Gillian was walking toward her, her footsteps light. Holly felt pressure on her shoulder, turning her around, turning her over.

She smelled adhesive.

Suddenly a hand pressed a wide band of tape across her lips, extending from cheek to cheek, almost to her ears. She felt hot breath on her skin while something cold and metallic was shoved into her neck.

Gillian came awake with a start to see a silhouetted figure backlit by the flickering glow of the TV. The man wore a* dark, bulky jacket and a ski mask over his face. Standing, his arm clamped around her stomach, was Holly. Her mouth was sealed, her eyes large and terrified.

She made a sound deep in her throat-a scream halted by the tape.

"Please-" Gillian slowly sat up, swinging her feet to the floor, struggling to keep her voice calm. "Don't hurt her."

How is this happening?

He shifted slightly. Something caught in the flickering light. A gun. Her own gun was upstairs. Too far away.

"Lie down on the floor," he told her. "Hurry. Now! Or I'll kill her." His voice was neither deep nor high-pitched, and he didn't sound especially agitated-not a good sign. Some of the most horrendous killers in history remained calm and emotionally detached throughout their attacks of violence.

Gillian dropped to her knees. He lashed out with a booted foot, kicking her in the back of the head. The impact sent her sprawling, her chin smacking wood. She didn't feel anything. He shoved Holly facedown into the futon. "Stay there. Don't move."

He knelt above Gillian, wrenched her arms behind her, and wrapped her wrists with duct tape. He tore off another piece. Before he could silence her with it, knowing this was her last chance, she rolled to her back, her arms and hands crushed beneath her.

Two thoughts raced through her mind simultaneously.

This is the Lucia Killer.

Gavin is in jail.

She tried to remember everything she'd learned about the killer, his likes and dislikes and what he wanted in a victim. Her sister's words came back to her. You fit the victimology.

"Take me," she said, looking up at him, adrenaline and fear pumping through her veins. "Don't take her, take me."

The shabby ski mask stared at her.

"That's what you're here for, isn't it?" Gillian asked. "You've come for Holly?"

Inside the oval holes, eyes blinked. Seemingly curious, he reached down and fiddled with her hair, rubbing it between his gloved fingers.

On TV, a psychic was telling people to call for a free reading: "I know you're lonely," the psychic said. "I can help you find your perfect soul mate."

The psychic's words seemed to be Gillian's cue. "Holly isn't right for you. And the others-they weren't right for you either." Don't lay it on too thick. He might not believe you. You might make him mad. "But I've studied you-enough to know we're a lot alike. We're both-"

"Stop talking."

He slapped the tape over Gillian's mouth, then jerked her to her feet, pulling her against him. His next words were a startling revelation. "I came for you," he whispered against her cheek, the wool of his mask rubbing her skin, his breath lifting her hair in puffs. "You're the one I've been watching. You're the one I want."

Tate? she wondered. Was the Lucia Killer Sebastian Tate after all? The height was right. Was the voice? She didn't know. Couldn't remember.

He shoved her away from him, then pressed the tip of the gun to the back of Holly's head.

Even though her mouth was sealed, Gillian let out an anguished cry. NO!

He paused and looked at her.

NO! Don't do it! she begged him with her eyes. Please. Don't do it!

Inside the ski mask, he didn't seem fully human. Still, he pulled the gun away from Holly's head, turning it on Gillian.

He shoved Holly's face against the pillow until she began to struggle. He let her up long enough to take a breath, then forced her down again. "Stay there for fifteen minutes," he commanded. "You hear me?"

She nodded. Her entire body trembled, muffled whimpers coming from her throat.

"A full fifteen minutes."

She nodded again.

He hustled Gillian in front of him, shoving her out the door into the dark night and down the sidewalk. For a moment, she thought of making a run for it, but discarded the idea. With her hands behind her back and her mouth covered, he'd quickly overtake her. And in his anger, what would he do? Kill her and abduct Holly? Kill them both?

He opened the trunk of his car. Gillian stared in horror at the dark, gaping hole. No. She couldn't get in there. She could already smell it-a cloying, rotten corpse odor. This was not a trunk but the death pit that had held the bodies of the murdered girls. Of Bambi, April, Justine, and Charlotte.

Reason vanished. She was a terrified animal fighting for her life. She tensed, struggling to keep her feet on the ground, pushing against him, a panic-filled keening coming from her throat.

In one smooth motion, he lifted and pushed her forward, slamming the trunk lid behind her.

Gillian struggled for breath, fear sending her heart rate several notches higher, her chest rising and falling in accelerated panic.

Had Holly gotten up as soon as they left and called the police? If so, cops would be swarming all over looking for her right now.

And the guy. The guy driving the car. Not Gavin. Definitely not Gavin. Was it Tate? What the hell was going on?

Bile rose in her throat. She thought about Charlotte Henning choking to death on her own vomit.

Calm down.

She forced her muscles to relax and started counting to regulate her breathing.

Don't think. Don't think about anything but staying calm.

Holly waited until she was sure fifteen minutes had passed.

Then she waited another ten.

With her mouth and wrists taped, she struggled to her feet, shoving her forehead against the couch as she pushed herself upright.

After repeated tries, using her elbow and the side of her bound arm, she was finally able to get the doorknob unlocked and turned. In her socks and sleep T-shirt, she ran across the frost-covered yard into the street.

Every part, of her wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, but the only sound that came out was a muffled roar from deep in her throat.

The street was deserted. Two blocks away were some college hangouts-Chinese restaurants, cafes, bars, and bookstores. Even though it was early morning and nothing would be open, she ran in that direction, unmindful of the near-freezing temperatures.

She heard a car in the distance, heard it slow, heard it turn.

Was it him, coming back?

She wanted to jump behind a mailbox and hide. But Gillian was in trouble. She forced herself to remain in the center of the street. The car came at her, then, at the last minute swerved, honking the horn as it disappeared into the darkness.

She turned and hurried back in the direction she'd come, running to the porch of the first house she saw, using her elbow to ring the doorbell. She rang it and rang it and rang it until an angry man jerked the door open.

"What the hell's going-?" He stopped. "Oh my God. Judy. Come here!" he shouted behind him. "Judy!"

Holly jumped up and down and shook her head. Take off the tape. Take off the tape!

"Hold still," he said, "an' I'll pull that off. This'll hurt."

I don't care! Just do it! Do it!

He ripped off the tape. At first she felt no pain; then fire spread across her face. She began shouting. "Call the police! Call the police!"

By that time his wife had shown up and joined her husband in his horrified reaction. "Oh, you poor dear. You poor thing." She pulled her into the warmth of the house. "Her hands are taped, John. Get a knife. Hurry!"