"Mm." She tongued his nipple as she flicked open the top b.u.t.ton of his jeans and carefully lowered the zipper. Her hand slid inside his pants and cupped him. "G.o.d, you're hot."

"I'm on f.u.c.king fire." Jumping on board, Grant's hands dove for her jeans. He had them down around her hips in two seconds. One big hand delved inside, a finger stroking the wet flesh beneath.

Pleasure weakened Ellie's knees. She sagged against him. Releasing his erection, she shoved his jeans lower. She needed him inside her. "Do you have a condom? If not I have one upstairs." A small package leftover from a promising series of dates that had ended in disappointment before she'd had a chance to use them.

Grant pushed her pants down around her knees and yanked one leg of her jeans over a boot. "Wallet. Back pocket."

Obviously, if he was carrying around a condom, he hadn't been that determined to stay out of Ellie's bed. Unless he needed them frequently . . . no, she wasn't going there. His personal life was his business. This was just going to be one pleasant moment seized in a week of misery.

"Here." She opened the package with her teeth and sheathed him.

He was scanning the room, his expression almost desperate. Debris covered the floor. The makeshift worktable wasn't strong enough. Guiding her backward, he shuffled a few feet to the opposite wall. One big hand caressed her rump, then slid between her legs. Pleasure surged through her as he stroked. Her hips flexed as he circled. She groaned. A finger entered her, then two.

The pressure, the stretching, it wasn't enough. Greedily, she pressed into his touch, her legs separating to make room for him. "Need. More."

Hands clutching the backs of her thighs, he lifted her and entered her with one steady, wet slide. The fit of their bodies was perfect, combining to make one whole being.

"Yes." This was what she needed. Him. She clutched his shoulders. "Grant."

The heat of his skin fused with hers. His mouth was on the side of her neck, his lips near her ear. He retreated and surged into her again. Her body responded with an electric wave of pleasure that started in her center and spread outward through her limbs.

"Ellie."

She cupped his neck, and her mouth sought his. The slide of their tongues mimicked their lovemaking. Their pace increased. The grip of his hands on her thighs tightened. His fingers dug into her flesh, holding on. Her back slammed against the wall as he pumped into her. Tension built, her back arching to take every inch of him. Nearly desperate for release, she rocked her hips faster.

"Easy." He wrapped a hand around the front of her pelvis. This thumb circled slowly until he touched a nerve that sent pleasure bursting through her. Finally. She clamped around him. His body responded with a final surge and a groan that sounded as if it were ripped from the soles of his boots. Which he was still wearing, she noted.

Giddiness rose through her chest and burst from her lips as laughter.

Grant lifted his head and frowned. "That's not the response I was shooting for."

Still giggling, she kissed him and looked down. His pants were around his knees. Her jeans and panties dangled from one of her ankles. They were both still wearing their boots.

He sighed. "Yeah. This is not normally how I like to make my first big impression."

"Don't worry." She cupped his jaw and kissed him again. "You made quite an impression."

"Still, if we do that again, I'm going to want some more room to maneuver." He stopped. "But maybe that's not a good idea. I just hope we both don't end up regretting this."

She put a finger to his mouth. "I have no regrets."

But pain gathered inside her. If they'd met under different circ.u.mstances, who knew what could have blossomed between them. In less than a week, Grant had gently worked his way inside her heart. He was a special man. A man she could let share her life.

Lord, she was being ridiculous. They'd just met. Maybe this feeling was dependent on the security Grant provided for her family. It wasn't as if Ellie had any real experience with successful relationships.

It hardly mattered. A career soldier would never be satisfied with domestic bliss. She'd have to be satisfied with a little tenderness, some terrific s.e.x, and a bittersweet memory. She couldn't get too used to having him around. He'd be gone soon, and once again, she'd be alone.

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

Lindsay January I limp into the locker room. My knee stings from an epic fail of a double axel. Stopping in the U-shaped alcove that houses my locker, I pause. The hairs on the back of my neck wiggle. I can feel someone's attention on my back. A shudder rides my spine and cramps my belly, as if I'm a vampire's next victim in a horror movie. With one hand on my combination lock, I turn around. On the other side of the locker room, Regan and Autumn stand in front of Regan's open locker. Excitement churns in their eyes. They might not be bloodsuckers, but they are sucking the will to live from my soul.

Too much melodrama, I know. I need to lay off the comics.

Mom did it. Last week, she complained to the school and Victor. She said the princ.i.p.al promised to talk to Regan and Autumn. Victor won't say a word, though. He tries to look out for me, but let's face it. They have the power, not him. His career is already shaky. Everyone says this club is his last chance. What is a skating coach supposed to do if no one will pay him to coach skating?

Anyway . . .

They. Are. p.i.s.sed. Every day since has been the worst yet.

Yesterday, I stuck my finger down my throat and threw up so I could stay home, but my mom didn't buy the fake sick act today.

"You can't let them win," she says.

She is clueless. I am the only possible loser here. Regan and Autumn and their Shrew Crew have been at me for six solid weeks. I am their mission. Making me miserable is their purpose in life.

My dad called the phone company. They blocked the number. Texts started coming in from a different number a couple of days later. The cell phone company said the numbers are burner phones, disposable and untraceable. I told my parents these kids are smart, but they didn't believe me. Plus, Regan's dad is a computer guy.

Dad says he's going to the police next. He wanted to take my phone away, but it's my only link to Jose. Dad made me close all my social media accounts because nasty messages started showing up on those last week. They've cut me off from everything.

Mom is taking me to see a psychiatrist after school tomorrow. Because I am not enough of a freak, now I have to see a shrink, too. I had one in California, but I only saw him for my ADHD meds. This is different. This time, they think I'm a head case.

Despite my parents' best intentions, I am all alone.

I spin the numbers into place. The weight, the intensity of the girls' focus practically burns. What are they planning? Sweat breaks out under my arms, and it isn't from my skating practice.

Those girls hate me. I've been in Scarlet Falls more than two months. I keep waiting for them to tire of taunting me. Doesn't devising ways to make me miserable take up a large chunk of time? The junior skate team made sectionals this year, and they've been practicing before and after school every day. Don't they get tired? Regan and Autumn have National Honor Society and student council meetings to attend. Straight-ironing their highlights must consume at least thirty minutes a day. Their hair is perfect.

Instinct tells me not to turn my back to them, but Mom will be here soon. The last thing I want is for her to come looking for me. Then she'll have time to talk to Victor. My life is humiliating enough without every single person in it constantly discussing my public shame.

I open my locker and jump backward. Inside, a Barbie swings from a string tied around her neck. Her hair is black, and someone has glued a pink stripe on one side to match the streak in mine. Her fingernails are even painted black. A note glued to her chest reads, "Do everyone a favor and die."

I close the locker and pull out my clothes. I pretend not to have seen anything, but I can feel the girls' glee burning my back. I change quickly, an embarra.s.sing act on the best of days. I'm too skinny. Seventeen years old and no b.o.o.bs yet. Since I moved here, my acne has flared up too, as if my own skin is collaborating with the enemy to make me yet uglier.

In my black T-shirt and army cargos, I put a foot on the bench and lace up my combat boots. Most of the other girls have left now. I look over my shoulder. Regan and Autumn are gone. Did I disappoint them by not freaking out? I hope so. Though I'm not sure if my ignoring them will make them get bored and move on to someone else, or if they will only see my att.i.tude as a challenge and try harder.

It could go either way. It probably all depends on whether another possible victim gets their attention. But for now, we all know I'm their b.i.t.c.h.

I toss the doll into my gym bag. I don't want to see it there again tomorrow, and it's the first piece of actual physical evidence of their torment. On the way out of the locker room, a hand to my spine sends me sprawling forward. Pain slams through my bruised knee as it hits the concrete. My duffel bag slides down the aisle. I drop my purse. The contents scatter on the concrete. Why do the tampons always go the farthest?

I scramble to scoop my stuff back into my purse. Where is my duffel bag? I spot it near the door. The zipper is open. I look inside. The doll is gone. As if it never existed. My evidence just went poof.

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

Grant slowed the rental car and surveyed the rows of crumbling buildings. Two rows of ten attached units faced each other across a hundred feet of blacktop. Clumps of frozen slush dotted the parking/delivery area. Despite the recent snowfall, weeds sprouted through cracks in the asphalt. Snow spread in random patches on the surrounding fields. Brick walls had fared better than the roofs. Most units sported broken windows and doors.

"This is the address?" Grant lowered his window a few inches and listened. On a flagpole at the entrance to the complex, a tattered American flag whipped in the wind. The sight of the torn and faded Stars and Stripes stirred his anger.

Mac checked the piece of lined paper in his hand. "That's what it says."

A ten-year-old boy in a scout uniform had knocked on the front door early that morning. He'd sold Mac a candy bar and pa.s.sed him the note with his change. The note read: Last known address, D's BFF, Earl.

"How did Freddie know where to find Donnie?" Grant asked.

Mac gave him a casual shrug. Grant was tense enough for both of them. The recent snow had blown across the open fields and drifted against the buildings. Even with recent warm temps, a few inches remained on the concrete walkways. Zeroing in on footprints in the slush, he pointed toward a unit in the center of the row. The roof and windows seemed intact. "Looks like he's squatting in that one."

The remaining snow appeared undisturbed. Grant saw no other signs of occupation, but he circled the entire complex to be sure. A POS sedan was parked behind the unit he'd targeted.

He parked the car and pulled his Beretta. He checked the inverted knife strapped to his boot. Secure. They got out of the car.

Grant ran to the building and crouched beneath the window. Mac took position on the other side. Peering over the sill, Grant scanned the interior. The unit was narrow. The rear of the s.p.a.ce was an open room. A few doors suggested offices and restrooms toward the front. A kerosene heater glowed a few feet away from a mattress on the floor. A man slept under a pile of blankets. The s.p.a.ce had been fitted out with a few tattered lawn chairs, a card table, and a camp stove. Canned goods were lined up on the table next to a stack of red Solo cups. Plastic grocery bags and trash littered the concrete floor. A few items of clothing were piled on the floor next to a backpack.

Mac slid a tool from his pocket, knelt at the back door, and worked the lock, while Grant watched the inhabitant. A faint click signaled the movement of tumblers. Mac grinned, and Grant wondered what other skills his brother hadn't lost in the years since his reformation.

Grant shooed his brother away from the door. Rolling his eyes, Mac moved his arms in a grand be-my-guest gesture. The door swung open without sound. Bonus. Grant crossed the s.p.a.ce and whipped the blanket off the sleeping man, a skinny guy in his mid-twenties. Pointing his Beretta at the guy's face, Grant put a finger to his lips. Skinny Guy's eyes bugged.

Letting Mac cover Skinny Guy, Grant checked the remaining rooms.

"You're alone?" he asked.

"Yeah." Skinny Guy's head bobbed.

"Are you Earl?"

Earl nodded again. He licked dry lips.

Grant patted down Earl's hoodie and jeans with gloved hands, tossing a switchblade and a 9mm aside. He found another small knife tucked in his boot. The jacket on the floor next to the mattress was empty.

Grant nodded at the gun and knives. "Three weapons. No ID. Earl, you are either really paranoid or up to some serious s.h.i.t."

"What do you want?" Earl shivered. The kerosene heater wasn't large enough for the size of the room, though it did make the room habitable.

Satisfied that Earl was unarmed, Grant stood. "Tell me about your pal, Donnie."

"I haven't seen Donnie lately." Earl's gaze shifted.

Liar.

"Aw, Earl. I don't like to be lied to." Grant's gaze flickered to the empty mattress.

"OK." Earl's voice quivered. "Donnie crashed here for a couple of weeks after he got out of prison. But then he took off. I haven't seen him in weeks."

"Who's he been hanging with?"

"I don't know," Earl lied with a quick jerk of his shoulders.

Grant pressed forward. Earl scooted back, eyes widening. A single drop of sweat dripped down his forehead, and Grant caught a pungent whiff of fear. Good. This little piece of s.h.i.t was lying to him while his pal Donnie stalked Grant's family. Earl's buddy had shot Lee and Kate in cold blood. An image of Lee's face exploding into a red mist closed off Grant's throat for a second. Fury rose in his chest, dimming the sound of his conscience. Everything inside him went as cold and hard as the concrete under his boots.

"You haven't been to war, have you, Earl?" He scanned the man's cowering frame.

Earl cringed, his head shaking.

"No, you don't look like the soldier type. You look like a f.u.c.king coward." Grant crouched. He pulled his inverted KA-BAR from the sheath strapped to the inside of his left calf. The seven-inch blade gleamed in the light pouring through the back window.

"Holy s.h.i.t." Earl scooted backward.

"The Taliban uses a knife just like this one to behead prisoners, except my blade is nice and sharp. They prefer a dull knife. The longer it takes, the more the victim screams. That all makes for a great episode of Terrorism Today." Grant grabbed the shrinking man by the throat and dragged him off the mattress onto the cement. "You need a stable surface to do a proper job of it."

A tear leaked out of the coward's eyes, and he began to wheeze. "Oh, G.o.d. Don't. Please."

He squirmed. Grant pressed a knee to his sternum, pinning him in place like the insect he was. Earl's arms and legs flailed. Grant leaned on his knee. Satisfaction welled as Earl sucked wind.

Grabbing a handful of hair, Grant turned Earl's head and held the knife to the side of his neck. "If I start on the side, you'll bleed out faster." He shifted the knife's position to Earl's windpipe. "A slice to the windpipe and you drown in your own blood. Takes a little longer to die that way. Or there's always the back of the neck. Supposedly, that's the least painful. Severs the spinal cord and paralyzes you. I've seen it done different ways. They all looked like pretty painful ways to go. Do you want me to do this slow or fast? How do you want to die?"

Earl gasped.

"Your pal Donnie killed our brother and his wife." Grant let the blade kiss the man's skin, not enough to cut him, just enough so he could feel the cold steel against his neck. Grant eased off Earl's chest and let him gulp air for a few seconds. "You're going to tell me where I can find him, or denying it will be the last thing you do."

"I can't. He'll kill me if I talk." Earl's breaths huffed in and out of his mouth like he'd just cleared the base obstacle course in record time. As if he could get over the first wall.

"I'll kill you if you don't. Right here. Right now." Grant shifted his weight forward again.

"OK. Stop," Earl blurted out. "Donnie is staying with some broad he picked up. She lives in Happy Valley Trailer Park."

"What's her name?"

"Tammy. I don't know her last name or the house number. I only been there once, but she has pigs all over the place. Pig statues outside. A pig flag next to the door. f.u.c.king pigs everywhere. You can't miss it."

"Is that the truth?" Grant's hands shook. Sc.u.mbags like the man under his blade were ruining the country he risked his life to defend. Killing this coward would be another service to his country.

"Grant!" Mac grabbed his shoulder. "Snap out of it. You can't kill him."

Grant let his brother pull him off. Earl crab-walked twice, stopping when his hands met the mattress. Cringing, he drew his knees up and curled inward.

Grant stood. Adrenaline poured through his bloodstream. He sheathed his knife with fingers that trembled with anger, not fear. The only thing about this encounter that alarmed Grant was the ease and surety with which he'd applied his knife.

"If I find out you lied to me, there won't be a corner of this earth where you can hide." Grant pointed. "And you're not going to talk to Donnie either."