Nick had never told anyone what had happened in the shack. Not the shrink his doctor sent into his hospital room, not FBI agent Quinn Peterson, not even Miranda. They knew-the evidence spoke for itself-but he’d never talked about it.

Until now. He felt it was important for Carina to know what had happened, to understand how much those days had changed him.

“The Bozeman Butcher killed twenty-two women over a thirteen-year period,” Nick began. He focused on the facts, even though she knew some of them. “My first murder investigation was the Bozeman Butcher’s third victim, though we didn’t know it at the time.

“When I became sheriff, I made it a priority to solve what seemed like an unsolvable case. I brought in the FBI. That didn’t make me popular with everyone, but it had to be done. They’d helped with the original investigation, when we had a survivor, but nothing came of it. No suspects, no evidence. Dead end.”

He’d felt helpless to stop the Butcher, who seemed to kill and disappear at will.

“He usually killed and moved on, to return one or two years later to claim a couple more victims before disappearing again. But the last time, something spurred him on and he kidnapped a coed named Ashley van Auden less than a week after killing Rebecca Douglas. We had evidence from Rebecca’s murder we’d never had before that helped us narrow down previous suspects and revisit the old cases with new insights.

“I had a hunch. It wasn’t based on anything, really, except my knowledge of southwest Montana. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going. I didn’t think it would lead anywhere. And if I was wrong, and I was partly wrong, I didn’t want good people to be damaged by the hint of suspicion in a brutal murder.

“I was attacked from behind and woke up hours later, bound, with Ashley chained to the floor next to me. And there was not a damn thing I could do to help her.”

“Nick.”

“You read the articles. You know what the Butcher did to those women.”

“Cruel. Sadistic. But you’re not responsible for his actions, and you certainly weren’t responsible for his victims.”

“When you’re neck-deep in an investigation, you’re responsible for everything.”

Carina’s heart broke at the strain in Nick’s voice-he had been living with the guilt for so long, he’d somehow become convinced that what happened to that poor girl was somehow his fault.

“Nick, the Butcher kidnapped Ashley. He tortured her, not you. It happened before he knocked you out. You can’t blame yourself.”

“I know in my head that I’m not responsible for what happened to her, just like you know that you’re not responsible for what happened to your nephew.”

She tensed, and Nick said, “Honey, you do know it’s not your fault.”

“Like you said, in my head I know, but in my heart…” She took a deep breath. “In my heart I live with the painful void where Justin used to be.”

He kissed her cheek. He’d never talked to anyone about what had happened when he was held captive, but Carina understood. Maybe she was the only one who really could.

“I used to have nightmares about Justin,” she said softly. “I’d wake up and start looking for him. He’d be on my mind for days, I’d replay that night over and over, trying to remember something I know I never heard or saw. I slept through his abduction and I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life.”

She rolled over and he let her hold on to him. Touch him. He responded by feathering light kisses over her shoulder, her arm.

“The nightmares are few and far between,” she told him. “Just sometimes…”

“Sometimes they come back with a vengeance.” He kissed her lips.

“Yeah.”

She settled into the crook of his arm and in minutes she was fast asleep.

Nick watched her sleeping for the second time and couldn’t imagine holding any other woman in his arms.

Soon he fell back into a deep sleep, this time devoid of bad memories.

He stared at Leah tied naked to his bed, the black bandanna glued to her mouth.

“I never wanted to hurt you, Leah.”

Sound came from her mouth, but no words.

Leah had left her boyfriend’s apartment at dawn. He was waiting. He was patient. And patience was rewarded.

He’d called out to her and she’d turned, smiled even though she’d been surprised to see him there.

“I’ve been looking for you. Maggie’s in the hospital. I’ll take you.”

She believed him. They always believed him because he looked honest and trustworthy.

When you’re a pathological liar, looking like an honest man truly helps.

He’d drugged the coffee he’d had waiting for her in the car. She didn’t like that it was cool, but she drank enough anyway. Yawning, she fell asleep and didn’t wake up until he’d already glued her mouth shut.

The thought of fucking her didn’t appeal to him like he’d thought it would, and he frowned, wondering again why he couldn’t regain the thrill he’d had with Becca, the excitement with Angie. What was wrong?

But when he thought about slowly squeezing the life out of Leah, his blood stirred and his penis twitched. Forget the other stuff, what was important was the finale. He would bathe her and wrap her in plastic wrap. He had latex gloves. Forget the garbage bag. This time he wanted to look her in the eyes, watch her life drain away.

His body responded to the fantasy. No playing around. It had been fun playing with Angie, trying different things to see what would happen. The games now held no more allure. Staring at Leah, all he wanted was to feel her die in his hands.

Controlling life and death was the ultimate discipline. And isn’t that what he did? He controlled his own universe, the people around him, with a focused restraint that few people had. No one knew, no one even suspected, what he’d done. It wasn’t about the sex, it wasn’t about women, it was about victory. The powerful surge he felt when he killed.

It was indescribable. Irreplaceable. Nothing came close to it. Watching the women trapped, squirming, wanting to scream but unable to say a word-all that was part of the delicious package. But the reward was their death.

Anticipation wasn’t watching them fight the pain. Anticipation was the hunt, choosing his next prey. Now that he’d picked Leah, the next thing was her death.

He left the room to start the water. When he returned, he accidentally bumped his computer desk. The mouse moved, and the screen came to life.

Curious, he glanced to see if he had any messages.

1 message.

He clicked on it.

Your MyJournal tracker has logged a message from Elizabeth_Rimes at 8:44 p.m. Click here to read.

Elizabeth. He’d been worried about her, then angry. She had no right to neglect him, to stop e-mailing him. They were friends. That’s what she’d told him.

He logged onto MyJournal, then read the message Elizabeth sent last night. That explained it; her mother was sick. And she needed his help again! Chat room 303. He hoped she was still there.

He almost logged onto the chat area right then.

But he had something else to do first.

“Let’s take a bath,” he said to Leah and untied the ropes.

He looked her in the eye.

“If you even think of running, I’ll hurt you so bad you’ll wish you could beg me to kill you.”

She shook her head rapidly back and forth.

“Good. You understand me.”

He carried her into the bathroom.

“Got him!”

Patrick shook Dillon awake, shoving a cup of coffee on the desk in front of him.

“He’s in the chat room?” Dillon yawned and stretched, the aroma of bad coffee assaulting his senses.

“Not yet, he just read our message.” Patrick stared at the screen as if to will the killer to respond.