ago. The second she and Elise had seen the set up, they’d been sold. Had put down first months rent without hesitation. Forget the bad neighborhood. The sketchy characters skulking around could be avoided. The right tools couldn’t. She needed the income, and double ovens provided Amantha the opportunity to take on more than one customer at a time. More savings in the long run. A faster turnaround to reach her goals. The fact the five-story walk-up wasn’t far from Elise’s job at the museum and—

“Merde,” she whispered, her French accent thicker than usual. Amantha closed her eyes. She needed to recalibrate. Reset her brain. Erase her memory…something, anything…otherwise, the pain would never relent. “Elise, where the hell are you?”

The question echoed in the quiet, sucking the air from the room.

A lump in her throat, she slipped on her oven mitts. Covered by pictures of candy pinwheeling over bright red fabric, the pair settled on her hands like old friends—familiar, comforting, protective—as she peered through the glass doors. Perfect, golden pastries plumped up on baking sheets. Despite her heavy heart, her mouth curved in appreciation. Yup. Looked good. The chocolatines were ready to come out.

With a tug, she opened both doors at once. The scent of flaky pastry and melted chocolate rolled into the kitchen. Amantha breathed deep. Hmm, baby. She could smell that all night long and never get tired of it. Working fast, she pulled out the trays, set the load on cooling racks, and turned toward the muffins. Four tins of uncooked muffin batter went in. She closed the oven doors, ignoring the squeak of old hinges, and snatched the egg timer off the countertop. Twenty-two minutes until the next batch could go in, so onward and upward. Apple spice, here she came and—

An odd clicking sound caught her attention.

Worried about a malfunction, she glanced at the ovens. She jiggled the doors. No problem with the seals. She rechecked the temperature. All good. Everything working well, nothing to be concerned about—

The click came again.

A quiet creak followed.

Feet planted beside the island, she stood unmoving and listened. The click turned into a scratching noise. Her attention snapped toward the front door. Another creak, this one louder than the first. Her eyes narrowed. She recognized the sound. Heard it every time she stopped to unlock her door. Covered by carpet and warped by time, the floor dipped in the hallway in front her apartment, squeaking every time someone approached her door. So, either she was hearing things or—

The door knob turned.

She watched it rotate one way, then the other. Shock morphed into horror. Someone stood out in the hallway, trying to enter her apartment. At three in the freaking morning. Alarm bells rang inside her head. As the clamour got going, Amantha struggled to rein in her fear. One hand pressed to her chest, she played tug-of-war with her intellect. Calm down. Stay quiet. Think…think…think. No need to panic. Whoever stood out there wouldn’t get inside. Double deadbolts would ensure it. Those suckers were strong. Industrial sized. The best of the best. She’d ordered the new locks before moving in. Had watched as the locksmith tested each one multiple times.

The handle turned again.

The top deadbolt flipped open.

The snick made her breath hitch. Her heart took the hint and picked up a beat, pounding against the inside of her breastbone. An awful metallic taste invaded her mouth. Amantha shook her head. No way. Not possible. No one but her and Elise had keys and…

Amantha blinked.

“Merde de Dieu,” she whispered, an idea sparking to life. “Elise.”

Why hadn’t she thought of that before? Maybe her friend was home. Finally. After a month of being only God knew where. Maybe, she’d been wrong, and Ross right. Hope tightened its grip, shoving fear aside for a second. God be merciful. She was going to kill her best friend. She was going to skewer, then skin her for—

The second deadbolt scraped against metal, getting stuck halfway through the turn.

A soft curse drifted into the apartment from the hallway.

About to step around the island, Amantha came to a sudden stop. Her heart sank. A male voice. Deep, gravel-filled and…she swallowed…infused with a healthy dose of what sounded like anger. Definitely not Elise. And in no way friendly.

Panic skittered down her spine. What the hell was she going to do? Glancing over her shoulder, she eyed the narrow corridor exiting the kitchen. Two choices—hide under her bed and pray he went away or give the fire escape a try. Neither idea seemed safe. Cowering under furniture wasn’t her style. Neither was spending five minutes she didn’t have fighting with the window in her bedroom. The stupid thing always got stuck when she tried to open it. And the fire exit? Amantha cringed. No way would she make it down that thing alive. The rusty structure with weather-eaten stairs barely clung to the side of the building as it was, add weight and whoever stood on it would fall five stories, only to go splat on the sidewalk.

The door jolted as the intruder pulled up on the handle. The shift ended the stalemate as the second bolt unlocked in a slow swivel.

Gaze glued to the door, Amantha snatched the marble rolling pin off the countertop. She backed up a step. And then another, trying to be quiet. Option three sprang to mind. Air left her lungs in a rush. Holy hatpins—her cell phone. She needed to get to her phone and call the police. Right now, before the intruder-maybe-rapist broke in and she lost her chance. Clutching her weapon, she scanned the living room, trying to remember where she’d dropped her purse. Not hanging on the coat rack. Not on the end table next to the door. Her eyes tracked to the purple love seat and…thank God. A brown leather strap peaked out from behind the backrest.

Tarnished brass hinges groaned as the door started to open.

Fear carried her forward, around the kitchen island into the living room. A large shadow fell across the carpet as light from the hallway illuminated her intruder from behind and…goddamn him along with the apartment layout. Sitting adjacent to the entrance, the love seat less sat than six feet from the front door. Now, it was too late. She’d never make to her purse without him seeing her. And given the size of the shadow he cast, she refused to be within striking distance when he stepped over the threshold.

Abandoning the idea of reaching her phone, Amantha veered left and slid in behind the door. The heavy wood panel swung all the way open. A man came into view. A death grip on the marble rolling pin, she focused on the back of his head.

Tall guy. Dark red hair. An excellent target.

Muscles quaking, she raised her weapon and, holding her breath, waited. She needed a clear shot. If she missed on the first try, she wouldn’t get a second. The width of his shoulders told her all she needed to know: he was strong. Much stronger than her. Which meant, if he got a hold of her, there would be no need to call the police. She’d already be dead.