The Cold Room by J.T. Ellison

ravish her as soon as they got home. Fat chance of that.
    She replayed it twice, a smile on her lips. She took a sip of wine and waited for the next one.
    There was silence, then static. A chill moved up her spine, she stood straighter. Then a high-pitched voice, almost childlike. “Not. Me.”
    The click that followed made her jump. Her heart began to race.
    She set her wine down on the counter. The caller ID showed the last number who’d called as Unknown Name, Unknown Number. She hit star sixty-nine for an automatic redial, but a quick beeping told her that it wasn’t going to work without the correct area code.
    Damn. She played it back three times, each time feeling a fresh wave of chills whip through her body. Part of her wanted to blow it off, assume that it was just a wrong number. But her instincts were on fire. She’d never heard the voice before, but she knew exactly who that was, and what the message meant.
    He called himself the Pretender. He’d been a disciple of a serial killer in Nashville known as Snow White. Snow White had been dealt with, but the Pretender had slipped through the net. Every once in a while, he reached out to her. As recently as last month he’d made his presence known in Nashville, taking care of a pesky threat to her security. In a decidedly gruesome fashion, at that. He’d left what Baldwin termed a “love note” anchored to the dead man’s chest.
    What a chance to take, calling her at home. The Pretender wasn’t careless, that much she knew. There had been a trap on their line for the past couple of months, but it would take more than a three-second call to trace.
    The message freaked her out on two levels. One, thesimple fact that he was still watching her made her toes curl. He was close enough to know about the murder scene tonight, and that was exceptionally unsettling.
    Two, her instincts about this evening’s murder were right on. The ritualistic posing, the secondary crime scene, all pointed to an organized offender who had done this before. And would most likely try to do it again.
    Baldwin needed to know. After her run-in last month with the assassin the Pretender had so unceremoniously murdered, she didn’t hesitate. She ran up the stairs and flung herself on the bed. He jumped up with a snort.
    â€œI’m not entirely dead to the world, woman. I thought you’d never come to bed. Come here and let me—”
    â€œHe called.”
    Baldwin stopped, his hand frozen on Taylor’s thigh. “Huh?”
    â€œOur boy. He called the house and let me know tonight’s crime scene wasn’t his.”
    She didn’t have to explain further. Baldwin knew that the Pretender was out there, waiting to strike, waiting for the perfect moment to catch them off guard. Every murder they worked, they were forced to stop and think about him. He preyed on their minds.
    Baldwin’s rage eliminated all traces of sleepiness, palpable and deadly. The more controlled his voice, the angrier he was. This was as tight as she’d ever heard him. “He called the house.”
    She didn’t know which scared her more, the constantly evolving relationship with a mass murderer, or the rigid fury in Baldwin’s voice.
    â€œYes. At least, I assume it’s him. He left a message. It said, ‘Not me.’”
    She heard Baldwin breathe deeply, mastering his emotions. “Son of a bitch. Let me hear it.”
    They made their way downstairs. “I wouldn’t worry too much,” she said. “It wasn’t what I’d term threatening. I imagine when he’s ready to strike, he’s going to have a blast setting the stage.”
    â€œThat’s exactly what I’m afraid of. And you let me judge for myself. You need to stop downplaying this. He’s dangerous.”
    He sounded so possessive, so intense, that it felt like he had stopped her on the stairs and slipped his arms around her