“Sarah?”

“Eight months,” she said, shuddering. “I knew what he was for eight months, and I didn’t stop him.”

“You were a child—”

“I’m a liar.”

He stiffened.

“I first heard the screams when I was six. I let him tell me to just go back to sleep. I listened to him. There were other signs . . . other nights when I’d wake up. Things he’d say and do, but I ignored them . . . he was my father, and he loved me.”

No, he didn’t. He just acted as if he did. He’s a psychopath. Psychopaths don’t love. They mimic. She’d learned all she could about her father’s condition when she’d been in school. Her father had driven her to become a profiler because by that point . . .

I already thought like a killer. So why not try to learn more and catch the other killers out there?

“I lied to myself for years. I believed my own lies as easily as I believed his.” And her father had been such a genius when it came to lying. On the surface, he’d been charming. Everyone had loved him. That was why—when the truth came out—all the neighbors had been so shocked.

He was such a good man. Always willing to help out with my yard work.

He never bothered anyone. He was a widower. He took such good care of his little girl.

He never caused trouble with anyone. Quiet, courteous . . .

Lies.

“There was this boy at school . . . he’d been teasing me, calling me names.” She had to swallow to clear the lump in her throat. “I hadn’t even told my dad about him, but I learned—later—that one of my teachers had called Dad. She was worried about me being bullied and she was trying to follow up at home.” She bit her lip. She bit it to stop the tremble.

“Stop, Sarah.”

He tapped her lip.

She realized that she’d nearly drawn blood.

Sarah’s tongue swiped over the lip, soothing the pain.

“I was having a sweet sixteen slumber party. My friends were coming over when I found the—the bag downstairs.”

He’d gone still. As still as stone.

“Ryan was in that bag. My dad had . . . sliced his throat. From ear to ear. Ryan’s blood had soaked through the bag, and my dad was there . . . telling me happy birthday.”

Jax swore and pulled her into his arms. He held her there, right against his heart, with a hold that was so tight and warm.

“My dad said he did it for me. To protect me.” She shook her head. Jax’s hold tightened on her. “I never wanted that. I never wanted him to kill anyone. Not for me.”

“I know.”

Did he? She’d seen suspicion on so many faces.

“He’d trained me to kill, for years, and I didn’t realize it. I was thirteen and he was showing me people in malls . . . people who weren’t paying attention to what was happening around them. People who would make easy marks. I didn’t know he meant people who could be his victims!”

“What did you do?”

Sarah pulled back to stare up at him.

“When did you cut your wrist, Sarah?”

She blinked. “That night. On my birthday. I—I canceled my party. Told my friends that I was sick. And when I was alone . . . when he left to get rid of the body . . . I sliced my wrist.”

“Christ.” His hold was almost painful then.

“I was bleeding out on the floor. I thought I was dead, and then he came back.” She’d never told anyone this part. Not the shrink she’d seen, not the cops. “He was crying when he found me. My dad told me that he couldn’t live without me . . . that he needed me to keep going.” He’d wrapped up her hand. He’d rushed her to the hospital. Then he’d fed the nurses a lie about her being despondent because her boyfriend had broken up with her.

The boyfriend? Ryan Klein. A guy who’d seemingly deserted everyone and left town.

“He watched me after that, so carefully. He would stare at me as if he couldn’t figure me out. I think he expected me to be just like him. I wasn’t though, so he kept trying to turn me into a hunter, just like he was.”

“Sarah, you don’t have to tell me this.”

Maybe he didn’t want to hear it. She pulled away, her body curving a bit as her shoulders hunched.

“Stop.”

She looked up at him.

“You’re hurting when you talk about him. Do you think I can’t tell?” His jaw was clenched so tightly as he gritted out those words. “I wish I could take all of this pain away for you. I wish I could have stopped him.”

“I did.” Her chin lifted. “I’m the one . . . I finally stopped him.” The night was burned in her mind. “He’d taken a woman from the city—a lady who worked at the bakery. I’d seen her dozens of times, and he had his knife to her throat. He was telling me that I had to watch. That I had to see what she’d do . . . what she’d say. That in the end, they all confessed and they all begged . . .”

She wanted to stop the words, but now that she’d started talking, it seemed like a dam had burst and she couldn’t hold them back.

“I found a gun in my dad’s closet. He liked to use his knives when he was . . . working . . . on the victims. Said it was more personal.” In college, she’d learned that others thought just as her father did. A knife was intimate. You got close to your victim with the knife. It sliced into the skin, cutting deep into flesh. Carving—one life, taken. “But he had the gun . . . just in case. Just in case some burglar ever broke in, so we’d be safe.”

She stopped a minute, lost by the insanity of that. Her dad had kept a gun because he wanted to keep them safe from burglars. Who would keep us safe from you, Dad?

“I took that gun. When he was down in that basement, making her scream, I took the gun.”

She could see that scene so clearly in her mind. She’d gripped the gun in her hand. Her palm had been slick with sweat. She’d inched down the stairs, one at a time. The wood had creaked beneath her feet, but her father hadn’t heard her approach. The screams had been too loud.

She’d reached the bottom. Crept right up behind him. Daddy, stop.

“He thought I’d come to watch. To help. But I put the gun to his head. He laughed at first and said it wasn’t even loaded.” Every breath felt painful. “But I’d found the bullets. I told him that if he didn’t let her go, I’d shoot him.”

Jax was staring into her eyes.

“I meant it.”

“I know.” His voice was soft, gentle. There was no horror in his eyes, no pity. Just a blue stare that held her own.

“She ran out . . . I knew that she’d call the cops and I didn’t move. I kept that gun to my father’s head. If he’d tried to attack me, I would have pulled the trigger.” Goose bumps had risen on her arms as she told him the story. “When the cops finally arrived and they took him away, do you know what he said to me?”

Jax shook his head.

Right, of course, he didn’t know. Stupid question. No one knew . . . no one but her and the cop who’d been holding her father. “He said he was proud of me. That I had his killer instinct, just like he’d always wanted.”

There it was. Her shame. Her horror.

Her life.

And now he knew everything.

Chapter 11

DETECTIVE WEST?”

Brent tensed when he heard his name and he turned away from the window. Not that he’d had much of a view—the hospital’s waiting room window overlooked the place’s parking garage.

A young nurse, one with short, curly brown hair and dark eyes, waited a few feet away.

“The doctor wanted me to tell you that Ms. Guthrie has stabilized some. She may even be able to answer a few brief questions. Very brief,” she emphasized.

Relief had him rushing across the room. “Can I see her now?”

He was aware of Gabe Spencer rising behind him. Gabe and the blond looker had been in that waiting room for most of the night. He’d heard Gabe on his phone, calling in favors left and right—and Brent knew just how important that kind of power was. When a guy could get the Feds to jump and do your bidding, then that was a man with some serious pull.