She froze.
Her gaze riveted to the paper.
“Oh, God.”
Shannon’s insides turned to water as she stared at the scrap of white. It had been singed, the edges curling and black. And someone had tacked it to the post with a green pushpin.
Heart thundering in her ears, Shannon stepped closer. The charred paper was a form of some kind, she realized. Adjusting her glasses she read the smudged, partially burned words that were still visible in the middle of the document.
Mother’s name: Shannon Leah Flan—
Father’s name: Brendan Giles
She gasped.
Her breath froze in her lungs.
Date of Birth: September twenty-thr—
Time of Birth: 12:07 A.M.
>
“No!” she cried, dropping the water bottle and hearing it roll off the porch as if from a distance. September twenty-three! Her mind raced. Tomorrow. No, that was wrong. It was already after midnight, so today was the twenty-third of September and the call…Oh, God, the phone call had come in at precisely 12:07. Knees buckling, she leaned against the porch rail, her gaze scouring the darkness, searching for whoever had done this to her, whoever had wanted to bring back all the pain. “You son of a bitch,” she bit out through clenched teeth. Despite the hot night she was chilled to the core.
Thirteen years ago, on September twenty-third, at exactly seven minutes after twelve midnight, Shannon had given birth to a seven-pound baby girl.
She hadn’t seen the child since.
Chapter 2
He stood before the fire, feeling its heat, listening to the crackle of flames as they devoured the tinder-dry kindling. With all the shades drawn, he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, the crisp white cotton falling off his shoulders as moss ignited, hissing. Sparking.
Above the mantel was a mirror and he watched himself undress, looked at his perfectly honed body, muscles moving easily, flexing, and sliding beneath the taut skin of an athlete.
He glanced at his eyes. Blue. Icy. Described by one woman as “bedroom eyes,” by another as “cold eyes,” by yet another unsuspecting woman as “eyes that had seen too much.”
They’d all been right, he thought, and flashed a smile. A “killer smile,” he’d heard.
Bingo.
The women had no idea how close to the truth they’d all been.
He was handsome and he knew it. Not good-looking enough to turn heads on the street, but so interesting that women, once they noticed him, had trouble looking away.
There had been a time when he’d picked and chosen and rarely been denied.
He unbuckled his leather belt, let it fall to the hardwood floor. His slacks slid easily off his butt down his legs and pooled at his feet. He hadn’t bothered with boxers or jockeys. Who cared? It was all about outward appearances.
Always.
His smile fell away as he walked closer to the mantel, feeling the heat already radiating from the old bricks. Pictures in frames stood at attention upon the smooth wood. Images he’d caught when his subject didn’t realize he or she was on camera. People who knew him. Or of him. People who had to pay. The kid, the old lady, the brothers. All caught on film without their knowledge.
Fools!
Behind the pictures was his hunting knife. Bone-handled with a thin steel blade that could cut easily, slice through any living thing. Fur, skin, hide, muscle, bone, sinew—all cleaved easily with the right amount of exertion.
The knife was his second choice for a weapon.