The Man from Gossamer Ridge

Behind him.

The beer he’d drunk a half hour earlier rumbled in his gut as he retraced his steps to the Pontiac. He followed the ringing noise around to the driver’s side, spotting the phone on the pavement just beneath the car door.

With his heart pounding like a bass drum in his ears, he took a couple of steps toward the ringing phone and stopped, his gaze stopping with horror on a dark streak marring the Pontiac’s driver’s side door. In the cold blue moonlight, it looked as black and shiny as pitch.

He swallowed the dread snaking up his throat, snagging his keys from his pocket. He turned on the small penlight attached to the key ring and played the narrow beam against the Pontiac’s driver’s door. In the small circle of light, the streak on the door glimmered deep crimson.

“Brenda?” He backed away from the Pontiac, his mind recoiling from what he was seeing. Maybe she’d cut herself trying to get the battery to work and she’d—

She’d what? Left her cell phone lying by the car, ignored the shelter of the building behind her and started walking the six miles to town to seek help?

He pushed down his rising panic and hurried to the Jeep for the heavy-duty flashlight he kept in a toolbox in the back. Shining the powerful beam on the scrubby bushes edging the trucking company property, he kept calling her name, hoping she’d simply become disoriented and wandered into the thick woods beyond the property.

He found her five minutes later, only twenty yards away from the parking lot, her limp body positioned between the rough trunk of a pine tree and the prickly green leaves of a wild holly bush. Her eyes were half-open, staring sightlessly at the three-quarter moon peeking through the winter-bare trees. Blood stained the front of her blouse in several places.

Stab wounds.

Gabe bent to check for a pulse, tears spilling down his cheeks in icy streams. But he knew the truth before his fingers found the still place where her pulse should have been.

She was dead.

And it was his fault.

Chapter One

Alicia Solano looked up from the file contents spread across the table in front of her and gave a small start at the sight of her own reflection in the psychology lab windows. Inky twilight had fallen outside the building while she’d been working, catching her unaware.

Her pulse notching upwards, she gathered her papers into a neat stack, forcing herself to move with deliberation rather than speed. If she took her time now, her files would be in order the next time she opened her briefcase and then she wouldn’t have to spend time she didn’t have trying to remember where she left off.

And moving faster wouldn’t make it any easier to step out into the darkness that loomed between her and the safety of her apartment.

Snapping the briefcase closed, she paused for a second in the stillness of the empty lab and listened carefully for sounds of other people remaining in the building. There would be few here this time of night; at a school as small as Mill Valley University, night classes were rare and usually limited to the business school or the continuing education classes that convened in the liberal arts building across campus.

As she headed for the exits, the faint sound of a cleaning crew chatting in rapid-fire Spanish floated from somewhere down the hall, easing her sense of isolation. Alicia relaxed, at least until she reached the heavy double doors of the exit. Once she stepped into the mild evening air, tension crept back into her spine.

It’s not the right set-up, she reminded herself, images from her files flashing through her head. She was still within earshot of students moving about the quad a hundred yards away. There was also the cleaning crew in the building she’d just exited who could come quickly if she cried out. The other women had been utterly alone, in secluded places where nobody could hear their final screams.

She gripped the handle of her briefcase more tightly, grateful for its solid heft. It would make a good weapon if she needed one.

Her apartment was within walking distance of the campus, though secluded, tree-lined Dogwood Street was narrow and tunnel-like, an attribute she enjoyed during daylight hours but regretted now as she navigated the deep shadows inking the sidewalk between her and the relative safety of her apartment.

The four-unit apartment building came into view, a two-story structure rising up in the gloom like the phantom of an old Southern mansion, complete with tall white columns supporting a white-railed porch on the bottom floor and matching balconies on the second floor. The muddy golden glow of the streetlamp on the corner didn’t penetrate the canopy of hickory, oak and pecan trees towering over the building, though somehow the ivory columns seemed to glow in the dark like moon-bleached bones.

Alicia quickened her pace at the corner, her low heels clicking loudly on the sidewalk. She had almost reached the steps to the apartments when she realized her footsteps were not alone. Her steps faltered, but the footfalls behind her kept coming, the pace even and unhurried.

She slipped her hand into the pocket of her light cotton jacket and closed her fingers around the small canister of pepper spray. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face her unknown companion.

He was little more than a silhouette in the cool purple shadows behind her, backlit by the shaft of streetlamp glow several yards beyond. Definitely male. Built well. Short hair, powerful shoulders, narrow waist, long legs.

Alicia’s heart hammered against her rib cage, but she squelched the urge to run up the steps to her apartment. She knew she’d never make it before he caught up with her, and she’d lose whatever advantage she had gained by facing him head-on.

“Can I help you?” she asked, hating the quiver in her voice.

“I’m looking for Bellewood Manor.” His voice was deep, friendly and deliciously Southern. A California girl, born and bred, Alicia had discovered a soft spot for a deep, slow drawl. She fought against letting her guard down, however. A sexy Southern accent didn’t preclude very bad intentions.

“May I ask why?” she countered warily.

“My niece asked me to meet her here. Cissy Cooper—do you know her? She’s a student at Mill Valley University—”

Alicia dropped her guard a notch. Cissy Cooper was one of the students in the second-year criminology lab she taught. She lived two doors down from Alicia. “I’ve met her.”

He stepped toward her. Her heart rate edged upwards again. “My name is Gabe Cooper. I’m sorry if I scared you.”

She lifted her chin. “You didn’t.”

“She wasn’t sure she’d be here when I arrived—her shift at the library ended at seven, but she said she sometimes has to stay late.” He cocked his head, gazing up at the apartments. “Do you know which apartment is hers?”

Alicia’s tension rose again. “She told you to meet her but didn’t give you the address?”

“My cell signal was bad when she called.”

Alicia edged backwards, suspicion eclipsing attraction at the moment. “Perhaps you should try calling her again.”

“Don’t you live here? I mean, you looked as if you were heading right here.” He waved his hand at the building.

A car rounded the corner and started coming up the street behind Alicia, headlights briefly illuminating the stranger. He had hair as dark as her own and clear blue eyes that met hers without any shiftiness. He was trim and tall, dressed in snug-fitting jeans and a heather gray polo shirt worn untucked. The car passed, plunging them back into darkness.

“I have to go,” she said, turning away from him. She’d circle the block and come back from another direction, see if the stranger had moved along or if he was still lurking there. Or maybe she’d go back and find a campus security officer to walk her safely to her doorstep.

“Is this about the murders?”

His soft query halted her steps. She turned to look at him. “The murders?”

“Cissy said something about some murders. She wanted to tell me about them. It was all very cryptic.”

Alicia eyed him warily. Cissy knew about Alicia’s theories, of course. The last time they’d spoken, Cissy had mentioned she was debating telling her father about Alicia’s research. But she hadn’t mentioned anything about an uncle.

“So you came all the way here to Millbridge because your niece cryptically mentioned murders?”

“Cissy calls and asks for my help, I come,” he said simply.

“Nice uncle,” she murmured. She wasn’t even sure her parents would come if she called, much less any of her uncles from either side of the family tree.

“Look, I’ve clearly spooked you. And I guess if there are murders going on here that Cissy thinks I need to know about, you’ve got good reason to be a little freaked.”

“I told you, you didn’t scare me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t believe you,” he answered in a slow, devastating drawl. He reached into the back pocket of his jeans. As he did so, the side hem of his shirt lifted to reveal a handgun tucked into a slim holster attached to the waistband of his jeans.