Rachel Caine - Killman Creek

OTHER TITLES BY RACHEL CAINE

Stillhouse Lake Series

Stillhouse Lake

The Great Library

Paper and Fire

Ink and Bone

Ash and Quill

Weather Warden

Ill Wind

Heat Stroke

Chill Factor

Windfall

Firestorm

Thin Air

Gale Force

Cape Storm

Total Eclipse

Outcast Season

Undone

Unknown

Unseen

Unbroken

Revivalist

Working Stiff

Two Weeks Notice

Terminated

Red Letter Days

Devils Bargain

Devils Due

Morganville Vampires

Glass Houses

The Dead Girls Dance

Midnight Alley

Feast of Fools

Lord of Misrule

Carpe Corpus

Fade Out

Kiss of Death

Ghost Town

Bite Club

Last Breath

Black Dawn

Bitter Blood

Fall of Night

Daylighters

Stand-Alone Titles

Prince of Shadows

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Text copyright 2017 by Rachel Caine, LLC

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

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Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

ISBN-13: 9781542046411

ISBN-10: 1542046416

Cover design by Shasti OLeary Soudant

CONTENTS

GWEN

On the twelfth night since my ex-husband escaped prison, I am in bed. Not sleeping. Watching the play of light and shadow on the curtains. Im lying on a narrow foldout cot and feeling every twinge of spring poking through the thin mattress. My kids, Lanny and Connor, occupy the two full-size beds in this midpriced motel room. Midpriced is the best I can afford right now.

The phone is a new one. Another disposable, with a brand-new number. Only five people have the number, and two of them are asleep in the room with me.

I cant trust anyone outside that vanishingly small circle. All I can think of is the shadow of a man walking through the nightwalking, not running, because I dont believe Melvin Royal is on the run, though half the police in the country are hunting himand the fact that he is coming for me. For us.

My ex-husband is a monster, and I thought he was safely contained and caged, awaiting execution... but even from behind bars he ran a campaign of terror against me and our kids. Oh, he had help, some of it from inside the prison, some outside; how wide and deep it went is still in question, but he also had a plan. He maneuvered me, through targeted fear and threats, into the place hed wanted me: a trap wed survived, but only just.

Melvin Royal stalks me in the brief darkness when I close my eyes. Blink , and hes on the street. Blink , and hes walking up the stairs of the motel to the second floors open walkway. Blink , and hes outside the door. Listening.

The buzz of a text arriving on my phone makes me flinch so hard it hurts. I grab for the device as the rooms heater rattles on; its loud, but its efficient, and warmth glides through the room in a slow, welcome wave. Im grateful. The blankets on this cot arent up to much.

I blink my tired eyes and bring the phones screen into focus. The message says Number Blocked . I turn it off, and put it under my pillow, and try to convince myself that its safe to sleep.

But I know it isnt. I know whos texting me. And the double locks on the motel room door dont seem nearly enough.

I am twelve days out from rescuing my children from a murderer. I am exhausted, sore, and plagued with headaches. I am heartsick and tired and anxious and most of all most of all I am angry. I need to be angry. Being angry will keep us all alive.

How dare you, I think at the phone beneath my pillow. How fucking dare you.

When Ive stoked my anger to a boiling, almost painful, temperature, I reach beneath my pillow and pull out the phone again. My anger is a shield. My anger is a weapon. I click the message firmly, expecting what it will hold.

But I am wrong. The text message is not from my ex-husband. It reads, YOURE NOT SAFE ANYWHERE NOW , and it is followed with a symbol I recognize: .

Absalom.

Shock diffuses my anger, sends it flowing in hot, electric waves through my chest and arms, as if the phone itself lashed out. My husband had helphelp manipulating us, help abducting my childrenand Absalom was that help... a master hacker who manipulated me into the trap Melvin had planned for him. Id dared hope that maybe with the end of that plot, Absalom wouldnt have more to threaten us with.

I should have known better.

For a moment I feel a wave of sheer, visceral terror, like all the childhood fears of ghosts have been proven real, and then I take in a deep, slow breath and try to think through the impossibility of dealing with this... again. I am guilty of nothing more than defending myself from a man who wanted to kill me, who gained my trust over the course of years, and gradually led me to the place meant for my execution.

But that doesnt make the message on the screen go away.

Absalom has someone else coming for us. The thought runs through me like a lightning bolt, dries my mouth, makes all my nerves fire at once, because it feels right . Something has been bothering me all these long days while weve been in hiding and moving for our safety... the feeling that were being watched, still. Id put it down to paranoia.

What if it isnt?

I try to get up quietly, but the cot creaks, and I hear Lanny, my daughter, whisper, Mom?

Its okay, I whisper back. I stand and slip my feet into shoes. Im fully dressed in comfortable pants and a loose sweater and heavy socks, and I put on my shoulder holster and parka before I unlock all the security measures and step out into the chill.

Its overcast and cold here in Knoxville. Im not used to the city lights, but just now they comfort me a little. I dont feel quite as isolated. There are people here. Screams will be heard.

I call one of the few numbers in my phone. It rings just once before its picked up, and I hear the ever-tired voice of Detective Prester of the Norton Police Departmentthe town nearest where we lived, no, live , because we will go back to Stillhouse Lake, I swear we willsay, Ms. Proctor. Its late. He doesnt sound happy to hear from me.

Are you one hundred percent sure that Lancel Graham is dead?

Its an odd question, and I hear the creak of what is probably an office chair as Prester sits back. I check my watch. Its after one in the morning. I wonder why hes still at work. Norton is a sleepy little town, though its got its fair share of crime to deal with. Hes one of two detectives on staff.

And Lancel Graham used to wear a Norton PD uniform.

Presters reply is slow and cautious. You got some pressing reason why you think he isnt?

Is. He. Dead?

Dead as they come. I watched them pull organs out of his corpse on an autopsy table. Why are you asking at He hesitates, then groans, as if hes just checked the time, too. No fit time in the morning?