Twisted (Burbank and Parker 1)

Richard Stockton College

4:20 P.M.

The wind had picked up, and there was a cold rain falling in a steady stream as Sloane trudged back to her car. So much for the spring weather. The sun and

fair skies had deteriorated as the day progressed.

The day itself had been long and intense. First the meeting with the campus police. Then hours stationed at Lake Fred questioning anyone and everyone—until the rain had sent them all scurrying inside. Last, interviewing faculty members and students. A few tentative leads. Nothing rock solid—yet.

All that was just the tip of the iceberg.

Derek and Tom had slashed their way through academic red tape. With just the right choice of words, they’d convinced the college president that it would be in his best interest to cooperate—and to exert influence on the campus police to do everything the FBI asked ASAP. Records and CCTV footage would be retrieved and produced swiftly. Flyers with pictures of Penny would be posted all over campus, and an e-mail blast would go out asking all those who were residents of housing overlooking Lake Fred last April to contact the campus police or the FBI. Ditto for those who’d attended classes in key lecture halls overlooking Lake Fred.

Sloane wasn’t discouraged. She’d known this was going to be a tedious process. But she wasn’t going away. Come hell or high water, she was going to find out what had happened to Penny.

She couldn’t wait to get into her car and put on the heat. Not so much for the chill in her body, but for the throbbing in her hand. This kind of weather was the absolute worst for her injury.

That wasn’t in the cards. Lady Luck had another surprise in store for her. The minute Sloane reached the parking lot, she saw that her car was leaning heavily to the right. A flat. She could spot it from yards away. The right front tire looked like a pancake.

Great. Just what she needed to complete her day.

She squatted beside the car to take a look. It took three seconds to zero in on the nail that had punctured her tire.

Okay, she thought, tossing her briefcase and purse into the car, then rising and going to the trunk to get the tools she needed. So much for her Tahari suit. Now it would be waterlogged, filthy, and torn.

Ruining her clothes turned out to be the least of her problems. She’d forgotten that it had been several years since she’d changed a flat. Which meant that the last time had predated her injury.

Jacking up the car wouldn’t be too bad. She’d bought one of those hydraulic floor jacks. But removing the tire was hell. Thanks to the chill of winter, the lug nuts weren’t cooperating. The second one was tight—very tight. Twisting it took all Sloane’s strength, and dug the wrench into her palm. And the third one was frozen solid, and wasn’t budging. After ten minutes of battling it, Sloane was sweating and tears had filled her eyes from the intensity of the pain. Her scar tissue was throbbing, her index finger was numb, and the nerve pain in her hand was shooting all the way up her arm.

Swearing, she threw down the wrench and flipped open her phone. It was either call a gas station or flag down some students—who were nowhere to be found, thanks to the rain. And Derek and Tom were still in a meeting, so she wasn’t about to interrupt them.

So a gas station it was.

She punched on the phone—and was greeted by the fact that she had eleven missed calls, all from a restricted caller.

She was still staring at the missed-call messages and fuming over the fact that she’d received them, when she got that feeling again—like someone was watching her. She raised her head slowly and looked around, pretending to scan the area for someone who could potentially assist her with the flat.

There was no one in plain sight. That meant nothing, since whoever was out there didn’t want to be seen. But he was there. She could sense it.

It was the where and the why that was irking her.

At that precise moment, her cell phone rang again, flashing the restricted call in the caller-ID screen.

Livid about this invasion of her personal space, Sloane refused to give in to the jerk responsible. No way would she give him the satisfaction of answering his call, or appearing to be panicked by the realization that she was being harassed. In fact, she’d act as if his call, and its significance, hadn’t even registered in her mind.

To that end, she made a loud exasperated sound and turned off her phone, flipping it closed as if opting to ignore any incoming calls in lieu of getting help to fix her car. She’d psych Mr. Restricted out by denying him the very reaction he sought.

Despite her bravado, Sloane wasn’t a fool. She knew that her caller was more than just an obnoxious telephone harasser. Whoever he was, his actions were personal. He was, at the very least, watching her and trying to scare her with his nonstop phone calls. At worst, he was someone with a personal vendetta, and was acting out, maybe even going so far as to shove a nail in her tire to cause her flat.

The good news was that, just like the other morning in her backyard, he wasn’t coming after her. It was the same scenario. He’d had ample time and opportunity. She was alone, the parking lot was deserted, and the area was thickly wooded. Yet he hadn’t assaulted her.

No, this was a head game—for the time being. But she had no intention of letting it continue. Whoever this son of a bitch was, she’d find out—today—and get a new cell-phone number in the process.

The hell with the gas station. She wasn’t calling them while dodging this wack job. She’d take a walk in the rain and find a blue light phone to call campus security. They’d help change her tire. Then she’d get out of here, get in touch with the right someones, and initiate a trace on her mystery pest.

She threw her tools into the trunk of her car and locked it. What a fine way to end the day. She looked and felt like a drowned rat, her car was out of commission, her hand and arm were throbbing like hell, and she was being stalked by some weirdo. It couldn’t get much worse.

Evidently, she was wrong.