Snowball's Chance by Cherry Adair

detail about what she’d endured for seventeen hours at Treadwell’s hands, the reading of which had turned Joe’s stomach.
    What she’d suffered, and the retelling of it, had taken unimaginable guts. Joe had a clear picture of the physical characteristics of the serial killer. He’d also understood the subtext in Kendall’s testimony. The sick bastard had played with her like a cat with a half-dead mouse. He’d slashed her deep and he’d slashed her shallow, letting her suffer as he taunted her with death but kept her alive. Barely.
    He’d kept her holed up in a trailer deep in the woods south of Seattle for almost two days.
    Considering the timeline, the slash across her throat must’ve still been raw and livid as she sat in court facing her attacker. The jury had deliberated for all of forty-seven minutes before coming back with a guilty verdict on all counts.
    Washington was one of thirty-eight states with the death penalty. But Treadwell’s attorneys had managed to get a sentencing recommendation of life without parole after the verdict in exchange for the killer’s cooperation in finding the bodies of the other twenty-three victims he’d confessed to killing.
    Dwight Gus Treadwell had received twenty-three consecutive life sentences, plus one concurrent sentence for the attempted first degree on Kendall and another seventy-five years for her torture. He’d also promised, before the court, that he would one day find Kendall Metcalf and finish the job he’d started. And that the next time she wouldn’t get away.
    Yet despite all that, he’d somehow managed to escape while being transported between the intake center and a more secure facility. Joe cursed the fact that all inmates, and Treadwell in particular, were given a thorough evaluation to determine the right prison for their particular personality and propensity toward violence.
    Hell, if it were up to him, Treadwell would be drawn and quartered, dropped down a hole, and left to rot slowly and painfully. An eye for an eye.
    The shower turned off and he glanced up just in time to see, through the partially open door, a flash of pale hip and leg as Kendall reached for a towel.
    It was going to be a long night. He’d wait for the first lull in the storm and haul ass outta there.
    Fully dressed once again, Kendall walked out of the bathroom blotting her hair dry with a towel. She looked deliciously touchable with her still-damp pink cheeks, shining hazel eyes, and dewy velvety skin.
    â€œLet’s talk about our sleeping arrangements,” she said without preamble. Joe admired her straightforwardness. He admired a hell of a lot of other things, like the fact that he could see she was no longer wearing a bra under that red sweater. He’d like to peel— Hey! Up here, pal!
    Already disconcerted by his strong physical attraction to her, Joe wasn’t about to debate Kendall on the sleeping arrangements. “You’re going to offer to sleep in one of these chairs, right?” he said roughly, trying to ignore the gentle sway of her unfettered breasts and the way the firelight painted her in shades of amber.
    â€œNo, actually, I wasn’t.” Her lips twitched.
    Joe watched her pace. She smelled delectably of fresh pears. He’d used the same soap and shampoo, but he smelled like—a guy. “Good. Because then you’d be between the door and me,” he pointed out, wishing to hell she’d land somewhere. She was making him dizzy pacing like that. Or was it the clean soapy fragrance of her as she passed him? Or her braless state? Or her bare feet—damn it to hell, he was becoming quite attached to her bare, endearingly too large, feet. Joe felt a sharp stab in his belly that was neither pain nor pleasure as she did another circuit of the room.
    She went to the armoire and opened the mini refrigerator that no doubt still held its temperature and removed a