and keep going up to ten over and over again, she kept finding it catching, coming quicker, choking, feeling as though she couldn’t get enough air. Then she would lose the count and have to start over again, and there was nothing the numbers could do to help her, because angles and trajectories and calculations meant nothing when you had no idea where the target was going.
What could she do? Zoe was almost ready to give up, to call Flynn again, to call the sheriff and report the license plate number. Maybe they could put out an APB, get the patrols out looking, stop the car wherever he was next seen—even if he was only coming back from the murder. At least then there might be forensic evidence, things they could use to put him away for a long time.
Zoe pulled up on the curb, rubbing her hands over her face as she killed the engine. How could she have been so stupid? So obsessed with not being seen that she had failed to keep up—some spy she would have made. It was all her fault.
Zoe looked up, hitting the screen of the car to bring up the call menu again. Might as well do it this way rather than grappling with her cell phone. She looked up through the windshield, blinking back tears of frustration with stubborn stoicism.
And blinked again.
That was it, wasn’t it?
The truck?
Zoe stared, checking the license plate against her memory. Same registration, same model of truck. It had to be. She’d managed, somehow, to end up right outside the place where he had stopped.
It took her a shocked moment before she scrambled into action again, climbing out of the car, carefully and quietly closing the door as she crept forward toward the driveway. The truck was just sitting there, making small noises as the engine rapidly cooled in the fall weather, alone and dark. No lights were on, not in the car and not in the house.
Zoe looked up, mystified. Where had he gone? Inside? Was it possible that he knew this resident, had come to visit? But if so, why in the middle of the night? And there were no lights on inside—not like you would expect if he was seeing a friend.
But then a light did flick on, upstairs, in the top right window. A bedroom or bathroom, most likely. Zoe watched, thinking. She had to trust her instincts here. Maybe it was just an innocent visit—but if it wasn’t, someone would die. That was too big of a risk to take.
She rushed toward the front door, staying low and trying to keep her steps quiet. She tried the door gently but found it locked. He had to have gotten in somehow. If he’d been invited in, then fine, all was as expected. But if he’d broken in, there would be some kind of sign.
Zoe headed around the side of the building, dashing forward as quickly as she dared to without making a sound that would give her away. The grass rustled faintly underfoot, and even that made her flinch. The clear light of the moon washed everything silver, and as she approached the back door over patio tiles that made her want to take her shoes off for silence, she saw that it was hanging open.
Only just; the thinnest sliver. But there it was. Zoe drew her gun and pushed it open without a second thought. There was no messing around now. This was a serious situation. The killer was in the house, and if he hadn’t done it already, then he was getting ready to.
Zoe had to stop him—and avoid becoming the next victim herself.
Though it might have been nice to ruin his pattern.
She listened inside the room she had entered, which appeared to be a kitchen. The silver moonlight glinted from taps and plates and gave her dimensions, telling her the size of the room and calculating possible home layout extrapolations. Was that water? Water running, somewhere above? Zoe cocked her head; yes, it was running water, she was sure of it.
Running water like the kind he used to drown his victims.
She rushed forward until she found the stairs, and then started going up them two at a time. She was cautious but fast. She hoped that any creaking floorboards would be covered by the sound of the taps—hoped that he was standing right by them, couldn’t hear anything else. About halfway up, one of them creaked loudly, and she winced,