One criminologist had written that Richie represented Miguel's latent homosexual desires. When that criminologist had tried to interview Miguel again, the convicted murderer waited until he was locked in the visitor's room with his shackles removed, then dove at the researcher over the table and tried to strangle the man with his bare hands. Miguel had to be forcibly dragged out of the room by four prison guards. Apparently, Miguel didn't care to be labeled a latent homosexual.

One thing was clean Miguel Sanchez was not a nice man. Kimberly had found a photo of him on-line. He had dark, wild hair only Charles Manson would love. His eyes were deeply sunk into his forehead, his cheekbones craggy. Tattoos riddled his shoulders, and according to one report, he continued to add to his body art while incarcerated with the aid of a needle and a ballpoint pen. He claimed to be a walking monument to his victims. Kimberly had stared at his photo three times before she realized what the elaborately scrolled design on his shoulder said. Then she had gone cold.

Amanda.

He had the name Amanda permanently etched into his body. Kimberly had to work on easing her heart rate again. She knew Miguel Sanchez's Amanda. A long time ago, she and Mandy had listened to the tape. One more link, however. One more link between a stone-cold psychopath and Kimberly's rapidly disintegrating family.

The squeaking was growing closer. Fuck, she couldn't think.

She got out of her chair, scowling at the door and the noise that was now right behind it. She didn't need this kind of distraction. She had a job to do. And as long as she kept focused, kept determined, she felt like her old self again. Capable, strong, self-possessed.

Funny how Mandy's death had sent her drifting, filled with too many conflicting emotions of rage and grief and fear. And ironic how her mother's murder had anchored her again, taking all of those same emotions and giving them a purpose. She was going to find this bastard. And she didn't care what Rainie said. She was going to kill him. Frankly, if he was anything like Miguel Sanchez, she wasn't going to feel bad about it either.

Darwinism, she thought. Survival of the fittest. You take on me and my family, you 'd better be prepared for the consequences. Because I've been training for this day since I was twelve, you son of a bitch. I won't go down easy.

A knock sounded on the door. Standing just three feet away in the kitchenette, Kimberly froze. And that quickly, her confidence left her. The color leeched from her face, her heart ratcheted up to one hundred and fifty beats per minute, and sweat burst from her pores.

"Room service," a high squeaky male voice called out.

Room service. Oldest trick in the book. Kimberly ran into the bedroom. She fumbled through her bag, pulled out her Glock, and sprinted back to the living area where she leveled her semiautomatic at the cheap wooden door.

"You got the wrong room, buddy," she yelled. "Back away from ray door!"

There was a pause. Her hands were trembling so badly, she couldn't sight her gun. She was thinking: Wednesday, my mom. Thursday, my grandpa. Friday, we're all on the run, and today? Not me! I won't go down easy!

"Uh, I got an order here for your room – "

"Get the fuck away from my door!"

"Okey dokey. I'll be going now. You want your, uh, champagne and strawberries, you can come downstairs yourself, ma'am. Sheesh."

Kimberly heard squeaking again. Then a moment later, the same high-pitched voice muttering, "Gotta be a fucking full moon tonight or something. Sheesh."

She slowly lowered her gun. Her body was still shaking. Sweat had plastered her T-shirt to her skin. Her heart hammered fast, as if she'd been running a marathon.

She took a deep breath. Then another. Then another.

And then, still not feeling good about things, she got down on her hands and knees and peered beneath the door. No dark shadow of feet standing outside her door. She collapsed into a sitting position on the carpet, her Glock cradled in her lap.

"Oh yeah," she murmured darkly in the empty room, "I'm doing just fine."

"I'm thinking, no sickening-sweet pet names. Phrases that have been used on nighttime soaps do not belong in the home. Plus, if it's been used on a Hallmark card, I don't really think it applies to me. I'm not a Hallmark sort of gal. Though, for the record, I could probably learn to like flowers now and then. Pink roses. Or that champagne color. Yeah, I'm pretty sure I would like that. Of course, that raises the whole issue of chocolates and other special-delivery sweets. I'm going to say yes to the chocolates, no on the heart-shaped box. Things that involve red velvet also do not belong in the home. What do you think?"

Rainie was sprawled next to Quincy in the deep-pile comfort of her bed. They hadn't bothered getting dressed yet. It was a little after twelve, the sun was high in the sky and at any minute, her phone was bound to ring. Screw it.

Her head was on his shoulder and she was doodling little designs on his chest with her index finger. She liked the feel of his chest hairs, crisp but silky. She liked the way he smelled, aftershave mixed with sex. She liked the way he looked, his broad, well-toned chest like a vast plane beneath her hand. She was thinking she'd soon be ready for more talk of Olympic-medal events.

"Green-light flowers and square boxes of chocolate," Quincy dutifully repeated. "Red-light sickening-sweet pet names." His hand was stroking her hair; he was obviously in no rush to get up either. He tilted his head down to see her better. "For the sake of argument, what qualifies as a sickening-sweet pet name? I'd hate to think I was being cute and adorable, only to wind up dead."

"Sweetheart, cupcake, sugar pie, honey bunch," Rainie rattled off. "Sweetie pie, cutie pie… You know, the kind of names that when other people use them, you want to give them a whopping dose of insulin… or a smack on the head."

"No terms of endearment that owe their origin to the glucose family?"

"That's my stance. You don't call me sweet cheeks and I won't call you stud muffin."

"I don't know," Quincy said mildly. "I kind of like stud muffin…"

She hit him on the chest. He pretended to be mortally wounded. She was just leaning over to kiss him back to life when the phone rang. She groaned.

"Carl Mitz," Quincy murmured.

"Gymnastics!" she countered.

"Later, I'm afraid."

"Spoilsport." Rainie reached over and grabbed the cordless phone off her nightstand. "Hello," she declared grumpily.

"Lorraine Conner. How nice to speak with you."

Rainie frowned. She didn't recognize the voice. Not at all. "Who is this?"

"You know who this is. I want to speak with Pierce."

Rainie looked questioningly at Quincy. If the caller wanted him, that ruled out Carl Mitz or her long-lost father. But hardly anyone called Quincy Pierce. So who…

Shit. She bolted upright, covers falling away as her heart began to thud furiously. She knew who this was. "How the hell did you get this number?"

"Directory assistance, of course. Hand the phone to Pierce."

"Fuck you, asshole. I'm not doing anything you want."

"How marvelously childish. Hand the phone to Pierce."

"Hey, you call my number, you get to speak with me. So if you have something to say, I suggest you start talking or I'm hanging up." Her words ended in a screech; Quincy had grabbed the phone out of her hands. She was ready to battle him for it, but then she saw the steely look in his eyes.

He put the receiver to his ear. "Hello," he said evenly. "Who is this?"

"Pierce Quincy, of course. Would you like to see my driver's license? Or perhaps a sample of my handwriting?"