“Now the gun,” Tiffany whispered. “You have to get rid of the gun now. He can see it.” No more screams. Just a rough, muffled plea.
Alice didn’t put down the gun.
“He sees you. He’s always watching,” Tiffany continued, voice husky with tears. “He has a knife at my throat right now, and I can feel it cutting me. Please…please…put the gun down. Just put it on the headstone beside you.”
But Alice hesitated. If the perp had a knife at Tiffany’s throat, and if he was watching… “You’re here, aren’t you?” In the cemetery. The perp wasn’t going to lure her to another location, like the FBI suspected. The perp was there. The FBI was supposed to be watching the cemetery from all angles. They’d thought for sure that she would be taken to another location.
But they’d been wrong. The killer was there. He was inside with her.
“The gun, Alice!” Tiffany’s voice broke. “Put it down, he’s—ah, he’s hurting me!”
Dammit. Alice put down the gun. She lifted her right hand in the air, showing that she wasn’t armed any longer. Her tracking device was gone, but the FBI was still monitoring her phone. They’d hear everything that was being said. They’d rush inside.
“Now walk forward,” Tiffany told her, voice low and thin. “He says…F-forward twenty feet. Turn at the broken angel. D-don’t pick up your gun. H-he’ll kill me…” Her breath heaved out. “And drop your phone. He says…l-leave it there…” The call ended.
“I hope to hell you got all of that,” Alice muttered. The FBI had better have gotten that. She dropped her phone onto the ground and hurried forward. Twenty feet? She wasn’t sure where—
The broken angel. Beneath the moonlight, she saw the statue. The wings had fallen away, and the angel seemed to be grieving as he looked down into…an open grave.
A large hole had been dug into the earth. The hole was the perfect size for a coffin. A deep and wide hole, one that disappeared far below. Alice stopped right near that massive opening, her gaze sliding into the darkness that waited below.
Footsteps rushed toward her. Alice spun around just as Tiffany appeared from the darkness. The woman’s face was twisted and desperate, and she hurtled right at Alice. Alice reached out her hands, trying to grab for the other woman—
And Tiffany shoved Alice. Shoved her hard, and Alice slipped on the loose dirt. She tumbled back, falling into the gaping hole. Falling right into the open grave that waited for her. Alice hit hard, landing on her back, and the wind was knocked from her lungs. For a moment, she didn’t move, a moment that seemed to last forever. Then Alice looked up.
Tiffany stood on the edge of the open grave. She had a gun in her hand. “Hello, bitch,” Tiffany told her, triumph thick in her voice. “You’re finally where you belong.”
***
“Close in!” Zander snarled into the headpiece. “Fucking swarm, now. He’s in the cemetery. Get agents inside!” Zander didn’t hesitate. He hurtled over the old fence and landed easily on the other side. Alice’s phone call had been fed into his listening device, and he’d never been more grateful for the techs that worked at the FBI. He rushed through the darkness, looking for the broken angel. And it was right there. Up ahead. He could see it—
He advanced without a sound, his gun up and ready. I’m here, Alice.
A dark-haired woman stood a few feet away. She lifted a gun and aimed into what looked like an open grave. The wind blew her hair back—
Not Alice. Not my Alice!
“Stop!” Zander yelled. “FBI!”
She didn’t stop. She fired. The blast echoed around him.
He bellowed, “Drop the weapon! Drop it fucking now!”
Laughing, she spun toward him. Tiffany Shaw. “Too late!” She didn’t drop the weapon. She pointed it at him. “She’s gone. Dead in the grave, just like he is.”
No, dammit, no!
“She never deserved him. Alice wasn’t perfect. Alice wasn’t good enough. She didn’t appreciate him.” The moonlight showed Tiffany’s features so clearly—she was smiling. “I read the stories. Realized the Secret Admirer was looking for me. Me. I’m the woman he always wanted. I have the dark hair. I have the blue eyes. I’m perfect. Perfect for him. Alice was just in the way. So I put her where she belonged.” Tiffany took a step forward. “Alice is in the ground. Dead in the grave.” Tiffany’s voice took on a sing-song quality. “Alice is in the ground. Dead in the—”
“Drop the fucking gun, or I will shoot you.” Fear had iced Zander’s veins. Alice couldn’t be dead. Hell, no.
But Tiffany shook her head. “No, how about I shoot—” Her words ended in a scream because someone had just grabbed Tiffany. Hands had shot out of the open grave. Hands that locked around Tiffany’s ankles and yanked her, hard. Tiffany twisted and slammed face-first into the ground. Then she rolled, screaming, and she crawled for the grave, trying to aim her gun again, trying to shoot into that hole—
Trying to shoot at Alice.
“Stop!” Zander yelled.
Tiffany didn’t.
So he fired. The bullet blasted into Tiffany’s back. She’d just shoved to her knees as she took aim, and the bullet plunged into her. She let out another scream, and her upper body spun toward him as she took aim at Zander—
He fired again. A shot to her chest. Her eyes bulged. She gasped. Shuddered.
Then she fell. Her body sagged back, then slipped right into the open grave.
Zander ran forward. He could hear the frantic rush of footsteps as the other agents closed in. “Alice!” Zander roared her name. He fell to his knees at the edge of the open grave, his gaze flying below—
Tiffany was in the grave. Bleeding. Twitching. And Alice was crouched beside her. Alice’s hand was on Tiffany’s cheek. It looked like Tiffany was talking.
Zander jumped into the grave.
“I-I…was…p-perfect…” Tiffany’s voice slurred.
Alice shook her head. “No one is perfect.”
But Tiffany didn’t hear her. Because Tiffany Shaw—
She was dead. Her eyes had sagged shut, and her body had gone still. Zander put his hand to Tiffany’s throat, just to be sure. No pulse.
“She wasn’t a victim.” Alice’s soft voice.
He caught her hand in his. Lifted her up. “Baby, I saw her shoot—I thought she’d killed you!”
Alice was still staring at Tiffany’s face. “Bulletproof vest. She knew I had the tracker on me, but she didn’t know about the vest.” She rubbed her chest. “Hurts like hell, but I’m okay—”
He yanked her into his arms. Crushed her against him. Held her as tight as he could.
“I don’t want to be in a grave,” Alice whispered. “Please, get me the hell out of here. I managed to jump up and grab her legs, but I couldn’t get out.”
He pulled back so he could stare at her beautiful face.
A tear slid down her cheek. “I don’t want to be in a grave,” she said again, voice ragged.
He lifted her up. “Randall!” Zander yelled. “Get Alice’s arms!”
And his partner was there. His partner, four other agents, some deputies—they’d all come running. They’d all been ready to take out the Secret Admirer.
Randall caught Alice’s arms and lifted her out of the grave.
“She wasn’t the victim,” Alice said again, her words drifting back to Zander. “I thought…I was helping her. But Tiffany—it was her. Her all along.”
Zander glanced down at the body once more. Tiffany Shaw’s eyes were closed, but it sure as hell looked as if a faint smile curled her lips.
Chapter Twelve
“A crime scene team made an interesting discovery at Tiffany Shaw’s place.” Zander paced around the small conference room at the sheriff’s station. “I had a hunch, and they followed up on it…The woman was wild for the Secret Admirer, so I thought she might be imitating him in other ways.” And he’d been right. “There was a loose floorboard in her bedroom closet.” Just like there had been one in A
lice’s closet. “When they pulled it up…” He pointed to the evidence bags on the table. “They found that shit.”
Newspaper clippings. Magazine stories. Tales that seemed to glamourize all of the Secret Admirer’s kills.
“She was obsessed,” Randall added. He sat in one of the chairs near the small table, a line of shadow covering his jaw. “She got hooked on the killer. I’m sure the shrinks will say she developed some fancy disorder or had some dissociative episode, but the truth is—”
“She was a killer.” Alice’s voice was flat. Her cheeks were too pale, and her grip on the cup of coffee in front of her seemed too tight. Alice’s gaze darted to Zander. “She killed Cara McCoy, didn’t she?”
He nodded. “We’re waiting for a ballistics match, but…” He yanked a hand over his face. “Tiffany had a bag stashed near the grave she’d dug at the cemetery. We found a rifle in that bag. Same type of gun, same type of bullet used at your cabin, so yeah, I think she killed Cara.”
“And Julianna Stiles,” Randall added with a sad sigh. “Because we found a picture of Julianna shoved in with all of the newspaper clippings that Tiffany had in her closet.”
Alice shook her head. “Why? Why kill Julianna? Why come after me? Why do any of this?”
Zander knew Randall was right. The shrinks would come up with a reason. An explanation as to how and why the woman’s life had broken apart and she’d turned to murder, but from where Zander was standing…from what he’d seen with other cases… “When Randall said she was obsessed, he’s right. We’ve seen others get obsessed with killers. Tiffany Shaw was fixated. She knew the Secret Admirer was looking for perfection, and she wanted to be his perfect match. And if she was going to be that person…”
“Then Julianna had to die,” Randall muttered.
“Because she had dark hair and blue eyes?” Alice asked, her lower lip trembling.
“Because she was a test. A practice run.” That was what Zander thought, anyway, and he hated to say it, but—
Alice’s eyes widened. “Julianna was a practice kill…because Tiffany was working her way up to me?”
Yes.
Her shoulders slumped. “Can I go home now? Is it all over?”