He twisted the knife in his hand. Thin. Razor sharp. Perfect for skinning or boning or killing. One jab to her heart or lungs, or a quick slice across her throat, and she would die while she looked into his eyes, knowing he had drained the life from her.
But it hadn’t happened seven years earlier.
She’d been stronger than he’d expected, and they’d been interrupted.
So she’d escaped. And he’d decided to wait. A mistake, it seemed now. He felt his blood pressure rising, his fury burning through his veins, images in his head turning red.
“Calm yourself,” he ordered quietly. He paced to the door, grabbed the handle, then let it go. Closing his eyes for a second, he recaptured some of his fleeing composure. Finally he walked back to his desk. This wouldn’t do. He prided himself on being in control. Somehow he had to regain his equilibrium.
This was a situation that had to be dealt with, that was all. A problem that needed fixing, and fast. His mind spun ideas for an “accident,” not just for one, but two. The rancher would have to be killed, too.... Together, they had to die together.
Lovers in a passionate but deadly quarrel?
Murder/suicide?
A robbery gone bad?
Another car wreck, where neither one survived? The winter weather and coming storms would provide believability. He balled his fists and held them tight over his eyes.
Think!
You’ve worked too hard to give up now!
Again he wondered if the Fates were against him.
Of course not!
But he couldn’t shake that same old feeling that something or someone was watching him. Like a deadly snake deceptively wound around a twisted branch, an unseen enemy lying in wait, ready to strike. His skin crawled, and he slowly let out his breath. This was insane; he couldn’t let his fears undermine him.
He was in charge.
He was the protector.
And none of the Unknowings were going to outwit him.
With a glance at his inversion boots, he dismissed thoughts of sweating out his frustrations. For the moment. He had too much to think about, too much to plan. Grimacing, he slid the headphones over his ears and listened with the sole intent of righting a very old wrong.
Trace turned up the radio in the kitchen and the television in the living room. With the Christmas carols filtering from the back of the house and the news blaring from the front, he felt that he and Kacey could talk. He showed her the tiny microphones he’d located, including the ones in her bathroom and bedroom, which, when he pointed them out, drained the color from her face.
“Who?” she said in a low voice. “Why?”
“Someone who wants to know what you’re doing.”
“I should go to the police.”
He nodded.
She started to shake. “He’s been in my house!”
He drew her near and whispered in her ear, “You asked who.... Can you answer that question?”
“No . . . I don’t think so. I’m usually here alone, and until Bonzi moved in, I didn’t talk to anyone except on the phone, but those are pretty one-sided conversations.”
They were practically in an embrace, and now Trace made it official, talking to her like a lover to keep their voices from being overheard. “What about disgruntled boyfriends or your ex-husband?”
“Not JC. He’s over me and he wouldn’t stoop to this. The divorce is long over. And there hasn’t been an ex-boyfriend since my freshman year in college, maybe.”
“An unhappy business partner, or someone who didn’t like the medical treatment, or a girlfriend that thinks you put her down?”