He opened his eyes and swallowed hard. There was no accusation in her eyes, just love, fierce and sharp. “You’re not ready to move on, Noah. Eve’s touched something in you that you don’t want to walk away from, whether you want to admit it or not. And I think that’s what was pushing you tonight, not a dream and not this case.”

“I know,” he murmured, miserably. “But I don’t know what to do about it.”

Trina hugged him hard. “Trust yourself. You’re a good man, Noah Webster. You don’t deserve to be alone forever.” She gave him a shrewd look. “You’re not the only one with bad dreams. Brock and I see bad shit every day, just like you do.”

“So what do you do when you have dreams, Tree?”

“Sometimes I raid the fridge for anything chocolate. Sometimes I work out. And sometimes I just fuck Brock’s brains out.” He snorted a surprised laugh and she lifted a brow. “There’s something to be said for therapeutic sex. Maybe you should get some.”

Her words sent instant images of Eve, long and lithe, sliding her body down his. He thought of the yearning he’d seen in her eyes tonight, the need she’d tried so hard to hide. He shuddered, clenching his fists in his pockets. “I won’t drag her down with me.”

“Sometimes, Noah, it’s just out of your hands.”

“You promised,” he warned, but wearily and without bite.

“Yeah, I did. But sometimes fate steps in and kicks your ass. You think you know what she needs. Hell,” she scoffed, “you don’t even know what you need.”

“What I need is sleep.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Go, before you get sick.”

Monday, February 22, 4:00 a.m.

Christy had been sitting in the booth by the window for over an hour. She’d had five cups of coffee, having finished the waffles she’d ordered when the waitress got testy.

He didn’t dare go inside. Unlike the coffee shop where he’d watched Martha, in this diner he’d stick out like a sore thumb. The diner served all night, but most of their clients were truckers and the occasional hungry traveler. And Christy Lewis.

“Who is finally tired of waiting for John,” he murmured as she dug into her purse. She paid her bill before disappearing for several minutes, which he assumed was a trip to the ladies’ room. Reappearing with her face blotchy, which he assumed meant she’d indulged in a fit of tears, she walked to her car, her head down against the wind.

One hour, twenty minutes, and fifty-five seconds. So far Christy Lewis had waited longer than any of them. He might have enjoyed that fact, except that the car he was driving was too small, even for him. But the little car was part of the plan, just like the choice of this particular diner. More “clues” for the Hat Squad. It was going to drive them crazy. That Christy had consumed food while she’d waited seemed an unfair autopsy freebie, but he couldn’t change that now.

With a defiant tilt of her chin, she pulled down her visor mirror and slashed on fresh lipstick before capping the tube and throwing it hard at her windshield. He hoped her anger would carry her home faster. He got a shiver of anticipation, just thinking about what lay ahead, and pulled out of the diner’s parking lot behind her.

Monday, February 22, 4:35 a.m.

Christy slammed her car door, the noise echoing in the night. I am so stupid. How many times had she heard about lies online? You should know. You tell them yourself. That was different. That was Shadow-land. This was real life and he’d lied.

Maybe he was there. Maybe he took one look at you and ran the other way.

“Goddammit.” She stumbled up the sidewalk, tripping in the heels she’s spent next month’s grocery money on. You’re a stupid idiot, just like Jerry said. She struggled with her keys, hands shaking as her ex-husband’s voice rolled through her mind. Clumsy, ugly. You’ll never find anyone else willing to look at your face every morning.

He’s right. There’s nobody out there for somebody like me. She’d been suckered tonight, waited like a fool for an online asshole that never showed, who’d probably never intended to show. “John,” whoever he was, was probably laughing at her right now.

Just like Jerry had when she’d caught him with that slut. In my bed.

She shoved the front-door key into the lock, her eyes narrowing at a new thought.

“Jerry.” It made sense. Her ex knew computers, but he wouldn’t even have needed to hack in. She hadn’t logged out of Shadowland in God only knew how long. She’d changed the locks, but that wouldn’t have kept him out. He’d broken into the house. Her cheeks flamed. Read my Ninth Circle conversations. Why on earth had she saved them? So, like a loser, she could read them again and again, pretending to have a life.

“He set me up,” she hissed. “Sonofafuckingbitch set me up.”

She pushed the door open, furious. She’d get him, the lying, screwing SOB, if it was the last thing she- A hand clamped over her mouth and her heart froze. Jerry. Fury supplanted the fear. This was taking it too damn far. I’ll kill you for this.

Then fury evaporated away as she was viciously yanked back, her head smacking against a hard shoulder. Not Jerry, she thought wildly. It’s not Jerry.

“Hello, Gwenivere,” he crooned into her ear and she thrashed against him. Get away. Get away. She felt the jab of a needle into her neck. “Welcome to Camelot.”

She could hear him calmly counting back from ten as her body went numb. He let her go and she teetered for a split second before collapsing on the floor.

“Snakes,” she heard him say, from a distance. She was floating now. Get away. Must get away. But she couldn’t move. She heard him kneel beside her, felt his breath in her ear. “A pit of vipers slithering over your skin, Christy. No escape. No escape.”

No. No. Everywhere, they’re everywhere. It was a deep pit. Twisting snakes, all around. Hissing. Her heart pounded and cold sweat drenched her skin. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Oh God. One slithered across her foot, and she clenched her eyes shut. Another dropped from above to her shoulder and she screamed. Run. Get away.

Help me. Christy Lewis heard the shrieking and was suddenly aware it came from her own throat. She opened her eyes, heart pounding, lungs gasping for air. Just a dream. She was in her own living room. But not. Her eyes darted side to side as she took it in. Her furniture was moved. Pushed against the wall. She lunged. But not.

I can’t move. She struggled wildly, her mind fighting to clear the haze. No snakes, she told herself. Just a dream. But I still can’t move. Her arms hugged her body, her ankles burned like fire, her head… God, her head hurt. Stop. And think.

She blinked hard, but her living room was still changed. Her arms… She was sitting up, bound shoulder to waist, warm. Trapped. Horror flooded her mind as the mist cleared away. Her ankles were tied to her chair with rope and there was hideous pressure on her temples, like a… “A vise?” she whispered in disbelief.

“Indeed, my dear. And a straitjacket,” he said and it came back in a rush.

She’d gone to meet John. She’d waited for him, but he’d never come. But he was here. She jerked around to see, crying out at the shearing pain in her head.

“I suggest you not try to move,” he said dryly, still behind her.

“Why?” she begged, agonized. Tears filled her eyes and she blinked them away.

“Maybe because your empty head is in a vise?” he said with contempt.

“No.” She wanted to sound angry, but instead she whimpered in fear. “Why me?”

“Because I needed you,” he said logically. “And because you’re here. And because I can. Pick one, it doesn’t matter which. Did you like the snakes, Christy?”