Chosen To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

“Then punish me. Please.” She hated to plead with him, to buy into hi

s twisted game, but she couldn’t have another woman’s death on her hands.

“Oh, believe me, I am,” he said, his voice smooth as snake oil. “I’m punishing you and tormenting you. Forever. Elyssa O’Leary’s death. It will be your fault, Pescoli. Hers and the others. All your fault. Think about that. You signed their death sentences and you’ll live knowing you sent them to their fates.”

She felt battered inside. Stripped bare. How many did this sick, sick man plan to kill? How many would she know were going to be slaughtered? “You can’t do this,” she whispered.

“Who’s going to stop me? You?”

“The police—”

“Grayson? That cocky buffoon? Or that shrewd

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little partner of yours?” he taunted. “How about Nate Santana?”

“You better hope he never finds you.”

“Oh. I’m scared. Shivering in my boots.”

“You should be.” Her voice cut like steel and for a second he actually quit treating her with contempt.

“He’ll make you wish you were never born.”

“Right.”

“You can’t do this,” she repeated and watched as his mouth twisted into a smile of pure evil.

“Watch me.”

And then he was gone, the door opening and closing with a thud.

“No, oh . . . oh, please, no,” she whispered, bleeding to her soul. Naked, shivering on the floor, Pescoli stared at the dark, closed door and knew with terrifying certainty that she’d just sent an innocent woman to her death.

As surely as if she’d stabbed Elyssa O’Leary in the heart.

Chapter Twenty-One

Screw playing by the rules!

Santana climbed out of his cabin desk chair and walked to the window. There was still a cop car at the main house on the Long estate, but as he watched, it, like all the other county-owned vehicles, pulled away and drove down the long lane, taillights reflecting red against the snow, blinking as the Jeep passed behind trees.

He wondered if he was being watched and found he didn’t care. Regan was missing, a maniac was on the loose, and somehow Brady Long’s death might be tied to the damned Star-Crossed Killer. After leaving the police to look into the tire tracks running along the edge of the property, Santana had returned to his cabin with Nakita. The dog had taken up his favorite position near the fire and was snoring softly, but Santana was too keyed up to relax. He’d already taken care of the livestock, then

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pulled out several maps of the area, including one issued by the forest service, then on the Internet he’d checked the latest satellite and topographical maps.

“Where are you, you son of a bitch?” he muttered as he marked all the locations where the bodies and wrecked cars had been found and decided his map probably duplicated what the Pinewood County Sheriff’s Department and FBI had already created.

“And who are you?”

Someone who knew Brady Long.