“Sure.”

She was having trouble looking away from him.

Lynch took a step closer and moved a lock of hair from her face. “You’re sure I can’t give you anything else?”

A loaded question if there ever was one. She was tingling, her breathing shallow. She shook her head.

Another long moment of silence.

“I guess … I should let you get some sleep. Since we’re determined to be so logical.”

She didn’t reply.

Another pause.

“Well…” He motioned toward the door.

He was waiting for a sign, any sign.

And she wanted to give it, she realized.

“Good night,” he said softly. His hand caressed her cheek, then he turned and left the room.

Kendra let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She was still tingling from the electric charge between them. Her cheek felt warm, sensitive where he’d touched her.

On the plane, all she had wanted was to go to sleep. Right now, that seemed impossible.

Damn him.

*   *   *

“KENDRA? KENDRA, WAKE UP.”

She opened her eyes, at first confused about where she was. Then she remembered.

Eric Colby.

The ridiculous and wonderful suburban fortress.

Bikini-model Ashley.

Lynch’s amazing, unexpected, yet frustrating restraint.

“Wake up, dammit.” Lynch was standing over her. His shirt was unbuttoned, and he was zipping up his pants. His hair was tousled, and he looked intense. She glanced at the window and saw that it was still dark out.

“What time is it?”

“Three thirty. Get up and get moving.”

She sat up in bed. “What the hell, Lynch?”

“Griffin just called. There’s been another murder.”

Go Nuclear Dance Club

University Avenue, San Diego

KENDRA AND LYNCH MADE THEIR WAY toward the club’s main entrance, where velvet ropes held back the ejected patrons who had decided to remain behind and see what was going on. As Kendra walked past the crowd, she heard snippets of conversations that confirmed the rumor mill was in high gear. In the space of fifteen seconds, she heard that the cops had closed the place down due to a) a drug bust, b) a brawl upstairs, or c) the discovery that the club was a front for the Russian mafia.

If only.

Lynch flashed his government ID to the cop outside and opened the door for Kendra. “Ever been here before?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not since they changed the name and went respectable.”

“Respectable?”

She glanced around at the mirrored walls and pulsing, rotating lights, which emitted mechanized whirring sounds that were eerily audible now that the club music was turned off. “Yeah, this used to be a real dive. The bartenders would cheat drunk customers on their change, you’d see rats in the corners, and next to the back bar, some woman would always be treating customers to Jell-O shots off her bare stomach.”

“Seriously?”

“Absolutely.” She shot him a look. “And a couple times, that woman was me.”

“I’m finding that hard to imagine.”

“Why? I wondered what it would feel like. The world was full of curiosities and wonder for me back then. And most of the time, I didn’t hesitate to satisfy it.”

Lynch smiled faintly. “If you decide you want a replay, you’ll have to let me experience that sometime.”

“Dream on. That was another time. Been there, done that.” Kendra glanced around. “I have to say, this place was probably a lot more fun in those days.”

“Hi, guys.” Metcalf was approaching them. “Long time no see.”

“What do we have?” Kendra asked.

“The victim was a twenty-seven-year-old woman in a men’s bathroom stall.”

“The men’s bathroom?” Lynch asked.

“You know what it’s like in places like this. When there’s a mile-long line in front of the ladies’ bathroom, it’s not uncommon for women to slip into the men’s room.”

“How was she positioned?” Kendra asked.

“On her knees. Classic hugging the porcelain goddess pose.”

Kendra chilled as memories flooded back to her. “Like in Phoenix…”

“Exactly like Phoenix,” Metcalf said.

“The Gregory Hammond case.” She swallowed, hard. “He lured clubgoers into bathroom stalls promising drugs and/or sex. He killed them and positioned them just like this. Sometimes, the victims weren’t discovered until closing time.”

“A couple people looked in on her, and she just appeared to be ill,” Metcalf said.

“The last thing most people want to do is tangle with someone who looks like they’re puking their guts out,” Kendra said. “And I guess she was bleeding out from her slashed throat into the toilet?”

“Yes. No one had any idea. She’d probably been dead an hour before anyone realized.”

“San Diego PD realized it was patterned on the Phoenix case?” Lynch asked.

“The homicide detectives knew it right away,” Metcalf said. “We briefed them a few days ago, so they’re on the lookout for any cases that match.”

Lynch glanced around the club, which was empty except for the cops and club employees. “Did anyone see who was in there with her?”

Metcalf shook his head. “Not so far. And the only security cameras are in the offices upstairs.” He gestured toward the bathroom. “You want to take a look?”

Kendra stared at the open door, through which she’d seen half a dozen crime-scene investigators come and go since her arrival. She braced herself. “Yeah. Let’s get this over with.”

They entered the large men’s bathroom, where in front of the last of six stalls, the woman’s corpse was stretched out on the floor. She was on her back, surrounded by a photographer and two crime-scene investigators.

Griffin was standing near the door. “They’ll be done with her in a minute.”

“Who did she come to the club with?” Lynch asked.

“No one. She was a regular, and she always came by herself. A couple of the bartenders knew her. She had a disabled kid at home, and she used to come here to blow off steam.”

Kendra turned toward him. “Disabled how?”

“I don’t know. Whatever it was, she was almost never able to leave the house with her, and this was her only release.”

Kendra turned back toward the corpse. Don’t let it be true. Please, please, please …

She pushed past Griffin and moved quickly toward the back of the bathroom.

One of the crime-scene investigators tried to stop her. “Ma’am, if I can ask you to stand clear while we—”

“No! Get out of my way.” She stared at the dead woman’s face. “No. Oh, shit, no.”

“Kendra?” Lynch and the two FBI agents were suddenly beside her.

Kendra felt her legs weaken, and she fell to her knees. She suddenly realized she was crying. “I know this woman … I know her.”

Lynch knelt beside her, holding her. “Who is she?”

Kendra couldn’t take her eyes off the woman’s once-vibrant face. “Her name is Danica Beale.”

Lynch glanced back at Griffin, who nodded his confirmation.

Kendra wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I’ve been to her house. Her daughter is a client of mine. They live with Danica’s parents. The little girl is agoraphobic, and I was trying to help her. My God…” She looked up at Lynch. “You saw her on the embarcadero the other day.”

Lynch nodded.

“That poor woman. And that little girl…” Kendra felt a sudden surge of panic. “This is because of me.”

Lynch turned her to face him and looked her in the eye. “No. I can see how that would be your first reaction. But this atrocity is because there’s a psycho out there. No other reason.”

Kendra shook her head. “He’s upping his game. If it weren’t for me, Danica would still be alive and home with her daughter by now.”

“Maybe. And we’d still be standing over someone else who didn’t deserve to die. This isn’t your fault, Kendra. Not in any way, shape, or form.”

Griffin shook his head. “Maybe the mother of a disabled little girl shouldn’t have been out partying at two in the morning.”