She shook her head. “It won’t hurt her to sleep in her clothes,” she whispered back.

Daniel pulled the blanket to cover Hope, then brushed a golden curl from her face, flushed with sleep. He swallowed. The pizza sauce had stained her skin and hair. It still looked like blood. Carefully, he brushed the curl back, hiding the stain.

He already had too many disturbing images in his mind. He didn’t need to add a bloody four-year-old to the mix.

“I sleep in here, too,” Alex whispered, standing by the other side of the bed. Daniel looked at the crisp white sheets, then back at Alex, who was giving him a pointed stare.

Daniel frowned. “You’re going to sleep now?” he asked.

“I guess not. Come on.” She turned at the door and her brows lifted. “Oh, look.”

Riley had climbed up onto a suitcase and was struggling to pull himself onto the chair that sat next to Hope’s side of the bed. “Riley,” Daniel whispered. “Get down.”

But Alex gave Riley the needed boost to the chair. From there the hound scrabbled to the bed, padded to Hope’s side, and flopped on his stomach with one of his big sighs.

“Riley, get out of that bed,” Daniel whispered, but Alex shook her head.

“Leave him. If she wakes up with bad dreams, at least she won’t be alone.”

Dutton, Tuesday, January 30, 11:30 p.m.

He tugged at his tie and settled into the seat, but a big man could only get so comfortable keeping watch from his car. His sister Kate was home from work now, her sensible Volvo parked safely in her garage. He could see her moving around inside her house, window to window, feeding her cat, hanging up her coat.

He planned to sit in front of her house every single night until this was over. He’d followed her from town, careful to stay far enough back so that she didn’t see him. If she did see him, he’d admit to being worried about her safety. But there was no way he could tell her she was a target. If he did, she’d want to know how he knew.

She couldn’t know. No one could know. And no one would know if he just kept his head down and his mouth shut. Both women had been killed between 8:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m. Both women had been taken from their cars, so he’d just stick to Kate like glue while she drove home from work and watch over her during the night. During the day she was safe enough, he thought, surrounded by people at her job.

Thoughts of the yearbook photos intruded into his mind. Ten pictures, the two already X-ed out. He’d been trying to push them away all night. It was a clear warning. Seven other women besides Kate had been on that paper. Seven other women were targets. He could have turned that photocopy over to Vartanian, could have saved those other seven. But he thought of his sister Kate. His wife. His children. And knew given the opportunity, he’d burn the paper again. They could never know.

If he’d given the paper to Vartanian, Daniel would have wondered why he’d been the recipient of the warning. Even if he’d sent it anonymously, Daniel would have seen the circle around Kate’s picture and wondered why his sister had been singled out.

You could have cut Kate’s picture away and sent the rest. You could have protected those other seven women. You should have protected them.

And chance that Vartanian’s GBI lab would find his fingerprints on the rest of the paper after he’d cut it apart? No, it was too big a chance. Besides, Vartanian would have started to dig, and God only knew what he’d unearth.

If one of those other seven women dies, their blood will be on your hands.

Then so be it. He had his own family to protect. If the families of the other women who’d gone to school with Janet and Claudia were smart, they’d be protecting their women, too. But they don’t know what you know.

He’d done things in his life. Horrible, deviant things. But he’d never had anyone’s blood on his hands before. Yes, you have. Alicia Tremaine. Alicia’s face whipped into his mind, and the memory of that night thirteen years ago.

But we didn’t kill her. But they had raped her. All of them had. All except Simon. He’d just taken the pictures. Simon had always been a sick bastard that way.

And you weren’t? You raped that girl, and how many others?

He closed his eyes. He’d raped Alicia Tremaine and fourteen others. They all had. Except for Simon. He’d just taken the pictures.

And where were the pictures?

The thought had haunted him for thirteen years. The pictures had been locked away, insurance that none of them would tell what they’d all done. Damn stupid kids that they’d been. Nothing he could ever do would erase what they’d done. What I did.

Every hideous thing he’d done. Recorded in those pictures. When Simon had died the first time they’d all been relieved and terrified at the same time that the pictures would surface, but they never had and the years had passed. Uneasily.

They’d never spoken of the pictures again, or the club, or the things they’d done. Not until DJ became a drunk. And disappeared.

Just like Rhett had disappeared tonight. He knew Rhett was dead. Rhett had been ready to talk and he’d been disposed of. Just like DJ.

I, on the other hand, am smart enough to keep my mouth shut and my head down until this is all over. Back then, the pictures had ensured their silence. If one went down, they’d all go down. But now, all these years later… They were no longer stupid kids. They were grown men with respectable jobs. And families to protect.

But now, all these years later… somebody was killing their women. Women who thirteen years ago had been innocent little girls. The girls you raped were innocent girls, too. Innocent. Innocent. Innocent.

“I know.” He spat the words aloud, then whispered, “God, don’t you think I know?”

Now, all these years later, somebody else knew. They knew about the key, so they knew about the club and they must know about Simon’s pictures, too. It wasn’t one of them, not one of the four that remained. No, not four. He thought about Rhett Porter. Rhett was dead. The three that remained. None of them would do this.

That this whole nightmare began one week after Simon Vartanian’s real death could not be a coincidence. Could Daniel have found Simon’s pictures?

No. Not a chance. If Daniel Vartanian had the pictures, he’d be investigating.

He is investigating, you idiot.

No, he’s investigating the murders of Janet and Claudia.

So Daniel didn’t know. That meant somebody else did. Somebody who wanted money. Somebody who’d killed two women to show them he meant business. Somebody who’d threatened to kill more if they didn’t listen.

So he’d listened. He’d followed the instructions that had come with the photocopy of the yearbook photos. He’d had a hundred thousand dollars transferred to an offshore account. There would be another demand for more money, he thought. And he’d continue to pay whatever he needed to ensure his secret stayed exactly that. Secret.