He’d found what had been missing from his life for all of those long years. The other part of his soul. And, yeah, he knew that probably would sound corny as shit if he ever told anyone but . . .

“I love you,” Sarah whispered.

But it’s the truth.

He kissed her cheek. “Forever, Sarah. Forever.”

EPILOGUE

Victoria hurried out of the morgue. She was practically running, but she didn’t care. She had to get to Gabe. Fast. She rushed up the stairs and then threw open the door to his makeshift office.

Gabe spun around. Wade glanced over at her, frowning.

“Viki?” Gabe stepped toward her. “Is everything all right?”

No, no, things were definitely not all right.

They’d stayed in New Orleans for a few extra days. Everyone had needed time to recover, and since Viki was one of the few who’d actually remained injury free on this particular case, she’d volunteered her services to the PD.

She’d been working in the morgue, going over the remains recovered from the fire at Tibideaux Street. But the news she had . . . it wasn’t good.

Not good at all.

“He wasn’t there,” Viki said. Her words quavered.

“Who wasn’t?” Wade asked as he, too, crept closer.

“They brought the bodies in. Three bodies,” Viki said.

Gabe nodded. “Right. Carlos, Mitch Fontaine, and Murphy Jacobs—”

“No.” That was the problem. “Carlos.” She nodded. “Mitch Fontaine.” They’d identified them both very quickly. “Not Murphy Jacobs.”

Gabe’s eyes widened. “What?”

“The remains for the third victim . . . we just identified them. They didn’t belong to Murphy. They belonged to a guy named Nate Tremaine. He—he worked for Jax. I don’t know how he wound up there . . . maybe he was selling Jax out, too, just like Carlos. Or maybe Mitch was torturing the guy to get information, but his body was there. It was recovered. Him, not Murphy.”

Wade’s face had gone slack with shock. “So where is Murphy Jacobs?”

Victoria shook her head. “I don’t know. Sarah said that he’d been shot, but the firefighters didn’t find his remains.”

“Maybe there just weren’t enough remains left.” Gabe’s voice was grim.

“No. There should have been something.”

“They just haven’t found him yet.” Wade straightened. “That’s all. They got the three bodies, so they slowed down the search. We’ll call them and let them know another body has to be there. Remains, something—”

He broke off and they all looked at one another.

“Murphy Jacobs is dead,” Wade said.

Victoria wasn’t so sure.

“He is,” Wade said again, but he sounded as if . . . as if he were trying to convince himself.

And Victoria remembered the faint humming she’d heard, the sound blending with the fire . . .

That humming had been oddly familiar, a tune that she’d heard before . . .

Hush little baby, don’t say a word . . .

Have you read the first two sexy and suspenseful novels

featuring the LOST team

from New York Times best-selling author

CYNTHIA EDEN?

Don’t miss

BROKEN

and

TWISTED

Available now from Avon Books!

Read on for excerpts . . .

PROLOGUE

SHE COULD SMELL THE OCEAN AND HEAR THE pounding of the surf. She could see the sky above her, so very blue and clear, but she couldn’t move at all.

Her body had gone numb hours ago. At first the numbness had been a blessing. She’d just wanted the pain to stop, and it had. She didn’t even scream any longer. What would be the point? There was no one around to hear her. No one was coming to help her.

Seagulls cried out, circling above her. She didn’t want them to fly down. What if they started to peck at her? Please, leave me alone.

Her mouth was dry, filled with bits of sand. Tears had dried on her cheeks.

“Why are you still alive?” The curious voice came from beside her because he was there, watching, as he’d watched for hours. “Why don’t you give in? You know you want to just close your eyes and let go.”

She did. She wanted to close her eyes and pretend that she was just having a bad dream. A nightmare. When her eyes opened again, she’d be someplace different. Someplace without monsters.

He came closer to her, and she felt something sharp slide into the sand with her. A knife. He liked to use his knife. It pricked her skin, but then he lifted the knife and pressed the blade against her throat.

“I can end this for you. Do it now. Just tell me . . .” His words were dark. Tempting. “Tell me that you want to die.”

The surf was so close. She’d always loved the ocean. But she’d never expected to die like this. She didn’t want to die like this. She realized the tears weren’t dry on her face.

She was still crying. Her cheeks were wet with tears and blood.

“Tell me,” he demanded. “Tell me that you want to die.”

She shook her head. Because death wasn’t what she wanted. Even after all he’d done, she didn’t want to stop living.

She didn’t want to give up.

The knife sliced against her neck. A hoarse moan came from her lips. Her voice had broken when she screamed and screamed. She should have known better than to scream.

That was what he’d told her. You should know better, sweetheart. It’s just you and me. Until your last breath.

Her blood mixed with the sand. He was angry again. Or . . . no, he’d always been angry. She just hadn’t seen the rage, not until it was too late. Now she couldn’t look at him at all. No matter what he did to her, she wouldn’t look at him.

She didn’t want to remember him this way. Actually, she didn’t want to remember him at all.

Her gaze lifted to the blue sky. To those circling seagulls.

I want to fly, Daddy. She’d been six the first time she’d come to the island and seen the gulls. I want to fly like them.

Her father had laughed and told her that it looked like she’d lost her wings.

She’d lost more than that.

“I want to fly,” she whispered.

“Too bad, because you’re not flying anywhere. You’re going to die here.”

But there was no death for her yet, and she wasn’t begging.

The gulls were blurry now, because of her tears.

He’d buried her in the sand, covering her wounds and packing the sand in tightly around her. Only her head and some of her neck remained uncovered. Her hands were bound, or so he thought.

But she’d been working beneath the sand. Working even as the moments ticked so slowly past, and he kept taunting her.

He had taken his time with this little game. Tried to break her in those endless hours.

She wouldn’t be broken.

Her hands were free. If he’d just move that knife away from her neck . . .

He lifted the knife and stabbed it into the sand—into the sand right over her left shoulder. She choked out a cry as the sharp pain pierced her precious numbness.

“You’ll beg soon,” he told her. Then he was on his feet. Stalking away from her. “They all do.”

He’d left the knife in her shoulder and made the mistake of turning his back on her.

She’d lived this long . . . if she was going out, she’d fight until her last breath.

Her fingers were free. She just had to escape the sand. The heavy sand that he’d packed and packed around her.

Burying me.

She could feel the faint cracks start to slip across the sand as she shifted. Her strength was almost gone, but she could do this. She had to do it. If she didn’t, she was dead.

PROLOGUE

WHAT DO YOU SEE FOR MY FUTURE?”