Every Serial Killer Knows . . .

The vicious burns scarring the victims' flesh reveal the agony of their last moments. Each woman was branded with a star, then stabbed through the heart. With every death, a vengeful killer finds a brief, blissful moment of calm . . .

The Perfect Time . . .

Ten years ago, Eva Rayburn and her sorority sisters were celebrating the end of the school year. That party turned into a nightmare Eva can't forget. Now she's trying to start over in her Virginia hometown, but a new nightmare has begun. Every victim is linked to her. And Detective Deacon Garrison isn't sure whether this mysterious woman needs investigating - or protecting . . .

To Make His Mark

Only Eva's death will bring peace. Only her tortured screams will silence the rage that has been building for ten long years. Because what started that night at the sorority can never be stopped -

not until the last victim has been marked for death . . .

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Prologue

Saturday, April 1, Midnight

Duct tape muffled the woman’s hoarse moans as a hooded figure stoked the glowing embers in the basement hearth. She had been screaming and struggling, hoping to get her captor’s attention, since she’d started awake . . . was it an hour ago? Two hours? Down in this cellar prison, time leaked away like the drip, drip of water from an overhead pipe.

No amount of crying or rattling of chains against the stone floor diverted the shadowy figure’s attention from the flames that hungrily danced and licked the logs in the ancient hearth. Twig by twig, her jailer tenderly fed the flames as a mother might nourish a child, never paying her a moment’s attention. In this dank place, she was invisible, of no greater consequence than the three-legged chair leaning in the shadowy corner or the trash bags piled by the rickety staircase.

The hard, uneven stone floor dug into her back, cramping her muscles, numbing her skin and driving home the realization that there’d be no escape. She was going to die.

She closed her eyes, the thud of her heart mingling with the crackle of the fire and the clink of the andiron against the blackened grate cradling the logs. Since childhood, she’d been told she didn’t deserve happiness or a full life. Bad girl. You are a bad girl. All her life, she railed against those messages, grabbing or stealing what she could to not only survive but also to prevail. Maybe the dark message funneled into her soul since the cradle was right. Bad girls always came to a bad end.

Despair rose up in her like a black storm cloud, wrapping around her throat and beckoning her to relent. It would be so easy to give in to her predestined fate. So easy just to close her eyes and let the darkness slide over her.

As she eased toward the mental abyss, ready to surrender to fate, a primal survival urge jerked her back from the edge.

No! You want to live! You deserve to live!

She opened her eyes and stared at her captor. He wasn’t so large. He didn’t look so strong. Or so evil. Perhaps she could wedge a bit of reason under his icy exterior and get him to take pity.

Drawing on what little energy remained in her limbs, she kicked and screamed, but he didn’t shift his gaze from the fire.

God, what was he planning? What could he want with her? As her mind tumbled over increasing vicious scenarios, fear and panic reignited her struggles.

Please, God, get me out of this. A thousand promises, I swears and resolutions raced through her mind as she bartered with God.

And then a miracle came in the form of a loud thump from upstairs. The noise cut through the stream of I swears. She craned her neck toward the rickety staircase that led to the upper floor. Someone had arrived! Her heart pounded faster, harder and her stomach coiled like a tight spring.

She studied her captor’s posture, searching for a sign. Was the upstairs arrival good or bad? Did this creep have some sick friend who’d come to enjoy this party? Or did she have a savior?

His narrow shoulders stiffened and an abrupt jerk of his head toward the door told her that the guest was uninvited.

Hope exploded. Maybe someone had come! Maybe someone had figured out that she’d been kidnapped.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Please send someone to save me!

She jerked against her bindings and screamed muffled pleas, projecting her voice beyond the tape.

Sunglasses and a hood hid a great deal, but she caught traces of a scraggly beard as he carefully laid down his iron and climbed the stairs to the first floor. He unlocked a shiny new padlock on the basement door, opened it and vanished.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she strained to listen. Above, the ceiling creaked as her jailer crossed the first floor in search of the intruder.

Someone, please, save me.

Floorboards creaked with the light tentative footsteps of the newcomer who moved about the upstairs freely. As the seconds passed, the footsteps grew more confident as if the new arrival wasn’t expecting company.

Be careful! He’s waiting for you!

She screamed until her throat burned, but the duct tape muffled her words, garbling all her warnings.

The intruder moved across the first floor. Her jailer remained still, lying in wait, like a snake ready to strike.

And then a loud scream, ‘Shit!’

A scuffle followed. Bodies slammed against walls. Glass hit the floor and shattered. A subdued groan and something large slammed the floor, as if a body had crumpled under its own weight. And then silence.

The woman’s heart jackhammered her ribs so hard she thought bones would crack as she frantically twisted her hands and stared at the door, hoping for a miracle. Who had won the battle? She struggled against her bindings, willing the hemp to snap even as it cut into her flesh.

Oh, God, save me!

Her mind tumbled as she imagined police storming into the basement and cutting her bindings as they explained in soothing tones that she was now safe. They’d ask her what had happened and she’d calmly explain.

‘The last thing I remember was sitting at the bar in Moments, a little upscale place on the Potomac. It’s a good place to hang out. Normal people, like doctors, lawyers and bankers, drink at Moments. It’s not the kind of place crazy people visit. It’s safe.’

She’d be sure to mention that she’d only sipped a single white wine and had spent most of that night chatting with the female bartender, killing time until her blind date showed. This had been her Saturday night routine for over a year.

Toward the end of the evening, a guy had settled beside her on a bar stool. He’d worn sunglasses, had a neatly trimmed beard and a nice oversized dark suit. He was a strange, still man who could hardly be classified as overly masculine. Her stepfather would have called him a ‘Girlie-man.’ He’d ordered vodka in a quiet raspy voice that had sent a chill whispering down her spine. But his drink had arrived and he’d sipped it without fanfare as if content to be alone. Ignoring him had been easy.

She remembered a woman walking into the restaurant and shouting someone needed to fix her flat tire. The shrill voice knifed through the hum of conversation and soft jazz.

Distracted, she had turned to see who was making so much noise. She’d classified the woman as unimportant . . . some nobody from the street. She’d returned to her drink, forgetting the woman even before she’d swallowed her next sip.

And then . . . then she’d woken up here – a dank, dark basement, tied to the floor.

Oh, God, how she desperately wanted to tell that story. To be saved.

Seconds passed – then minutes and then the steady sound of footsteps. Steady. Not rushed. Cautious like a rescuer or unhurried like a madman? Impossible to tell.

And still she hoped. What if her savior was just being cautious? He didn’t know what was downstairs. He had to be careful so he didn’t get hurt himself.

Please hurry.

The door at the top of the stairs opened and a silhouetted form appeared. Who was there? He descended the steps, carefully and deliberately moving into the light generated by the fire.

Her captor.

No savior.

No rescue.