“Maybe not.” Meredith’s voice was calm. “What else do you remember about that day, Alex? That day we took you from the hospital and brought you home to Ohio?”

Alex opened her eyes. Stared at her clenched fist. “More pills.” She pivoted her forehead on the glass so she could look at Meredith, a memory shoving its way through the cacophony inside her mind. “You took them from me.”

“I didn’t know what to do about them. I was a sheltered little bookworm. I’d never even seen drugs before. You terrified me, sitting in that hospital, staring at nothing.”

“Like Hope is now.”

“Like a lot of people do after a trauma,” Meredith soothed. “Dad took you from the hospital wheelchair and put you in the car. Then you asked for water. We were so thrilled you’d said anything… Mom gave you the water and we started driving. And I saw you peeking into your fist. So I watched you. I let you think you were alone and when you tried to take them, I took them from you. And you never said a word.”

“I hated you that day,” Alex whispered.

“I know. I could see it in your eyes. You didn’t want to live and I didn’t want to let you die. You meant too much to my mom at that point. You were all she had left of Aunt Kathy. There had been so much violence. I couldn’t let you do it.”

“So you came to my room every day after school and sat with me. You didn’t want me to finish the job.”

“Not on my watch. And then, little by little, you came back to us.”

Alex’s eyes stung. “You all saved me.”

“My parents loved you. I still do.” Meredith’s voice trembled and she cleared her throat. “Alex, do you remember where you got those pills?”

She tried to think. Tried to focus on the quiet. “No. I remember looking into my hand and there they were. I remember not caring where they’d come from.”

“All three of the Crightons hugged you before we took you away.”

Alex swallowed. “I know. That I remember.”

“I’ve always wondered if one of them gave you the pills.”

Alex pushed away from the glass, suddenly cold. “Why would they?”

“I don’t know. But now that we know about Wade and Simon… and Alicia… we have to consider it. It could be why you’ve always had this reaction to Craig’s name.”

Alex controlled her flinch. “You always knew?”

“Yes. I always figured you’d deal with it when you were able to deal with it. The easiest thing was just not to say his name. But now… we have to. We have to know. For Bailey and for Hope and for you.”

“And for Janet and Claudia and Gemma,” Alex added. “And Sheila and all those other girls.” A wave of sadness hit her hard. “So many lives, ruined.”

“You still have your life, Alex. And now you have Hope. Bailey turned her life around for Hope. Don’t let her down now.”

“I won’t. I’ll find Craig and I’ll find out what he knows.” She clenched her teeth. “And I’ll go into that house. And up the stairs. Even if it kills me.” She winced. “Sorry.”

“Daniel told me about the attack you had on the stairs. Dr. McCrady and I were talking last night about using a form of hypnosis with Hope, to try to get past the wall she’s built in her mind. As her guardian, you’ll need to sign the release forms.”

“Of course.”

“And then I want to do the same thing with you.”

Alex drew a breath. “In the house?”

Meredith cupped Alex’s cheek, determination in her eyes. “Don’t you think it’s time?”

Alex nodded. “Yes. It’s time.”

Atlanta , Wednesday, January 31, 10:00 a.m.

Agent Talia Scott was a down-to-earth woman with a pixie face and a sweet smile that put victims at ease. But Daniel had worked with her before and knew anyone who’d had to face Talia in tactical response gear would never use the adjective “sweet” again.

She was sitting across from his desk, staring at him as if monkeys had flown out of his ears. “If I were a Hollywood producer, I’d be snapping up the rights to this one.”

“Don’t think they’re not already trying,” Daniel said darkly.

“So. We’ve got six women identified out of these fifteen pictures.” Talia rifled through them, the tightening of her mouth her only visible response. “Two are dead.”

“Three are dead,” Daniel corrected. “Alicia, Sheila, and Cindy Bouse, who committed suicide a few years ago. We have three names. Gretchen French is here in Atlanta, Carla Solomon lives in Dutton, and Rita Danner lives in Columbia.”

“These women are all almost thirty now, Daniel,” Talia said. “They may not want to talk about this, especially if they’ve built lives with people who don’t know.”

“I know,” Daniel said. “But we need them to tell us what they know. We need to find out who feels threatened enough by all this to start striking out.”

“You think one of these rapists killed the three women this week?”

“No, but whoever did wants us to look at Alicia’s murder and Alicia’s in the pictures.”

“As is Sheila.” Talia nodded hard. “Then let’s go.”

Wednesday, January 31, 10:00 a.m.

The Jag was waiting as he slowed to a stop and started rolling the window down.

“You’re late,” he snapped before the window fully rolled down. “And you look like shit,” he added with contempt.

I do. Last night he’d drunk himself into a blessed stupor, then fallen facedown in his bed without taking off his pants or shoes. The buzzing of the cell phone in his pocket had woken him. “I didn’t have time to shave.” In reality, he hadn’t wanted to look in the mirror. He couldn’t stand the sight of himself.

“It was an unfortunate miscalculation. Pick yourself up and go on.”

An unfortunate miscalculation. His temper spewed, loosening his tongue. “One of my deputies died. That is not a misfortunate calculation.”

“He was a trigger-happy hick-faced idiot who wanted to play big-city cop.”

“He was twenty-one years old.” His voice broke and he was too angry to care.

“You should have kept more discipline in your ranks.” There was no sympathy. Only contempt. “Next time your boys will listen before they rush in to vanquish a big, bad boy with a bigger, badder gun.”

He said nothing. He could still see the blood. All that blood. He thought he’d see that boy’s blood every time he closed his eyes, maybe for the rest of his life.

“Well?” he barked from the Jag. “Where is it?”

He opened his eyes and wearily pulled a key from his pocket. “Here.”

Dark eyes narrowed. “It’s not the right key.”

He laughed bitterly. “Hell. Even Igor was smart enough not to carry it around with him. That’s likely a key to his safe-deposit box at the bank.”

He handed the key back. “Then go open the damn box,” he said, too softly. “Bring me back the right key.”

“Yeah, sure.” He slipped the key in his pocket. “Why should you take any risk?”

“Excuse me?” he said silkily.

He met the dark eyes without flinching. “I find the girls and bring them to you. I grab Bailey for you. I kill Jared and Rhett for you. Now I go to the bank for you. I take the risks. You get to sit in your fancy car lurking in the shadows like you always do.”

For a moment he only stared, then his mouth curved. “Every now and again, you prove you do have balls after all. Get the correct key and bring it to me.”

“Fine.” He was too weary to argue. He started to put his car in gear.

“I’m not finished yet. I know where Bailey put Wade’s key.”

He dragged in a breath. “Where?”

“She sent it to Alex Fallon. That woman’s had it all the time.”

Fury sputtered, then fanned into a flame. “I’ll find it.”

“See that you do. Oh, and assuming Fallon is a bit smarter than Igor, she probably isn’t carrying it on her person either.” The Jag’s window rolled up and he drove away.

Atlanta , Wednesday, January 31, 11:00 a.m.