The Prey by Allison Brennan Page A

books was left behind,” Michael continued. He took her hand. She glanced down, uneasy, but didn’t pull her hand away. She hadn’t had much comfort in the last couple of days, and this small bit of human connection gave her some strength to draw on.
    “
Crime of Passion
,” she whispered. “In that book, a florist was killed so as not to be able to identify the man who was stalking his victim and sending her white roses.”
    “You still think this isn’t about you?” he asked.
    “Dammit, I know it’s about me! I just don’t want to accept it. It’s personal, premeditated. And there will be more victims unless we figure this out. And then he’ll come after me.
And I don’t know why
!” She pulled her hand from Michael’s and slammed her fist on the dashboard.
    Rowan was grateful for Michael’s silence. She stared out the window, running over every case she’d worked on. Roger would let her know immediately if one of her convicts was out. But few of them could have put together these elaborately planned crimes.
    William James Stanton, perhaps. A sexual sadist, he’d been sentenced by a stupid jury to life imprisonment rather than death. They’d bought his twisted sob story that he’d been so abused by his mother as a child that he wasn’t actually killing pretty young moms on the Eastern seaboard, but was killing his own abusive mother over and over.
    Rowan hadn’t bought it. Stanton took intense pleasure in torturing and raping his victims.
    Or Lars Richard Gueteschow, the Butcher of Brentwood. He’d hacked up teenagers—boys or girls, it didn’t matter; there was nothing sexual about it—and stored their body parts in his freezer. Until one girl got away. Rowan could imagine him getting a twisted pleasure in tormenting her, the agent who’d gathered the evidence and testified against him. But he was on death row in San Quentin.
    Most crimes she had investigated were jurisdictional, violent crimes the FBI became involved in because the murders occurred in more than one state. Not many of those killers could have orchestrated such a detailed operation as these new murders.
    But where else could she look? Their relatives? Friends, neighbors, colleagues? People who had a grotesque fascination with their crimes? Going that route, they’d have thousands of suspects. Her head ached. She squeezed her fingers into her eyes, suddenly weary.
    She just didn’t know if they’d have enough time before the bastard struck again.
     
     
    Rowan’s hair was limp, her posture now less than rigid. She glanced over her shoulder twice, and jumped when the bodyguard touched her.
    Some distance away, he smiled. She was exhausted and afraid. Good. He was giddy that he was giving her sleepless nights. He hoped that whatever sleep she managed was disturbed by nightmares of blood. Did she feel any guilt? Any complicity? After all, it was her own words that determined who lived and who died. He chuckled as he watched.
    She’d come home with her bodyguard to that impatient FBI agent who’d been waiting at her door for the last hour. The agent had rung the doorbell several times, glanced at his watch even more often, and paced. The Fed didn’t worry him.
    The bodyguard, however, worried him slightly. Knowing Rowan as he did, he hadn’t expected her to ask for help. She was so confident, so cool. Not the type to get a bodyguard. Her lover? No. She hadn’t been with a man since before leaving the FBI. What was that guy’s name? Oh, yeah. Hamilton. Also a Fed.
    Oh, yes, he’d been watching her—one way or another—for a long time.
    The bodyguard would be dealt with when the right time came. A silencer would do the trick, though he loathed guns. It made killing so impersonal.
    That was for later.
    First, Rowan needed to be broken. He wanted her to melt, to burn. He needed her emotion, her temper. Mostly, he wanted her fear. Then—only then—would he confront her.
    Until that time, he had many things to do. He’d