Chapter 1
Thirteen years later…
Alexia
“Keys. Keys!” Where the fuck did I put my goddamn keys?
They’d disappeared. Again. They were always found in the last place I looked. A quick roll of my eyes reminded me of my mother’s singsong voice every time I used the phrase when still living at home.
Of course they were in the last place I looked. Duh.
I was running late, something that rarely happened. I jerked on my second high heel, almost falling over the couch when I yanked one of two sexy decorative pillows from the cushion.
No keys.
As I hopped around, finally the heel fell into position just as I glanced at my watch.
Thank God, I didn’t have court this morning.
Worse than losing my keys were Tuesdays, which I’d affectionately started calling the new Monday since it seemed I always had an arduous court day on every single Monday.
Not only had court run long the day before, but my sweet client had cried on my shoulder for almost two hours after.
There was no way I could be an indecent human being and send her packing after the ridiculously light fine the two-time loser of a human being had received.
Maybe my mood was partially based on the fact I wasn’t used to losing, competition running through my veins. Unfortunately, over the last few months, judges had been prickly bastards, refusing to charge the bastards even with the clear and present volume of evidence I’d provided.
A seriously evil growl replaced my groan.
Tuesdays were especially horrible dark, gloomy days. No matter the severity of the storm, they were almost malevolent in my mind.
At least I no longer needed to curl up under thick blankets, hiding from the rest of the world until the ominous weather event passed. Maybe I was making headway.
But I’d lose all my momentum if I couldn’t find my goddamn keys.
Groaning, I had a mini tantrum, tossing both decorative pillows over the back of the sofa then attacking the cushions themselves.
As I held up a wrinkled twenty-dollar bill into the shadowed light, I wondered just how long the chunk of change had been hiding from me.
It could have come in very handy the night before when I decided to purchase the five-dollar bottle of wine.
That’s why I was in this predicament with a dull ache surrounding my eyes, fracturing my last nerve. The cheap red wine hangover was a living and breathing entity threatening to ruin my day. So was losing my goddamn keys.
A hard thump hit the floor at the same time a rumble of thunder was followed by a loud crack. I jumped two feet, immediately placing my hand over my heart. “Jesus fucking Christ.” I was jumpier than usual and not only because of the storm.
Sighing, I glared down at the book I’d read well into the late night. Or I should say very early morning. I’d been hooked, so much so I’d almost skipped going to bed altogether. No wine haze had befuddled me either.
With a slight toss of my head, I bent over, grabbing the thick hardback into my fingers. When I pulled it in front of my face, another flash of lightning provided a perfect and very colorful backdrop for the gloriously graphic cover.
I guessed thriller authors didn’t heed the discreet cover cry that had blanketed the romance industry.
Gone Before Dawn.
The perfect title for a terrifying serial killer book. Gory. Bloody. Violent.
Everything I adored in my late-night reads.
The keys momentarily forgotten, I turned the book over, staring at the photograph of the author on the back. As had happened the first, the second, hell, the tenth time I’d glanced at it, a trickle of desire shot warmth between my legs.
Maverick Callahan.
The name alluded to rough nights of passion and wild kisses in the moonlight. Standing against a palm tree with his arms crossed, the light breeze tousling his shoulder-length whiskey-colored hair, he was the epitome of male perfection.
Plus, an excellent representation for the book’s hero.
Rough and tumble.
Refusing to take shit from anyone.
Savoring acts of violence.
And finalizing the dirty deed by catching the violent criminal red-handed.
With a little blood sprinkled in for good measure.
Exhaling, I gingerly placed the book on the coffee table, brought out of my sweet moment of reverie by another clap of thunder. So much for fantasies.
I continued tearing through the house while the television in my kitchen blared on with the morning news. Why the hell was the man’s deep voice thumping in my brain? Okay, not thumping exactly, but smashing together like two huge cymbals. Oh, my God, my head was killing me.
Why, oh, why did I start my workweek by turning on one of the local stations?
There were never any happy stories. No hot firefighters rescuing puppies from a burning house or some swoony cop flying in to save a damsel in distress on the side of a dark, foreboding road the night before.
Death and criminal activity. That’s what I was used to hearing.
As I flew into the kitchen, fluffing my curls with my fingers as I did, the next morning news story proved my point.
“The Miami-Dade police have widened their search for Ashley Boudreaux, an attorney from Rogers, Wilkins, and Jacoby, who’s now been missing for almost two weeks.”
“See?” I said out loud, pointing to the small flat screen. I quickly read the corresponding information about the situation scrolling across the bottom. The attorney was a responsible human being, had never simply left without telling anyone where she was going. She didn’t take her phone with her.
Blah. Blah. Blah.
If you asked me, from the way her boyfriend was showing off his crocodile tears, I’d say he should be the number one suspect.
Sighing, I was just about to grab the remote when something shiny caught my eye.
Oh, thank God.
With a hard lunge, I had the keyring in my hand, already mentally chastising myself.
Of course they were right by my purse, both tossed onto the counter mere moments after I’d arrived home.
All I’d cared about at the time was kicking off my shoes, putting away the few groceries, and cracking open the bottle of wine.
All of which I’d done in record time.
Now I had to get my ass in gear. With my purse slung over my shoulder, I took long strides, snagging the remote. Just before I pressed the ‘off’ button, another story popped on the screen.
An instant lump formed in my throat.
Where the sound of the television had been overwhelmingly and painfully loud before, I smashed my finger on the up button, bringing the sound to just below an explosive level.
“In breaking news, Samuel Wells, known throughout South Florida as the Python Killer has been scheduled for execution two weeks from this Thursday. At this point, without the governor issuing a stay, the act will be carried through on the scheduled date. You might remember the case from over thirteen years ago. Mr. Wells was tried and convicted of kidnapping, torturing, and killing twelve young women all under the age of eighteen.”
One reporter turned to the other morning anchor, nodding as the man finished his statement.
I was forced to grip the edge of the counter, my legs shaking.
“From what I understand, the governor currently has no plans to intervene. This was quite a disturbing case for all Floridians,” the male anchor continued.
The periphery of my vision began to fade.
“I remember the story, John. When the story broke, the killer finally caught, it was my first week here at the station. At the time it seemed everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Those poor girls who were taken and killed. I can’t imagine.
I have a daughter that age and it’s crazy to realize how precious life truly is. Thank goodness he was captured.”
“Yes, and by a lone FBI agent and his canine companion. From what I remember, his heroic deed wasn’t well received by his agency.”
“Shame on them,” the female said, laughing.
My God. As the killer’s picture was placed on the screen, I pressed my shaking fingers across my mouth. Maybe to keep from screaming. Or crying hysterically.
He could be anyone. A next-door neighbor. A schoolteacher. A doctor. Anyone. With mousy brown hair and basic features, he was the kind of man who you’d pass on the street and never think twice. I walked closer, studying the killer’s smile.
Of all the images that had faded to black, I’d never forgotten his smile. However, with the television screen only a few inches away, this time his eyes grabbed my attention. A flash slammed into the forefront of my mind.
Another image and one that hadn’t been shown before.
His eyes. They were… wrong. No. That wasn’t possible.
By the time I blinked, his photograph was no longer on the screen. Gasping, I reached out before I realized what I was doing, almost able to hear his laugh echoing in my mind.
I fisted my hand, bringing it to my mouth. It had been a very long time since I’d experienced such a strong reaction.
The female anchor looked directly at the camera. “Let’s hope his execution brings some peace and closure to the families of the victims.”
A swirl of light formed around my head, vivid colors shimmering as the forms danced and changed shapes every few seconds. I managed to turn off the television. Now the quiet was deafening.
“Do you dream in color?”
“I’m sorry?” I looked up from the book, immediately noticing the stranger’s kind smile.
He nodded toward what I was holding. “Quite a book for someone so young.”
“Oh,” I said, laughing. The title of the book I was holding was All Things Bright and Colorful. “It’s for a school project. The importance of color within poetry.”
He pulled a book from the shelf, fingering the cover. “Absolutely beautiful. Just remember that when you dream in color, all things are possible.”
I watched as he walked away, realizing I’d been holding my breath.
As the memory faded, I could no longer feel my legs.
The man’s upcoming execution had opened floodgates. I could barely breathe.
One. Two. Three. Four.