Forsaken (Morgan Cross #14)

PROLOGUE

The trunk of Laura Benson's car was still warm against her back, radiating the heat of an unseasonably warm October day in Dallas. Her short blonde hair, usually neat and practical for long hours at the library desk, was matted with blood where she'd hit her head struggling. Her wrists burned where the rope cut into them, the fibers rough and unforgiving. Each time she moved, they dug deeper into her flesh.

The wind carried a cocktail of scents: motor oil from the library parking lot where he'd taken her, decaying leaves, the chemical sweetness that still burned her nostrils and made her thoughts blur at the edges. Chloroform. She remembered the sickly smell as he'd pressed the cloth to her face, remembered dropping her ring of keys with their little brass library card scanner, remembered the sound they made hitting the asphalt. Such a small, ordinary sound for the moment her world ended.

Her abductor moved with the efficiency of someone who had done this before. He hadn't bothered with a blindfold—a detail that made her stomach clench. In the beam of his flashlight, she could see the hunter's mask that covered the lower half of his face, dark material that might have been canvas or leather. But his eyes caught the light and held it. Those eyes. There was something familiar about them, something that nagged at the edges of her chloroform-addled mind.

The second length of rope hung from his latex-gloved hand, swaying slightly in the breeze. Laura tried to scream through the cloth wadded in her mouth, but only managed a sound like a wounded animal. The gag tasted of cotton and copper and fear.

"Shhhhh," he whispered, kneeling beside her. His breath fogged in the cooling night air. "Everything dies in its season. Everything must be renewed."

He looped the rope around her neck with terrible gentleness, his fingers brushing against her throat as he worked. The touch made her skin crawl, made her wish he would just hurt her instead of this horrible tenderness. He left it loose for now, the other end trailing down her back.

Somewhere in the darkness, water lapped against wood. The Trinity River. Laura knew these banks—she'd walked here with her sister just last weekend, discussing bridesmaid dresses and flower arrangements for the November wedding. The wedding she would never see now. The tears that slid down her cheeks were hot compared to the cooling night air.

Her captor hummed as he worked—something that might have been a hymn but wasn't quite right, the notes twisting into something darker. He reached into a canvas bag and began pulling out flowers. Not the hardy mums and asters of autumn, but spring flowers: daffodils, tulips, tender blossoms that had no business blooming in October. Their sweetness seemed obscene in the darkness, their presence as wrong as everything else about this night.

With practiced precision, he began weaving the flowers into her hair, ignoring how she trembled at his touch. Some part of her mind, the part still capable of rational thought, noted the ritual-like quality of his movements. This wasn't random. This was ceremony.

He gripped her arm and forced her to her feet, dragging her down the wooden dock. Her feet scraped against the rough planks, leaving trails of blood from her library's sensible shoes. Her nude pantyhose tore at the knees. Such a stupid detail to notice, but her mind latched onto it. She'd bought them at Target last week, a three-pack on sale.

The Trinity River stretched before them like spilled ink, swallowing the beam of his flashlight. The city lights of Dallas reflected off its surface in distorted streaks, so close yet impossibly far away. Somewhere out there, life went on. People were drinking in bars, watching TV, sleeping in warm beds. Her mother was probably wondering why she hadn't answered her good-night text, a ritual they'd kept since Laura's college days.

"Your death will herald the change," he murmured, his voice almost lost in the sound of moving water. "Like the first frost that kills the summer crop, making way for new growth. You should be honored. You're part of something greater now."

He forced her to her knees at the edge of the dock. The wood was damp beneath her skin, warped from years of river moisture. With methodical movements, he took the free end of the rope around her neck and began securing it to one of the dock's metal cleats.

Laura thrashed wildly, but his knee in her back held her down. The rope grew taut as he worked. Not enough to strangle her—not yet—but enough that each panicked breath was a battle.

She felt his hands on her shoulders, gentle again, almost reverent. "The water will take you," he whispered. "And from your death, new life will bloom."

Then he pushed.

The rope snapped tight around her throat as she fell. Water closed over her head, shockingly cold after the warm October day. Laura kicked desperately, but the rope held her just beneath the surface. Close enough to see the distorted lights of Dallas through the dark water. Close enough to watch spring flowers drift past her face as consciousness began to fade.

The last thing she saw was his silhouette above her, backlit by the city's glow, scattering more flowers onto the water's surface as the Trinity River claimed her for its own.