“This had better be good,” Brock said deliberately, through clenched teeth.

Noah looked him up and down. “You didn’t answer your phone.”

Brock drew an uneven breath. “So you rushed over here in the middle of the night?”

“Brock?” Trina came through the door and Noah looked away, but not in time to miss getting a glimpse of her in a very, very small towel.

Noah winced, staring at his shoe. “I can see my concern was misplaced.”

“Y’think?” Brock asked acidly. “You’re not the only one who ever has a goddamn bad day.” With that he stalked out of his bedroom, grabbing clothes on his way.

“For God’s sake, Noah,” Trina snapped. “What’s this all about?”

Noah kept his eyes averted. “We need to talk.”

“Right now is not a good time.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” He thought of the photos in his pocket, of Buckland out there somewhere with a telephoto lens. “But it’s important.”

She huffed impatiently. “Fine. Whatever. You can look now.”

Noah saw with relief that she’d wrapped her body in a robe. “I’m sorry,” he said. “When you didn’t answer your phones, I panicked. What happened to Brock?”

“Snowmobile accident,” she said briefly. “Teenager went through some pond ice. He was dead by the time Brock got to the scene. Kid was only fifteen.”

Noah closed his eyes briefly. “I’m sorry, Tree. Is Brock okay?”

“He would have been better if you’d let us finish,” she said dryly. “I’d say he’s a little on the frustrated side right now.”

“Therapeutic sex,” Noah said, pursing his lips, and she nodded.

“In the shower. Kids can’t hear the moans that way.”

“Trina.” His protest bordered on a whine and her lips twitched.

“Told you, you need to get some. At the moment, so do Brock and I.”

“O-kay. I’ll make this quick. A reporter got wind of this case I’m working.” He lifted a brow. “The one Eve referred to tonight in the bar during your little visit.”

Trina didn’t flinch. “I’m not apologizing for that.”

“Somehow I didn’t think you would. Anyway, this reporter has been trying to get Eve to give him inside information and she refused. Tonight he got rough.”

Trina’s attitude disappeared. “Is she okay?”

“Other than a bruise, she’s fine. He was trying to force her to look at some pictures. These.” He gave the envelope to Trina and watched her face grow hot and angry.

“Son of a bitch.”

“What?” Brock returned, swiping a towel over his wet head. The soaked robe was gone, changed for dry sweats. “What happened?”

Trina gave him the pictures. “Sunday. I gave Noah a hug after your boxing match.”

Brock’s eyes flashed. “What is this?” he snarled softly.

“Attempted extortion by a reporter who wants a story way too badly. He left those pictures in Eve’s computer bag and unloaded the gun she keeps there. I saw them, knew he’d been here, and I panicked.” He gestured weakly to the bathroom. “I’m sorry.”

Brock sat on the edge of his bed. “I guess I can understand the urgency.”

Trina put her arm around Brock’s shoulders. “Those photos might have caused a major family breach, Noah. I’m glad Brock is a smart man.”

“And that he trusts you,” Noah said. Unlike Eve, who thought he had an agenda. Which I guess I do. “Keep an eye on the boys, okay?”

“You bet.” Brock gave him the pictures. “You’re going to report this guy, right?”

“First thing in the morning. I-” His cell vibrated in his pocket. “It’s Eve. She told me to call when I made sure you were all right.” He angled his body away from Brock and Trina, more to avoid the knowing smirk they shared than to hide his conversation. “They’re okay,” he said. “Just a… misunderstanding.”

“That’s good,” she said. “Because I’m thinking Rachel’s not.” He listened as she explained, his jaw going taut. “You weren’t supposed to approach anyone.”

“Well, I did. Sue me. Noah, she’s in trouble. What did the cruisers say?”

He checked his watch and frowned. “Nothing yet and I should have heard. I’ll call you back.” He dialed Dispatch and was displeased with what he heard. “Then tell the second cruiser to proceed at fastest possible speed. Lights, no siren. I’m on my way.” He turned back to Trina and Brock, who no longer smirked. “The first cruiser came up on an accident, car slipped on the ice and hit a pole. They’re with the accident victims.”

“They were first responders,” Trina said evenly. “You know we have to stay. It’s regs.”

“I know,” Noah said grimly. “I just hope we’re not too late. Watch the boys. I’ll call you tomorrow. I have to go.”

Wednesday, February 24, 2:20 a.m.

Oh God. Rachel tried to breathe, but couldn’t draw a deep enough breath. He’d wrapped her arms around her. She couldn’t move. Vaguely she remembered her arms being shoved into sleeves, crossed over her body. Viciously yanked as he’d rolled her to her stomach, his knee sharp in her back. He’d tied her… tied the sleeves.

Her chin dropped to her chest as awareness returned in jolts. White. She blinked hard. White fabric covered her to her hips. Beyond that… she saw her own bare legs, felt the cold air between her thighs and knew she was naked. Help me.

Her heart raced but her mind was still… slow. Scream. But all that came out was a muted mewling. Her mouth was taped closed. Where am I? Her eyes darted, frantically. Basement. I’m in my own basement. Sitting on a stool from her kitchen counter.

She couldn’t see him, didn’t know him. She flinched. He was behind her. She could hear him breathing. Then she could smell it. Gasoline. It burned her nose, her eyes, and she remembered that night. The gas, the smoke, the heat. The stench of burning flesh. And the screams. She heard the screams of agony of the ones that hadn’t gotten out.

No. Get out. Get away. She wrenched her body, but went nowhere. I’m tied. I can’t get away. Her heart was beating so fast. Too fast. Her head swam, dizzy. Bernie. It had to be Bernie. Somehow he got out. He’d planned this. His revenge.

He’s going to kill me. She wrenched again, violently, felt the stool give, but it was brought swiftly back, all four legs on the floor with a thud that shuddered through her.

“Better,” he murmured in her ear. Her head jerked to the sound, but he was still behind her. Then he walked around the stool, stopped in front of her, and grabbed her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. Not Bernie. “Not fully cogent, but more aware.”

Her breath hitched. A lighter. He held it in front of her eyes and flicked it to life. She reared back, unable to take her eyes from the flame. He smiled. Smugly.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Rachel. You thought after your public display of good behavior that you could slip into the shadows, and live the life you craved in a fantasy world. You thought Delilah was invisible, but no one is truly invisible.”

Delilah. Shadowland. John. It had been a setup. A trap.

He stepped back and her eyes followed. He wore boots and… fireman pants over his trousers. The pants were too big, gaping at his waist. He might have looked like a clown except for the gun in his waistband. Behind him she saw a fire extinguisher. And next to that, a backpack. And on top of the backpack… my shoes. Neatly together.

“Fear is an interesting thing,” he said, and her gaze ripped back to his face. He was smiling, his eyes cold and cruel. I’m going to die. “Many fears, like the fear of snakes, are somewhat instinctive. They represent a heightened awareness of danger. It’s when those fears take control of our actions that they become phobia. You, Rachel, have an extreme phobia. Given your personal history, an understandable one.”

She could feel his breath on her face. “I think your incarcerated ex-husband will get quite a chuckle out of hearing that you were incinerated. Poetic justice, wouldn’t you say?”