Dutton , Georgia , Friday, February 2, 3:20 p.m.

Luke stole a look at Susannah before fixing his eyes on the curving road ahead. The first time he’d seen her she’d stood next to Daniel at their parents’ funeral wearing a conservative black suit, her face so pale he’d wondered if she’d remain standing. But she had, exhibiting a calm strength that impressed him and a delicate beauty that had him looking twice. But under her calm façade was a darkness that drew him like a lodestone. She’s like me, he’d thought, unable to rip his eyes away. She’d understand.

Today she sat in his passenger seat, dressed in another black suit, this one a bit trendier. Once again her face was pale and once again he sensed the darkness that vibrated within her. She was angry. She had every right to be.

I’m fine, she’d said, but of course she was not. How could she be? She’d just come face to face with her worst nightmare in a brutally graphic way. An hour ago she’d marched into Simon’s bedroom and pulled the box from the hidey-hole behind his closet, as calmly as if it had been filled with baseball cards instead of vile photos of rape. Her own rape. Luke had wanted to punch a wall, but he’d maintained his control. He’d done his job. And so had she, with a composure that would put any cop to shame.

Still, Susannah Vartanian was definitely not “fine.”

And neither am I. Then again, Luke had not been “fine” in a very long time. He could feel his own fury, way too close to the surface. It had been a very bad week. It had been a very bad year. Too many faces stared at him from the depths of his mind. All taunting him. Haunting him. You were our only hope, and you were too late.

They’d been too late once again, thirteen years too late this time. A shiver slithered down his back. Luke was by no means a superstitious man, but he’d been his mother’s son too long not to have a healthy respect for the number thirteen. Thirteen surviving rape victims, the crime perpetrated thirteen years before.

One of the thirteen survivors sat in his passenger seat, her eyes haunted.

She blamed herself. It was clear. If only she’d said something… the other victims would have been spared. There would have been no band of rapists on which a present-day murderer could seek revenge and five Dutton women might still be alive. If she’d said something back then, Simon Vartanian would have been arrested with the other rapists and never would have gone on to kill so many himself.

Of course she was wrong. Life just didn’t work that way. Luke wished it did.

He wished that her coming forward thirteen years ago would have erased the box of photos he carried in the trunk of his car. But he knew if she’d said anything, Arthur Vartanian would have bailed Simon out and brought his son home, as he had every other time. Simon would have killed her, of this Luke was certain. There had been no way out for Susannah then, and no way of knowing Simon had orchestrated the rape of others.

Now that she knew, she’d come forward in a way that inspired his profound respect. She’d been hurt and angry and scared. But she’d done the right thing.

“You know you’re not to blame,” he said quietly.

Her jaw tightened. “Thank you, Agent Papadopoulos, but I don’t need the pep talk.”

“You’re thinking I don’t understand,” he said mildly even though he wanted to snarl.

“I’m sure you think you do. You mean well, but-”

Dammit, he didn’t think he did. He did. The lid on his temper rattled. “Four days ago I found three kids dead,” he interrupted, the words out of his mouth before he knew he planned to say them. “Nine, ten, and twelve. I was less than a day too late.”

She drew a deep breath and let it out quietly. Her body seemed to settle. Her fury seemed to rise. “How did they die?” she asked, her voice ominously quiet.

“Shot in the head.” And he could still see their small faces every time he closed his eyes. “But before they were murdered, they’d been molested in front of a Webcam. For years,” he spat. “For money. For perverts all over the world to see.”

“Bastards.” Her voice trembled. “That must have been horrible for you.”

“More horrible for them,” he muttered and she made a small sound of agreement.

“I guess I’m supposed to say you’re not to blame. Obviously you think you are.”

His hands gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles ached. “Obviously.”

A few moments passed, then she said, “So you’re one of those.”

He could feel her studying him and it made him feel unsettled. “One of what?”

“One of those guys who works Internet sex crimes against kids. I’ve worked with a few, through the DA’s office. I don’t know how you guys do it.”

His jaw tightened. “Some days, I don’t do it.”

“But most days, you do what you have to do. And a little more of you dies each day.”

She’d articulated the state of his life very well. “Yeah.” His voice was rough, unsteady. “Something like that.”

“Then you’re one of the good guys. And you’re not to blame.”

He cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

From the corner of his eye he saw she still watched him. Some of the color had returned to her face and he knew he’d given her something else to think about. He didn’t want to talk about this, wished he hadn’t mentioned it, but it was distracting her from her shock and to accomplish that, he’d talk about anything she wanted.

“I’m confused,” she said. “I thought you and Daniel were Homicide, not Internet.”

“Daniel’s Homicide. I’m not. I’ve been on the Internet task force for over a year.”

“That’s a long time to have to live with such filth. I know guys who’ve worked Vice for ten years that didn’t last a month on the child porn task forces.”

“Like you said, we do what we have to do. I’m not normally Daniel’s partner. This is a special assignment. After Tuesday, when I found the kids, I asked for a temporary reassignment. Daniel was chasing this guy that’s been killing Dutton women and everywhere he turned he kept running into Simon. Simon was everywhere in this case. This killer wanted us to find Simon’s club. Simon’s pictures. Simon’s key.”

“The key to the empty safe-deposit box where you thought you’d find the pictures.”

He’d told her that much on the way out to the Vartanian house. “Yeah. This killer ties keys to the toes of his victims, so we knew the key was important. The Philly detective found a safe-deposit box key among Simon’s things, but when Daniel took it to the bank today, the box was empty. If the pictures had ever been stored there, somebody took them.” He looked over at her. “But you knew where to find Simon’s stash.”

“I didn’t know about the box. I only knew Simon had a hiding place.”

Because she’d had a similar hidey-hole behind her own bedroom closet, he thought bitterly. Simon had left her there, drugged unconscious, after his friends had assaulted her. He couldn’t even imagine waking up in that dark little space, afraid, in pain. That she hated the house had been apparent. That she hated this town was also apparent, which was why he wasn’t sure if he had the right to ask her to stay, even for Daniel.

“The bastard is really dead this time,” he said bitterly, “but he won’t stay buried.”

“Even dead, Simon’s a pain in the ass.”

His lips curved, her wry observation venting some of his steam. She’d approached her fear with humor, and he respected that. “Well put. Anyway, Daniel was tracking this killer and needed a data analyst. That’s what I do, so I joined the team. Yesterday we got a tip, leading us to the O’Brien family. Their oldest son was part of Simon’s club.”

“Jared,” she murmured. “I remember him. He thought he was God’s gift to women in high school. I had no idea he was one of the ones who…” She let the thought trail.