2

Heather Gilstrap glanced over her shoulder as she pulled her keys from her pocket. With a click, she unlocked her car and heard the chirp—and something else.

She stopped to listen.

Yes, that was a footstep behind her. Not for the first time that day. For the past week, she’d felt watched. When she’d asked Emily, her best friend, if she felt the same, Emily had simply shaken her head.

Heather turned and saw no one. But someone was definitely behind her. Following. Stalking. But who? She’d been so careful to cover her tracks.

Not careful enough.

Rapid puffs of air escaped her lips as she resumed her rush to the vehicle.

Her heels clicked on the parking garage concrete floor, echoing in the quiet. Covering the sound of the person following her. Why had she stayed so late? Why hadn’t she asked security to walk her to her car? She pulled her phone from the other pocket of her blazer just as she reached the silver Toyota Camry.

Heather opened the driver’s door and slid into the seat. Slamming the door with one hand, she hit the locks with the other and lunged toward the glove compartment. The door fell open and she grabbed for her Smith & Wesson 642. Only to find it gone. “What?” she whispered. But how? It didn’t matter right now. She jabbed the key at the ignition, her shaking fingers betraying her as she dropped the set.

She leaned down to grab them, praying she had enough gas to get out of the garage. Why oh why hadn’t she stopped to fill up the tank?

When she straightened, a figure was approaching from her left, walking slowly, clearly not in any hurry. Yet the threat emanated from him. She jammed the keys into the ignition and twisted.

Nothing happened.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.” Terror centered itself in her midsection. With another glance at the person dressed in black, she grabbed her phone and dialed 911. And still he continued his slow stroll toward her. He was stalking her, toying with her. She put the phone on speaker, then switched the screen to her text messages.

“911. Where is your emergency?”

“I’m in the Cannon Street Garage, third floor. My name’s Heather Gilstrap. There’s a guy following me and I think he’s going to kill me.” She had to get out of the car, but she couldn’t go out the driver’s door. He’d catch up to her in seconds. She lunged across the seat and pulled the handle.

Nothing happened. What?

“The door won’t open!” Heather yelled, cutting off the dispatcher’s words. She pounded the door and tried again with a low grunt.

Again, nothing.

“I can’t get out! No, no, no.”

She tossed the phone onto the back seat and climbed over, tried both doors. Same result. No wonder he wasn’t in a hurry. Somehow he’d jammed the doors. She was trapped. And he was enjoying his game.

She rolled on her back and kicked the window. Once, twice. It didn’t even move. And there was nothing she could use that would smash through the glass. “I can’t get out!”

With shaking fingers, she grabbed her phone and heard the operator above the rush of blood in her ears. “Heather? I’ve got officers en route.”

“My car won’t start and my doors are jammed. He did something to my doors!” Pictures. She had to send them. She punched the text string of the one person she could trust, and quickly tapped a message, added a photo from her gallery, then hit send.

Adrenaline surged, muffling her other senses. Another picture, the next text went. Then the next. Emily needed the pictures for evidence. If she simply texted the words and tried to explain, it wouldn’t hold up in court. But the photos would.

“Heather? Heather! What’s happening?” The operator’s voice cut through her panic.

A frantic glance showed the man coming closer. She whimpered. “He’s almost here. He has a gun. With a suppressor.” Please, Jesus. I love you, but I don’t want to die today.

“Do you know who he is?”

Another text went. If God didn’t intervene and she was going to die, she was going to take down the people who killed her. Unfortunately, her texts might not be enough—but it was all she had.

“No. He has a ski mask on.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. She sniffed. “Please, God, don’t let me die in vain,” she whispered as her fingers worked the phone. “Please, he’s going to kill me—”

“I have someone on the way right now. You have to find a way out of the car and run.”

“I can’t!”

Maybe he would just take her. Demand to know what she knew. Force her to hand over the evidence she’d gathered. But he might not. Her breathing came now in harsh gasps while her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

She hit send on the final text, then started erasing them from her phone even as the dispatcher’s voice asked her another question she missed.

“What?” No. She needed one more text. The location.

The lake where we

“Can you break the window?” the woman demanded.

“I tried,” she whispered. “Tell Em I tried. Emily Chastain, tell her! Warn her she’s in danger!”

The back window shattered. Glass rained over her and she screamed. The phone fell into her lap. Frantic, she grabbed for it. The last text shot off to Emily only half finished. She looked up into dark eyes that held nothing. Just empty black pools. He placed the gun against her head and she froze.

“Please, don’t,” she whispered.

He reached in and disconnected the call. Then took her phone and stepped back. He kept an eye on her, the gun in his left hand never wavering as he tapped the screen and scrolled. “Emily Chastain? What did you tell her? What did you send her?”

“Leave her alone. She doesn’t know anything.”

“Unfortunately, while that might have been the case three minutes ago, it might not be now.”

Wait, what? Was he going to—

The gun lifted.

Heather screamed again.

The muzzle flashed.

Sharp pain hit her, then darkness.