The next time, he'd cut the fuse a little longer.

The first egg he'd put in the kitchen worked beautifully, just like his prototype. The second egg, the one he'd put on the Doughertys' bed… He'd intended to kill the old man and his wife, then burn them in their own bed. When he'd discovered they weren't there, the second bomb became symbolic, but ultimately not a viable part of his plan.

He'd realized as he'd stood ready to light its fuse that by the time he ran downstairs and lit the fuse for the kitchen egg that the upstairs one would already have blown. That blast might have set off the gas before he was out of the house, trapping him inside. So he'd left it there, hoping it would blow when the fire spread. Judging from the way the fire had burned through the roof of the house, he believed that had happened. But had it not, the police may have found it and learned more than he wanted them to.

So even though the concept of two bombs was sweet, lighting them simultaneously was impractical, the risk too great. From now on, he'd stick with one. Everything else about the explosion itself had been a textbook success. Everything had gone just as he'd planned. Well, not entirely.

Which brought him to the second point. The girl. His smile widened to a grin, wicked and… powerful. Just thinking about her made his body tighten.

When she begged, when she tried to fight, something inside him had snapped and he'd used her. Completely. Savagely. Until she lay on the floor quivering, unable to say a word. That's the way it should be. The way they all should be. Quiet. If not voluntarily, then by force. His grin faded. But he'd used her without a condom, which was incredibly stupid. He hadn't considered it then, he'd been too wrapped up in the moment. Once again, he'd been lucky. The fire would take care of any evidence. At least he'd had the presence of mind to douse her with gasoline before he ran. She'd be destroyed, along with anything of his own he'd left behind when he'd run.

Which left point three. His escape. He hadn't been seen running to his own car. Lucky, lucky. Next time he couldn't count on that kind of luck. He'd have to come up with a better means of escape. One that, even were he spotted, would do the police no good. He smiled. He knew just what to do there.

He considered his plan. It was good. But, he had to admit, it was the sex that had made the evening complete. He'd killed before. He'd taken sex before. But now, having experienced murder and sex together, he couldn't imagine one without the other.

It should come as no surprise, really. It was, he supposed, his one… weakness. And perhaps his greatest strength. Of all the weapons he'd ever wielded, sex was the finest. The most basic.

Of all the ways to put a woman in her place, it was the very best. Young, old… it didn't really matter. The enjoyment, the release, was in the taking-and knowing they would never go a day without remembering that they were weak. And he was strong.

His biggest problem was that he'd let them live. It was almost what had gotten him caught before. It was almost what had earned him a punishment far greater than he'd experienced in the laughable juvenile detention system. He'd learned from that, too, as evidenced by Caitlin Burnette. If one planned to rape a woman, make sure she didn't live to tell the tale.

But he had to be completely honest. Technically, the night had gone off much better than he'd dared hope. Realistically, he'd failed. He'd missed his target. In the light of day, the fire, even taking Caitlin, paled. This couldn't be about fire. The fire could only be the tool. This was about payment. Retribution. Old lady Dougherty had escaped her fate. She was out of town. For Thanksgiving. He'd gotten that much from the girl. But she'd come back and when she did, he'd be waiting.

Until then, he had more to do. Miss Penny Hill was next on his mental list of offenders. She and old lady Dougherty had been thick as thieves. Penny Hill had believed Dougherty's lies. So did I, in the beginning. In the beginning, Dougherty had promised them safety. His lips twisted. Hope. But in the end she'd turned, accusing them of things they hadn't done. Her promise of safety was mercilessly broken. She kicked them out on the street and Hill had shipped them away, like cattle. It's for the best. Hill had said as she'd driven them away, straight into hell on earth. You'll see. But it hadn't been for the best.

She'd lied, just like all the others. He and Shane had been helpless, homeless. Vulnerable. Old lady Dougherty was homeless. Soon enough she'd be helpless. And then dead. Now it was Penny Hill's turn to become helpless and homeless. And dead. It was only fair. To use her own words, it was for the best. She'd see.

He checked the clock. He had someplace to be. He didn't want to be late.

Monday, November 27, 6:45 a.m

Daddy!"

The shout, accompanied by the banging on his bedroom door sent the tie tack in Reed's hand skittering to the floor and under his dresser. He sighed. "Come in, Beth."

The door exploded, admitting both fourteen-year-old Beth and her three-month-old sheepdog, who took a running leap, landing in the middle of Reed's bed. The dog shook, sending muddy water everywhere.

"Biggies, no." Beth yanked on his collar, pulling him across the sheets to the floor where he sat, puppy tongue sticking out just far enough to make him too cute to punish.

Hands on his hips, Reed stared in dismay at the muddy streaks the puppy left behind. "I just changed my sheets, Beth. I told you to wipe his paws and dry him off before you brought him back in the house. The backyard is a mud bath."

Beth's lips twitched. "Well, his paws are clean now. I'll wash the sheets again. But first I need lunch money, Dad. The bus is coming soon."

Reed pulled his wallet from his back pocket. "Didn't I just give you lunch money a few days ago?"

Beth shrugged, her hand out. "You want me to go hungry, or what?"

He shot her an overly patient look. "I want you to help me find my tie tack. It rolled under the dresser."

Beth dropped to her knees and felt under the dresser. "Here it is." She dropped it in his palm and he handed her a twenty.

"Try to make it last for at least two weeks, okay?"

She wrinkled her nose and in that moment looked so much like her mother that his heart squeezed. Beth folded the bill and slid it down into the pockets of jeans that hadn't seemed that tight before. "Two weeks? You've gotta be kidding."

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" He looked her up and down. "Your jeans are too tight, Bethie," he said and she got that look on her face. Damn, he hated that look. It seemed to have appeared about the same time as the pimples and the mood swings. Reed's sister Lauren had informed him in a dark whisper that his baby was no longer a baby. God. PMS. He wasn't ready for this. But it didn't seem to matter. His baby was a teenager. She'd be going off to college any day now.

His mind flitted to the victim they'd found in the rubble of the Dougherty house. If she was the college house sitter, she wasn't much older than Beth, and Reed still didn't know her name. He still hadn't heard from Joe Dougherty Junior. He had been able to trace the burned-out Chevy in the garage to a Roger Burnette, but when he and Ben had stopped by the Burnette address, no one had been home. He'd try again this morning after he stopped by the morgue and the lab.

Beth narrowed her eyes, her acidic tone piercing his thoughts. "Are you saying these jeans make me look fat?"

Reed sucked in his cheek. There was no good answer to this question. "Not even close. You're not fat. You're healthy. You're perfect. You do not need to lose weight."