10:15 p.m.

By the time we arrived in the residential neighborhood, Reaper’s house was in total darkness. Judging by the outside, you’d never imagine a serial killer lived here. Granted, he killed via the computer. For all I knew, we could be looking for a teenager.

“You sure this is the right address, babe?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not like the houses are on top of one another. This has to be the place.”

“What’s your plan, exactly? I still think we should bring in the local LEOs. In Pittsburgh, we’re ordinary citizens. Without jurisdiction there can be no probable cause to enter the home legally.”

I shot him a look. He should know better. “I’m really not worried about it. So what, if we enter illegally. I just wanna quick peek around before I call it in. No harm in that, right?”

“Actually, no. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You get caught, and both our asses are on the line.”

“Then why don’t you swing around the block a few times. That way you can honestly say you had no idea what I was doin’.”

“Who’s gonna watch your back? No way. I’m not leaving you alone. Too risky. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

“I’ll be fine. Let’s do this. Kill the dome light.” After a quick kiss I exited the jeep, careful to nudge the door closed quietly enough not to arouse suspicion. Prowling around the side of the ranch-style home, I searched for a window left ajar. With the scorching temps lately, there’s bound to be one. Unless the house had AC. Even then, window units morphed into easy access points. The pad didn’t appear nice enough for central air. No condenser outside confirmed my theory.

Perfect.

I stalked into the backyard, and a spotlight blazed on. Flattened against the house, my heart beat out my chest. Not that I didn’t enjoy the rush of adrenaline, but now was not the time to dance with the devil. I needed to get inside unnoticed. Once the light died, I gave the screen a couple taps to the sides and it glided up the tracks like melted butterscotch over ice cream. One last glance in all directions and I climbed inside.

Antiseptic wafted in the air. Overpowering too, like I’d stepped off the elevator at a hospital rather than climbed through a bedroom window. Flashlight leveled, I scanned the room. A queen-sized bed, sheets crumpled at the footboard. Clothes strewn about the beige carpet.

I padded to the doorway. Would I meet someone coming down the hall? Why weren’t they in bed?

It wouldn’t be the first time I’d encountered a stranger in the dark, but after almost getting my head blown off by a tweaker and butchered by a serial killer, I kind of hoped it’d be the last.

I’d made it to the next door on the right when a low, guttural growl stopped me cold. Slowly, I rotated.

A Rottweiler bared his teeth, and all oxygen depleted from my lungs. The worst thing I could do was run. Being mauled and having my face ripped off wasn’t high on my to-do list. In the past I’ve brought steak pieces laced with mild sedatives. Not to harm the dogs, only to knock them out long enough for me to escape. Worked too. Sadly, tonight I had neither, and he obviously wouldn’t hesitate to sink his teeth into a juicy cat burglar.

“Nice doggie.”

Snarling, spit dripped off his canines.

“Who’s a good boy?” I said in an excited tone. “You’re a good boy, huh? Yeah.”

His stubby tail swished side to side. This dog was no killer. He’s a lovebug. Would he kill to protect his domain? Probably. Therein lied the rub.

“Wanna treat?” Dear God, let there be something in this house to appease him.

The Rottie trotted passed me, into the kitchen. In front of a spotless counter he sat on his haunches, eyes pinned on a cookie jar. I lifted the lid. The smell alone made his backend shimmer and shake.

When I raised the milk bone from the jar, a sloppy smile spread across his face, stubby tail wagging like a metronome on crack. “Here ya go, buddy.” Gently he gummed the treat from my gloved-hand, so I mused the fur on his blocky head. “You’re such a good boy.”

For insurance I stuffed a few extra bones in my pockets before searching the place for evidence to link Reaper to the string of murders.

Nothing inherently special struck me about the home. The living room décor might be well past its expiration date, but the entire home was neat and tidy. No dishes lying around. No empty glasses or overfilled ash trays. Other than the bedroom I entered first, everything had order.

I twisted the handle on the final door. When I swung it open, an invisible force walloped me in the heart, stopping it mid-beat. A hospital bed sat in the center of the room, a Paw Patrol comforter lounged across matching sheets and pillowcase, and multiple prescription bottles covered the side table. Beside the bed stood an IV rack, clear tubing dangling from a half-empty bag.

This, I never expected. Was I in the right house?

Cookie Monster snuck up behind me, and I nearly catapulted across the room. Once I managed to get ahold of what was left of my shredded nerves, I withdrew one of the milk bones from my pocket.

In anticipation, a long strip of drool leaked out the side of his mouth, his dark eyes pinned on the cookie. As I handed him the treat, I told him, “Go lay down like a good boy, and I might give you another.”

Well-trained, he trotted to a dog bed in the corner of the room, and I turned my attention to the pill bottles. The name on the label: Joshua Urban. Next to a desk lamp I found literature on polycystic kidney disease.

How did kidney disease relate to the murder spree? Or did one thing not relate to the other?

It wasn’t until I found the home computer that pieces of this twisted jigsaw puzzle began to fall into place. Folded under the keyboard was a newspaper article dated days before the first murder. The headline read, “Two dead in fatal car crash.”

Hacking the password, I found a mountain of evidence against Reaper, including his real name. Which, by the way, wasn’t a he at all. Her name was Ashley Urban. Thirty-three-years-old. Single mom. Two kids, one dead, the other battling an unmerciful health condition. No wonder she snapped. Ford recalled almost a half-million vehicles due to sticky gas pedals. The cruise control cables snagged on the plastic cover atop the engine and caused the gas pedals to stick wide-open. Course, it took two deaths, nine accidents, and multiple other near-misses for them to take action. Sadly, nine-year-old, Kyle Urban, and his nineteen-year-old babysitter, Mandy Lynch, lost their lives.

If Ashley Urban wanted retribution, why not kill the bigwigs at Ford? Why murder innocent people?