Die For Me: A Novel of the Valentine Killer (For Me 1)

The coffee mug slipped from Katherine’s hand and shattered on the floor. No, please, no.

“Katherine? Katherine, you okay?” Joe frowned at her.

She stood, stumbled back, and rammed into Ben Miller, another frequent early morning patron of the café.

His hands wrapped around her shoulders to steady her. “Did you get burned?” His brown eyes were worried.

Shaking her head, she hurriedly pulled away from him. Moving away was instinctive for her.

She’d been coming to the small café since she moved to New Orleans, and she usually talked to both Ben and Joe each morning.

She didn’t want to talk then. And she didn’t want either of them touching her. Katherine’s gaze flew back to the TV.

“Viewers may remember another killer who bound his victims in a similar way, before he stabbed them in the heart,” the reporter continued, eyes piercing through the screen. The lady had done her homework. “Michael O’Rourke was suspected of torturing and murdering four women in Boston. He was dubbed the Valentine Killer because he always stabbed his female victims in the heart and left each victim holding a red rose in her palm.” A dramatic pause. “His last kill was almost three years ago, and though several manhunts have been conducted as authorities tried to track O’Rourke, he has never been captured. Several law enforcement officials with the Boston Police Department have even theorized that the infamous killer may have taken his own life in order to avoid facing a lifetime behind bars.”

“I remember that guy,” Ben murmured. “A sick sonofabitch.”

Yes, he had been.

The reporter was still talking. “With Valentine’s Day just a few days away, police would not speculate as to whether the killer was Valentine or a copycat who could be looking to emulate his crimes.”

The room went dim. A dull roar filled Katherine’s ears, and she was pretty sure she was about to faint. “I-I’m sick, Joe. Sorry…got to…go.” Then she turned and ran—or weaved—and barely heard Joe and Ben as they called out after her.

Her hands slammed into the door, and then she was outside. The warm air—it always seemed to be warm in New Orleans, even in February—hit her like a slap, but it couldn’t banish the chill from her bones.

Savannah Slater had been stabbed in the heart. Katherine knew Savannah. And with the story that Savannah had been pursuing, there was no way the manner of her death could be a coincidence.

A message, yes, but anything else?

No, no, no.

This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be.

A nightmare. Maybe she was dreaming. Or maybe the bastard had hunted her down. He’d told her…I’ll never let you go.

Cars buzzed on the streets. Katherine locked her arms around her stomach and looked to the left, to the right.

So many people. Too many.

And Valentine’s Day was creeping ever closer.

Please God, no.

She didn’t want to live through this hell again. She couldn’t.

With determined steps, Katherine entered the police station. Voices shouted, phones rang, and chaos filled the air.

She held her purse close as she made her way up to the main desk. “Um, excuse me…”

The cop didn’t glance up.

Katherine cleared her throat and tried again. “Excuse me.”

Bushy brows rose as the guy focused on her. “Something I can do for you, miss?”

“I need to see Detective Black, please. Dane Black.” Thanks to the news report, his name was branded in her mind.

The cop pointed to the left. “Take the hallway, second turn on your right. His desk is number four.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re gonna have to sign in first, miss.” He pushed a clipboard toward her. “And I’ll need to see your ID.”

She scribbled her name on the page. Handed him her ID. He barely seemed to glance at it before handing the license back to her. Then Katherine straightened her shoulders and turned away from him. Her heels tapped on the tiled floor. With every step she took, her heart beat harder.

The hallway stretched forever. For-freaking-ever. She wanted to walk faster, to run to Detective Black, but she forced herself to keep it slow.

Don’t draw any more attention than you have to.

The second turn led to a giant room that housed half a dozen desks. Some were occupied. Some empty. She counted as she walked forward. One. Two. Three. F—

“Look, I don’t care who the hell you are,” the big male with black hair snarled into his phone as he stood near desk number four. “I want to know who leaked you that information, and I want to know now.”

She tensed at the fury in his voice.

“You weren’t helping anyone. You were trying to up your ratings, and now I’ve got a city in a panic because you all but told them the Valentine Killer was hunting in New Orleans.” His fingers tightened around the phone. “When I find out who leaked the info to you, I’ll nail his ass to the wall.” Then he slammed down the phone.

He spun around and faced Katherine, and she jerked back.

Detective Black’s eyes—a deep, dark blue—widened when he saw her. “Who are you?” he asked. The light drawl of the South in his voice.

She swallowed and tried to loosen her death grip on her purse. “My name’s Katherine Cole, and I wanted to talk to you about Savannah Slater.”

He blinked. The detective really was a handsome man. His features were strong, almost rough, but still handsome. Square jaw. High cheekbones. A nose that looked like it had been broken a time or two. She noticed that a faint scar curled under his lower lip.

She tilted her head back to better study him. The detective towered over her. He had to be at least six foot two, maybe three, and had wide, strong shoulders.

“What do you know about Savannah Slater?” he demanded, and he didn’t exactly sound friendly.

I know too much. But she couldn’t tell him that. The last thing she wanted was to find herself shoved into one of the cells at the police station. Well, actually, that wasn’t the last thing.

“I have a few questions,” Katherine whispered.

More phones rang. Detective Black swore and grabbed her arm. “Come with me.” He hustled her toward a small room in the back. Not a cell, just some kind of interrogation room. She’d been in rooms like that one before. He pushed her inside and slammed the door shut behind him.

“You’re a reporter.” Detective Black glared at her, and his firm lips tightened even more. “Look, I’m not giving you a quote, I’m not giving you a scoop, I’m not giving you anything now.”