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escape.
She had been so special to him, too.
Reaching the cinder-block building, he unlocked the door with his key, flipping on the overhead light as he went inside. Unoccupied. The redhead was rightfully gone, but she should still be here.
He’d first noticed her name bylining the articles on the missing women. His girls. Then a column had run that included her photo. He took a clipped copy from a drawer in his workbench and studied it. The window-box air conditioner behind him hummed. Here, he kept things as cool as he liked.
She was older now, of course. But even after all these years he had still recognized her. What were the chances he’d found her? And that she was a reporter, covering his…work. He didn’t believe in coincidence. It was almost as if it were meant to be.
Allan’s inner voice—the voice of reason—spoke.
She got away and you got lucky. It’s too dangerous. You have to forget about her now.
Pick someone else.
He’d gotten rusty, that was all. Too much time spent trying to keep a low profile, until his darker urges had finally won out. No more Mr. Sloppy, he admonished himself.
The morning’s paper had said the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit was being called in. That couldn’t be helped now and truth be told, it made Allan feel important.
His lips formed a thin smile as he thought of Special Agent Eric Macfarlane and the bond they had shared.

3
     
F or the first time in days, Mia felt somewhat at ease. Will had been right—the trip out had done her a world of good. Returning home, she sat in the passenger side of his Porsche convertible, feeling the warm breeze whipping her new, shorter hair. It was a blunt cut, just off her shoulders and about eight inches shorter than her usual style.
“A good haircut is better than Xanax,” Will proclaimed, briefly studying her through the dark tint of his sunglasses as he drove.
“Thanks for lunch…and for everything else.”
He shrugged. “I’m just using you to assist in my procrastination.”
“The new book?”
“I missed my deadline. Again.” He smiled, his dimples deepening. He and Justin had kept Mia entertained at lunch with their hilarious and at times ribald stories, and afterward the three of them had strolled along the scenic Riverwalk among the tourists and joggers until Justin had to leave for a meeting. It had been a distraction technique, she knew, but she deeply appreciated the effort.
“What happened to you this week, Mia…a lot of people wouldn’t be able to get past it.” He sounded serious for the first time since they’d headed out.
She sighed. “I just need things to get back to normal, that’s all.”
“What you need is a break from what you consider normal—writing about people inflicting violence on one another.” He shook his head, his fingers loosely gripping the steering wheel. “Why don’t you take some time off from all that? And I mean more than a few days—a real sabbatical. You’ve got Grayson Miller wrapped around your finger. He’d break his neck giving it to you, and with a paycheck, probably. I don’t care what kind of shape the newspaper industry’s in.”
When Mia looked at him, he added, “You do know he’s in love with you, right?”
She watched the scenery pass by, not wanting to think about Grayson in that way.
They entered San Marco Square with its endless supply of art galleries and cafés. Everywhere, people were milling about on the narrow, tree-shaded sidewalks. Traveling past the renowned giant statue of the three lions at the square’s main intersection, they took a right and headed onto one of the side streets. San Marco was a diverse community, with multifamily apartment buildings and quaint, two-bedroom bungalows interspersed with enormous riverside mansions. Will and Justin had renovated a large, Tuscan-style manor on Alhambra Avenue accented by a terra-cotta, barrel-tile roof and graceful stucco staircases on the exterior. The former single-family residence now consisted of