Prologue Thursday, 4 September 2008 Friday was going to be the night. He knew Savannah's schedule, knew her habits, knew exactly when she'd be alone. And on Friday night, she would be. Her superhero Navy SEAL husband had planned to be in town for the weekend, but he'd cancelled. Instead, he would be waiting for her. He couldn't wait to see her face, couldn't wait until she realized that she was going to die, couldn't wait until she screamed and sobbed in fear and pain. And oh, it had been so long since he'd last relieved the nightmarish pressure that built up inside of him, pressing out from within his chest, making it hard to breathe, hard for his very heart to beat. And yes, he'd learned to control it, pushing it back, far back. Sometimes so far back, he nearly forgot he wasn't one of them. But he never forgot for long. Over the past week, the pressure had returned, growing stronger and more powerful--every beat of his pulse seeming to shake him with the knowledge that it was time, it was time, it was finally time. . . . It was time, and he'd take her tomorrow tonight. And although he loved to linger, this one he'd kill quickly. And while he knew he'd regret and miss the power and pleasure he got from drawing out her pain, he'd still get some relief. And for that alone, as short term and temporary as it was destined to be, it would be good. But merely good--not perfect. Perfect was reserved for her. Still, he'd have that perfection soon, because he knew, without a doubt, that, upon news of Savannah's gruesome death, she would come. She would come, and this game he'd been playing for all this time would begin its final quarter, this play its final act. But until then, until Friday night, he had to be patient and wait. He had a morning ritual to help him through the day. He'd say her name aloud--just a whisper, but it would echo in the pristine, sterile bathroom--the S 's gloriously sibilant, the K sound crisp. "Alyssa Locke." Then he'd go into his bedroom, and pick out a picture of her from his vast collection--some that he'd taken himself, which had been a thrill--and he'd carry it with him, all day, in the breast pocket of his jacket. It was dangerous for him to do so. Savannah knew Alyssa well, and would ask all sorts of awkward questions if she ever saw it. He made sure she never saw it--although there had been one particularly close call. He'd had it on the table, but had swept it into the trash before Savannah got too close. He hadn't been able to rescue it, though, before the janitor took it to the dumpster, and he'd had to print out another. But such risks were part of the game, and carrying the photo with him gave him the comfort and strength he needed to make it through another long, dull day. Today's picture was one of his favorites. It had run in the Manchester newspaper. In it, Alyssa was a mere shadow, a shape, standing with a number of other law enforcement officers--police and FBI--at the place where he'd left one of them. Amanda Timberman. It had taken them six months to find Amanda, and unlike all of the others, he'd hoped that they never would. But they had, and good had come from bad when this picture was taken. He'd since found out that Alyssa was an investigator with a personal secur Excerpted from Hot Pursuit by Suzanne Brockmann All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
