The Killing Edge by Heather Graham Page A

shop, where his car waited beneath a wilting oak.
    Luke returned to the Stirling , locking the cabin door oncehe was inside. His windows had security locks, as well, and he had rigged his own alarm system. Despite that, he didn’t worry a lot about security. If anyone ever really wanted him dead, they wouldn’t worry about gaining entry to the boat. They would just torch it.
    In the master cabin he stripped off his suit and stretched out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He didn’t know why, but Octavio got to him. The man was filled with passion, convinced he knew a truth everyone else was ignoring. Once, long ago, he, too, had known that kind of passion, known what it was like to know the truth, while others refused to see it. That was what had brought him here.
    Stuckey had brought Octavio to him, just as Stuckey—and some of his friends—brought him most of his work.
    He didn’t spy on philandering spouses, schoolgirls who might be smoking pot in the park after school or college kids gambling or stealing exams, and he didn’t like corporate intrigue unless it was connected with something more intriguing.
    He worked for people who had gone through all the proper channels to find justice but run up against the brick walls that were inevitable in any system.
    He didn’t have many friends, but those he had were close, and he liked it that way.
    He lived alone now, and he liked that, too. He wasn’t a decent companion for anyone else.
    He felt the slight rocking of the boat while he pondered his next move. The first step would be to get closer to Chloe Marin. She was his ticket to getting to know everyone else,and since her pretense for being there was as false as his own, she could hardly object or else he would blow her cover.
    Light from distant street lamps played dimly on his ceiling, and as he watched the shadows stretch and fade, he wondered what would have happened if he’d caught up to Rene. At least he had learned what he needed to know: the girl was alive, and she was living at the mansion. But what he didn’t know was what had sent her down from the balcony and running for the beach in the first place.
    And then there was Chloe Marin….
    He punched his pillow with annoyance. The strawberry blonde certainly knew her moves. Subduing her had been more difficult than if she’d been a man his own size and weight.
    It was almost as if he’d been thrown off balance by a supercharged Barbie. Maybe that was what was most annoying.
    But she wasn’t a living Barbie. She was a woman with entrancing eyes and a suspicious nature. In fact, where he was concerned, she seemed downright hostile. And yet, when he touched her…
    Something happened to him when they touched. He was filled with a sudden raw heat unlike anything he’d felt in years.
    He’d seen a dozen spectacularly beautiful girls that night.
    But somehow, she was different.
    He punched his pillow again. He had to get to know the woman, whether he liked it or not. She was key to cracking this case, no matter how annoying he found her—and his own attraction to her.
    He had a job to do.
    He forced himself to watch the shadows, to close down his mind, and finally he slept.
    He didn’t dream, hadn’t in years. Not anything that he remembered, at least.
    But that night he dreamed, only it wasn’t a fantasy, it was a rerun of the past.
    A scene…just that one scene. He was running. Down the streets of Kensington. Up the steps to the beautiful flat they’d kept for three short months. He heard himself calling her name.
    And then he saw the blood. The trail on the stairs, drop by drop, as if the killer had collected it and used a paintbrush to arrange it for maximum effect.
    And then he heard himself screaming…screaming her name.
    He fought the dream. He didn’t want to reach the bedroom. But he couldn’t stop the replay, couldn’t stop himself from running up those stairs and seeing…
    Miranda. Her face was still beautiful, her black hair