Repent now, sinner, or you’re going to Hell.

I used to be addicted to sex. You can be cured.

Fucking whore.

Nick frowned at that last comment. He clicked on the ID and suddenly the page went blank.

404. Page not found.

He surfed around a bit, was able to view other pages, but Angie’s was gone.

The police must have worked with the MyJournal company to take down her journal. It was both a relief and frustrating to Nick. After reading the Butcher’s personal journals-handwritten, not online-he’d developed a feeling for how these sick predators thought. How they communicated. He’d hoped to read more of the comments and come up with something solid to take to Detectives Kincaid and Hooper. A profile of sorts, proof his brother was innocent. If he could use his experience with serial killers to narrow down the suspects, maybe they could get ahead of the game.

Hell, he would have given his right arm for something solid on the Butcher before twenty-two women had died.

Nick poured another cup of coffee, then sat back down at the computer to download a map to the police station. He was here to help Steve, but he felt for Angie Vance. She’d been confused, desperate, and very sad. No one in her life had seen that she needed help, maybe because she was so good at hiding her pain. But wasn’t that why he’d become a cop? To help young people straighten out their lives before it was too late?

It was too late for Angie, but he could damn well do something to help find her killer.

Behind him, a woman cleared her throat.

Nick stood slowly and turned. A tall, slender girl holding her own steaming mug leaned against the door. She had straight golden-blond hair that touched her waist, and worry lines creased her pretty face.

“How did you get up here?”

“I live next door.” She gestured to the half-railing that separated Steve’s apartment from his neighbor’s. “What happened to Steve? There’s a rumor around campus that the police were here searching his apartment. That they think he killed Angie.”

“And you are?”

“Ava James. You’re his brother, Nick, aren’t you?”

Nick nodded.

“Steve talks about you all the time.”

Nick hid his surprise.

“Where’s Steve?” she asked.

“Inside.”

“Poor guy. I can’t believe the police would ever think he’s capable of killing anyone.”

“Did you know Angie?”

She squinched up her nose as she sat on one of two Adirondack chairs Steve had positioned to view the ocean. “Yeah.”

“How long were she and Steve involved?” Nick asked, stepping onto the deck.

“A couple weeks. It didn’t mean anything to her, but Steve always falls quick.” Panic hit her face. “I shouldn’t say that to the police, should I?”

“Ava, you need to tell the police the truth. Lying will not help Steve.”

“It just looks bad, but it’s not bad,” she said quickly. “Steve got over her when she broke up with him, like he always does.”

Nick froze. “Always does?”

“Yeah. Jodi, then Katrina, then Deena, then whoever. Since I moved in eighteen months ago he’s fallen in love at least a dozen times.”

“Are they all from the college?”

“Of course. That’s where we hang out. There or at the Sand Shack or a couple other places. Deena works at the Starbucks next to the college. I liked her the best because I think she really cared about Steve, not like Jodi and Angie and the others, who just wanted to screw around with an older man.”

“What about you?”

She blushed, glanced down. “Steve and I are just friends.”

“Friends.” Nick felt ill again. If Ava was twenty-one, Nick would eat his Stetson. And all the other girls…how old were they? College age? Twenty? Eighteen like Angie?

Steve had told him Angie was the only one. That he didn’t make a habit of dating college girls. His brother had lied to him. He was the other “S” on the “Tribute” entry, no doubt about it now. Nick hadn’t realized that he’d harbored faint hope that his instincts were wrong.

What else had Steve lied about? And if he lied to him, his own brother, he had probably lied to the police.

Dammit! Why lie? Criminals think they can out-smart the cops, but the truth is that lies are uncovered each and every time. Especially verifiable information like who Steve publicly dated.

Criminal. He’d just thought of his brother not only as a criminal, but capable of rape and murder.

“What’s wrong?” Ava asked.

“Nothing,” he said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a card. “Here’s my cell phone number. Please call me if you have any information about Steve, Angie, or anyone who didn’t like Angie. Or someone who gave her undue attention. Do you know her current boyfriend?”

Ava took the card and shook her head. “No, except what Steve has told me. The guy’s into drugs and a bad scene. Real ego trip. But Steve also thought Angie was about to break up with him.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because of something he read on her journal. You’ve seen it, right?”

He nodded and wished he’d read the entries more carefully.

Ava blushed, averted her eyes. “It’s pretty risqué.”

Steve walked onto the deck shirtless, wearing only sweatpants. He yawned and sipped coffee. “Thanks for making a pot.” His face lit up when he saw Ava. “Hi, sweetheart!” He draped an arm over her shoulders, gave a squeeze, and kissed her cheek.

“You okay?” she asked, concern on her face. She’s half in love with him, Nick realized.

“I’ll be fine,” Steve said. “Nick came down to help. Once the police stop looking at me, they’ll focus their search on finding the real killer.”

Nick was disturbed by his brother’s casual comments. He wanted to confront him about the lies, but right now he needed more information. “We’ll talk later. I have to go.”

“Go where?”

“Out.” Nick left Steve and Ava on the deck, not trusting himself to control his temper.

He grabbed his gun, holstered it, pulled on his jean jacket and hat, and left.

Carina paced, not from nervous energy but because she was so mad at the three girls who sat in front of her that she wanted to throttle them.

“What were you thinking?” she repeated for the umpteenth time.

All three had the sense to look ashamed.

She and Will had pulled the girls from their classes and they now sat in the dean’s office, evicting him for the joint interview. In passing, Carina noticed the numerous degrees, awards, and photographs-reminiscent of Steven Thomas’s apartment but more appropriate in the large, opulent, and brightly lit office.

She was scared for these girls. They hadn’t seen Angie’s body. They didn’t know what had been done to her. “Don’t you know there’s a killer out there? Do you want to be his next victim?”

“Detective,” Will warned quietly, and Carina turned around and took a deep breath. More flies with honey. She heard Nick Thomas’s deep, sexy voice in her head. Where had that come from?

“Abby.” Will sat across from the scared girls, his calm, firm demeanor a better fit in this situation. Carina’s half-Cuban/half-Irish temper sometimes helped, sometimes hindered. “We’re simply concerned about your safety. Putting sexually suggestive photographs of yourselves for the whole world to see was not smart.”

“I’m sorry,” Jodi said. “We’re all sorry. It seemed like a good idea at the time.” She was blushing and didn’t look Will in the eye.

Carina sighed and said, “The fact remains that we haven’t arrested Angie’s murderer and we don’t know if you’ve all put yourselves in danger.”

Will nodded. “We don’t want to be investigating another murder. These cases can take a long time to build. This isn’t television. Smoking guns are rare. That means that we need to go through all the evidence carefully, investigate alibis and backgrounds, interview witnesses. We put all the information we gather together and see if it points to a suspect. If it does, then we dig deeper and make an arrest. Finally, it’s up to the District Attorney’s Office to decide if there is enough evidence to warrant prosecution.