Never Die Alone

“You think you can see inside the mind of a serial killer?” he asked.

“Maybe.” She was suddenly defensive, her patience obviously wearing thin.

“Why’s that?”

“I’m a psychologist.”

Holy Mother Mary. A shrink. Just what he needed. “Criminal psychologist?”

“Crime isn’t my speciality, but I’ve taken classes—”

“Perfect.” A shrink, but also a student of criminal psychology? And related to Donovan Caldwell? This was going nowhere and fast.

As if reading his mind, she said, “My credentials aren’t important. If I’m right, it means that the 21 Killer is still out there and he’s got Zoe and Chloe De

He felt the chill of déjà vu run through his bones. Hadn’t another woman, one he thought might be a lunatic, come raging into this very office years ago? Swearing she could “see” the crimes of a killer, she’d ranted in front of his desk. Hadn’t he scoffed at her, written her off as a nut job, and then eventually become swayed that she knew something? That woman, Olivia Benchet, was now his wife.

“Unfortunately, Ms. Hayward, if you’re right, those girls are most likely already dead,” he said, deciding that there was no way to sugarcoat the truth. “According to you, the exact time each twin turned twenty-one has already past.”

She winced as if in pain.

“21 is precise. So let’s hope you’re wrong.”

A knot appeared in her jaw and her fingers stretched and curled on the arms of the chair. “All the more reason not to waste any time.” Frustration yanked her eyebrows together and she appeared to lose what little control she’d had. “The way I see it, Detective Bentz, a homicidal maniac is walking around free because your partner and Bledsoe arrested the wrong man and trumped up their case against him. Not only is the wrong man serving time in a hellhole of a prison, but the real killer is at large.” She was angry now, at the end of her rope, and she wasn’t holding back. “Any other victims who die at his hand, including Garrett and Gavin Reeves, Beau and Belle January, and now probably Chloe and Zoe De

“I’m no hero—”

“I’ve read about the cases you’ve solved, how you’ve put your life on the line, nearly got killed a while back. But maybe they’ve got it all wrong about you here in New Orleans. Maybe that bad shooting, the incident in LA that has been conveniently swept under the rug, is what you’re really made of.” Her color was high now, her ire palpable. “I was hoping that you would actually give a damn about the 21 Killer, the fact that the wrong man is in prison and that twins have been kidnapped. I thought you would care, Detective, but I guess I was wrong!”

“Hey,” Montoya said, suddenly filling the doorway and taking in the scene. “Is there a problem here?”

Bentz scowled as he glanced at his partner. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Then do something!” Bria

“Whoa!” Montoya was inside Bentz’s small office in an instant. He was bristling, his shoulder muscles bunching under his shirt.

Bentz lifted a hand to silently calm his partner. “I’ve got this.”

“I hope so, because I expect you”—she jabbed a finger in his direction—“you and every man on the force here and in Baton Rouge to find Zoe and Chloe De

As Olivia had years ago. Olivia, too, had been spouting outrageous ideas as well, theories he’d disputed but had proved true. On first meeting Olivia Benchet, he’d thought her a bona-fide nut job and tried to dismiss her. So, who was to say that Bria

His jaw slid to the side and he didn’t like where his thoughts were carrying him.

“What the hell was that all about?” Montoya craned his neck to peer out the doorway and watch her leave.

Bentz reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a near-empty bottle of antacids with his free hand. “Something I’ve got to look into.” He popped the pills, jammed the cap back onto the bottle, and pushed back his chair. As he stood, he stole a glance at his computer screen and noted the leering image of Father John freeze-framed in the security video from the prison.

Great, he thought.

It looked like two of his most difficult cases, both of which he’d thought were closed and nailed shut, had suddenly reopened to converge at this point in time.

What were the chances?

And why had the 21 Killer or a copycat struck right here in Louisiana? “Let’s go.”

“Where?” Montoya asked.

Bentz grabbed his jacket from the hall tree in the corner. “Probably on our next wild-goose chase.”

Zoe opened a bleary eye.

Where was she and why was she so damned wet? Oh, crap! She was only partially wet. The other part of her was covered in mud. Half of her body was in the water, half out on the riverbank. Her arms still hugged the branch that had carried her to this spot, where she must have gotten hung up as the tree limb locked with other snags protruding into the river. Water lapped at her legs. The water, along with the dappled shade provided by the tangled tree limbs, had probably saved her skin from burning in the intense sunlight.

She tried to think past the ache in her forehead. She noticed that the sun was lying low and figured that she’d lain here, from the early morning hours of last night until now when it seemed to be late afternoon. Her thoughts went to Chloe and her heart cracked. Surely she’d gotten away from the madman. Surely she was somewhere safe and alerted the cops. This very minute there were probably hordes of police and volunteers, along with Zoe’s own family and friends, looking for her.

Zoe raised her head.

Pain exploded behind her eyes.

“Ouch! Crap!” Slowly lowering her head, she let out her breath. Geez, that hurt. Even staring upward burned her eyes. Her bare skin was red; though painful as it might be, a sunburn was the least of her problems. As far as she knew the sicko was still after her. After them.

Oh, God, she hoped not. She hoped that psycho was dead.

Nonetheless, she couldn’t just lie here, exposed to the elements, waiting for that creep show to appear. If he wasn’t dead or incapacitated, he’d be looking for her, and he would realize that she had drifted downstream.

Dear God, he could be nearby for all she knew.

Paddling a canoe. Driving a motorboat or hiking through the swampy forest.

“Damn it all to hell.” She watched as several pelicans drifted on the air currents high above, beaks long and wings wide against a sky where clouds moved slowly . . . Or was it her head swimming? She tried to roll over and felt a shaft of pain sear through her ankle. Oh, God, she couldn’t move. She was stuck in this muddy shoreline of twisted tree roots and weeds, a veritable haven for alligators and snakes and God knew what other slithery, dangerous creatures.

But the gators and cottonmouths, copperheads and rattlers were far less dangerous than the beast who had captured Chloe and her just hours before midnight. Had it been yesterday? Or the day before? Surely she had only been “out” for less than a day. Right?