New York to Dallas (In Death 33)

When he came, the lights came with him, stinging her eyes. Groggy, so groggy, and sick. But it was Bree on the ’link. Her face, her voice. She tried so hard to stay calm, to think clearly through the thick dregs of the drug.

Sarajo, she thought again. His partner. He always worked with a woman. Oh, she’d read and studied everything on Isaac McQueen. Made herself read it, watch it, know it.

And still, she’d walked right into his hands. Again.

He hadn’t raped her. But he wouldn’t be interested in her that way now. She wasn’t a young girl.

Thank God there were no young girls here. At least, she prayed there were none.

He wanted her for another reason. Revenge? But she’d been one of many. He couldn’t possibly plan or hope to collect all the survivors again.

No, no, too much time and risk, and for what?

She tried to find some comfort on the floor of the room, tried to clear the smear on her mind from the drug. There had to be a reason for taking her, specifically her. For God’s sake her sister was a cop now, sharing the apartment with her. Surely one of the others would have been easier prey.

Yet he’d targeted her, specifically, again. Sarajo had reported the rape months before. Nearly a year, yes, almost a year before. So he’d set the wheels in motion long before the abduction.

Why?

Something she’d done, something she was.

She and Bree had been his last? Was it as simple as that? Picking up somehow where he’d left off? It didn’t make any sense, she thought. Why waste time with her? Once he’d gotten out, why waste time?

So she served a purpose, he always had one. Or represented something. Was she bait to lure Bree, so he’d have them both?

Oh God, Bree. Bree, Bree.

This time the panic won, stealing her breath, pounding hard in her blood. The shackles cut into her skin as she fought against them in blind fear and rage.

Not her sister. Not again.

She heard the locks click and slide, and fought a bitter, painful war for control. Remembering, she closed her eyes an instant before the lights flared on. Still, the hot red haze burned against her lids.

The woman, she realized, hearing the click of heels, catching the scent of perfume.

She’d dressed for him, Melinda thought, groomed for him.

And I’m the stupid bitch, she thought, digging for some grit. She’s not smart enough to know she’s as disposable for him as an empty tube of Coke.

She opened her eyes slowly, looked into the face of the woman she’d thought wanted and needed her help.

Yes, groomed for him, with lip dye and blond hair freshly fluffed around her shoulders.

Older than McQueen, trying to be younger in the short, snug red dress and high heels.

Melinda buried the disdain.

Sarajo—think of her as Sarajo—carried a sandwich on a plate—disposable, just as she was—and a cup of water. Might be drugged, Melinda thought, but put gratitude on her face.

“He doesn’t want you to starve to death.”

“Thank you. I’m hungry. Is it very late?”

“Too late for you.”

“Please, Sarajo, I don’t know what you want. What he wants. If you’d tell me I could try to get it for you, or do it for you.”

“We’ve already got what we want from you. Bleeding hearts like you, you’re all the same. Weak and stupid.”