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Chapter One
Seattle, Washington, Present Day
Deep in sleep, Hunter thrashed in her bed, fighting a faceless foe.
Pounding footsteps echoed behind her. Each step grew louder, faster, and more menacing, mirroring her panicked pace. The rush of her heartbeat pounded in her ears, keeping time. She struggled to breathe, but air was scarce as foul breath brushed over her from right behind.
Nowhere to hide.
Her legs pumped up and down, but as the world transformed into a treadmill, there was no escape as the faceless monster closed in. She sprinted for safety, finding none.
Out of breath, out of options, and thighs burning, she braced herself for the killing blow—
Bam!
Hunter jolted awake, still caught in the nightmare. Her eyes flew open, and she scanned every inch of the room, squinting against the dappled light filtering through the blinds. As her heartbeat boomed in her eardrums, she didn’t recognize her utilitarian bedroom until she took a couple of deep, calming breaths.
No nameless, faceless monster chased her here. She was safe in her Seattle apartment.
Damn, that same dream again.
No need for a shrink to figure out who the monster in her dreams represented, but she hadn’t had that nightmare in over six months. Why now? What triggered it?
Sweat dampened her back, making her tank top cling, sticky and uncomfortable. As she sucked in another deep breath, her chest had that tight feeling of having run too far, lungs gasping for air. A glance at her phone on the nightstand revealed it was just after eleven in the morning. Too early for a night owl like her to be awake.
What woke her?
The nightmare had never changed before, never stopped before it ended. The hammering in her eardrums left her deaf as she tried to process what had startled her awake before the nightmare concluded with Lisa staring up at her with lifeless eyes.
Trying to stay grounded before she spiraled into a panic attack, she clung to the exercise her therapist recommended.
What were three things she could feel? Sheets tangled around her body, cold air as the furnace kicked on, a trickle of sweat inching down her forehead.
What were three things she could see? Light seeping around the edges of her blinds, shoes on the floor where she kicked them off last night, a black hoodie draped over the treadmill in the corner.
What were three things she could hear? A horn blast from the midmorning ferry, the ticking of the cooling ducts in the ceiling, muffled music thumping from the downstairs neighbor.
Like dropping a pebble into a still pond, Hunter stretched her extra sense beyond herself, beyond her bedroom. A feathery scrape of a spider web brushed her face and raised the soft hair on her arms.
Evil. On the other side of her front door.
Déjà vu. Tension ran up her spine, so tight it threatened to snap her neck. She’d had this feeling only once before—the night a sadistic killer left her for dead next to her sister’s body.
“The building’s secure. Nobody can get to me.” She chanted the words in a mantra until she almost believed it. Deep in her bones, she knew … after almost a year, he’d returned.
The monster who stole her sister’s life—and nearly hers.
Six months of therapy and Akido self-defense training hadn’t been enough as fear welded her to the bed. She’d rehearsed every scenario, had even changed her damned name, but never considered the possibility that Lisa’s murderer would enter her building in the middle of the frikkin’ day.
Damn! What to do? Okay, options. What were her options? Hide! No—there was no place to hide in her small apartment.
Call the cops. Her phone was right there, within reach. With her hand out, ready to snatch it up, she hesitated. What if they didn’t believe her? The last interaction with Detective Reddick left her feeling like he didn’t believe what happened that night.
Run. She had to run. But the only way out of the apartment was through the front door.
Hands shaking, Hunter fought her way out of the cocoon of sheets … and promptly bashed her knee on the nightstand before landing on the floor with a thud, mostly upright.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Ignoring her injured knee, she hobbled to the window and looked out at the ground below. Could she survive a fifth-floor jump? Maybe, maybe not. But it wasn’t worth broken legs and months of rehab. It felt like she’d just finished physical therapy after barely surviving a fractured skull.
Jeez, you’re acting like a coward!
No, she’d trained for this.
If that bastard thought she’d be defenseless and play the victim, he was in for a rude welcome.
The collapsible ASP baton was in the side pocket of her backpack purse, right where she’d left it. She yanked it free, and with a hard snap of her wrist, expanded it to full length. Despite her sweaty palms, the hard plastic handle molded to her hand, its weight like a warm hug on a frigid night.
If she could catch him, she could finally get justice for Lisa and maybe have a shot at a normal life.
Armed and feeling better prepared, she crept toward the front door. A quick look through the peephole to the carpeted hallway and—
He was gone.
Relief took the starch out of her knees. Sagging against the door, she slid down the cold steel to curl at its base and took a steadying breath to center herself.
Damn it to hell and back! She was not a victim and would never be one again. It was time to turn the tables, using the new “gift” he’d unintentionally given her against him.
If someone had told her eleven months ago that she would gain the precognitive ability to see crimes before they happened or expand her awareness beyond her body like an ever-stretching rubber band, she would have thought they were crazy. Now, it was automatic, like reaching out to grab a glass of water.
Maybe she could follow him psychically, find out what rathole he scurried to when he disappeared.
Hunter stared at the white hallway wall before her and braced herself to follow a trail that left her numb with fear.
A black, slimy trail of evil led down five floors to the lobby. Various smells assaulted her senses; the strongest was the bitter stench of beer on the first floor, near the superintendent’s apartment.
Putting that aside until later, she stretched her awareness outside the building.
The gust of bitter wind swirled dead leaves across the street like a scene from a Halloween movie. Mrs. Wyman talked too loudly to nobody in particular as she took out the trash. Kids from down the block rode skateboards, their wheels rhythmically click, click, clicking on the sidewalk as they sped past the wrought-iron security fence. A little dog barked insistently, probably old man Lukini’s ancient poodle. The half-blind pooch barked at anything that moved.
Like fog dissipating off Puget Sound on a hot day, the killer’s path faded away. Hunter snapped her awareness back into her body, weakened by the effort.
The bastard had been outside her door. To find out why, she’d have to open it, but a gut-wrenching terror froze her muscles. It took several long moments before she could unlock her knees to stand. Summoning resolve from deep within, she forced her shaky legs to support her.
The killer thrived on anguish and terror. She’d witnessed the maniacal glee in his eyes behind the mask he wore. Unlike Lisa, she refused to let fear dominate her. She’d been so proud, so eager to show him she wasn’t intimidated. Her ignorance had become her downfall. But she hadn’t paid the price; Lisa had. Eleven months ago, a killer ended her twin’s life with a blow to her skull, right in front of Hunter.
She hadn’t given in then; she’d be damned if she would now. Every nerve screamed danger, but she ignored the warning, driven by the need to act. She twisted the dead bolt and wrenched the steel security door open.
A thin stark-white piece of paper fluttered beneath the peephole.
A warning? Or threat?
Regardless, a pervasive sense of evil emanated from it, that feathery spider web feeling again.
Sensing through touch wasn’t a “gift” the killer’s rage—and a lead pipe—left her with, but Hunter refused to handle it with bare hands. Even though the threat was gone, she closed and locked the front door before heading back to the living room, this time to grab a pair of latex gloves from her backpack. She regretted it the moment she tore the note from the door and read the printed words:
THE FIRST KILL IS FOR ME. THE NEXT ONE’S FOR YOU.
No, no, no, no. The room tilted. She locked her knees before she kissed the carpet. Short, hiccupping breaths became long and measured as she fought to regain control. Flipping the paper over, she looked for a clue—name, watermark, anything that would tell her who had left it or where it came from—but came up blank.
No signature, no name.
A dark spot on the corner of the paper, rust red. She had to get rid of the note—get it out of the apartment, far, far away from her. But caution stilled her hand. It was evidence. The police would want to see it. There could be a clue, something that might point to Lisa’s killer. She dropped the note on the thrift-store table beside the computer workstation and dashed for the cell phone lying near her messy bed.
Fingers shaking from a numbing mix of nerves, frustration, and anger, she misdialed twice before finally hitting the right buttons. The calm-voiced woman who answered directed her to the Homicide unit tip line.
“Your call is important to us. Leave a message, and we’ll return your call as soon as possible.”
Beeep.
“This is … Hun—uh, Kara Hunter, Lisa Hunter’s sister. The killer, he’s back and left a note on my door. That son of a bitch knows where I live. He left a note promising—”
Lisa’s heart-shaped face flashed across her mind, tightening her throat. She forced the words out. “To kill again.”
She recited her number and hung up.
Detective Hank Reddick had probably memorized her phone number by now. After she recovered from her injuries, she’d been a thorn in his side—calling daily, then weekly—right up until the visions started.
But usually her call went straight to his desk, it wasn’t dumped into some generic voice mailbox.
She checked the time. He still had more than half his shift left. He should call back soon. She hoped he would—she didn’t want to keep the note overnight. The damn thing made her skin crawl, even from across the room.
But what could the detective do with a scrap of paper? After eleven months spent trying to solve Lisa’s murder, he didn’t seem any closer to making an arrest.
She pressed shaking palms against her burning eyes.
Damn it!
Needing to do something before she self-destructed, she went into the kitchen and let the routine of making coffee soothe her frayed nerves. After grinding the beans and pressing the dark grounds into the portafilter, she locked the lever into place and started the brew. While the machine dispensed the liquid java, she steamed the milk to the perfect temperature. The warm, earthy aroma of espresso with a hint of caramel filled the room.
Once the dark brew was perfected in her favorite Wonder Woman cup, she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stay warm.
How? How in the hell had he gotten into her building?
A tingling began in her fingertips, followed by familiar warm and spicy fragrance with coffee, white flowers, and vanilla scent as the room grew chilly. She’d recognize that scent anywhere.
Lisa.
That meant only one thing. She braced herself against the counter, her vision narrowing to a pinpoint as the kitchen faded away and the image of the neighborhood park came into focus.
A group of teenage boys stood in a semicircle. One of them taunted and punched a younger boy when he refused the baggie they shoved at him. In the blurry background, little kids played on the swing sets and merry-go-round, parents oblivious to the drama unfolding under the trees.
The taunting, punching, and jeering escalated quickly until that one moment when it all stopped like a movie frozen on a television screen. The teens scampered out of sight. A young boy lay on the pine-needle-strewn ground, eyes open and lifeless as blood dripped in slow motion onto the soil.
Hunter blinked and the kitchen snapped back into place, pain hammering behind her eyes. The counter swam, then steadied—and there it was.
Half of the Sisters key chain.
Her throat tightened. She’d pressed the other half into Lisa’s palm on their sixteenth birthday, laughing, swearing they’d never lose them. Lisa never did. She’d had it on her the night everything went wrong.
Reddick’s voice surfaced, unwanted: It wasn’t found in the warehouse.
Hunter’s half was supposed to be hanging on the Unbreakable Sisters picture in her bedroom—not sitting here in the kitchen.
Jeez, she couldn’t dwell on that right now; the boy was in deep trouble. Experience taught her that she only had about ten minutes between the vision and the actual crime. She could change the ending Lisa had shown her, but she had to move.
Time was the enemy. In the bedroom, she threw on black jeans, a black pullover shirt, and a denim jacket dyed the color of midnight. Her phone rang in her back pocket as she shrugged the leather backpack onto her shoulder. She didn’t bother to take it out and look. Whoever it was could wait, the young boy couldn’t.
Forgoing the slow elevator, she thundered down the metal staircase, crossing her fingers that she wouldn’t run into the guy from 3-C, an exercise enthusiast who used the stairs regularly.
Hurry, hurry, hurry.
The chant resonated in her head, matching the beat of her thundering pulse.
She slowed down before bursting through the fire door into the lobby. Last week, she had blasted through the door and nearly given Mrs. Woo a heart attack.
Hunter sprinted out of the glass security door, looking right and then left. Overhead, a weak sun attempted to break through a bank of low, dark clouds. There, across the tracks and Alaska Way, was the trail along the water, the backdrop of her vision. The sharp sting of salt water from Elliott Bay hit her as she sprinted across the street, thankful for the light foot traffic. Dogs barked, kids yelled, and horns honked as she dodged the heavy vehicle traffic.
Nobody paid attention to the drama playing out in the small cluster of trees.
As she approached the narrow grove of trees and bushes, her eyes locked on a group of teens in the shadow of the small firs. Using the shrubs as cover, she spotted the leader, an older teen in a blue hoodie sweatshirt gesturing wildly, just as she saw in her vision.
His jeans sagged below the top of his gray plaid boxers. The punk had his hood pulled up over his head, casting a deep shadow across his face. Five teens surrounded the youngster. They didn’t have the tattoos or other markings that identified them as gang members.
The jeering and taunts she heard were not the typical schoolyard “boys will be boys” remarks, but insults because the kid refused the drugs they offered. She silently swung the backpack off her shoulder and pulled the Asp baton out of the side pocket.
After tucking the baton into the small of her back, she stepped out from behind the bushes. “Hey, what’re you guys doing?”
Keeping the trees behind her for protection, she slipped between the young kid and his attackers, hypervigilant to make sure she wasn’t surrounded. As a group, the older teens turned to face her.
The leader, Blue Hoodie, slipped his hand behind his back, dropping something white that landed near his heels. Hunter noted the location peripherally, never taking her eyes off the leader of this wannabe gang.
“Stay out of this, bitch. You ain’t got no business here.”
Oh-ho. He was messing with the wrong bitch. Who did this twerp think he was?
“Oh, and you do, asshole?”
The younger boy in dirty white Keds turned and looked at her, relief shining in his doe-brown eyes. Shit, it’s Rico. Rico Gonzales. His father was her building superintendent.
“The kid here … he don’t know what’s good for him.” Blue Hoodie strutted closer to Hunter as his ragtag crew formed a semicircle of backup behind him. Like peacocks, the little punks puffed out their chests, trying to look bigger.
Blue Hoodie didn’t intimidate her. At five foot eight inches tall, not many people could pull that off. Especially not a bunch of worthless punks who preyed on a defenseless kid.
“What’s your name?” she asked Blue Hoodie.
“What’s it to ya?” He hooked a thumb through a belt loop, and the jeans slipped another notch. Heaven forbid they’d lose their fight with gravity, revealing more than she wanted to see. Wouldn’t that be a Kodak moment for proud parents?
“I want to know whose momma to call.”
His cheeks flushed as his friends erupted in laughter, nudging and poking each other with bony elbows. Now that he stood facing her directly, she guessed he was around fifteen, with a trace of blond peach fuzz on his chin.
She smirked, fully aware that she was getting under his skin.
“Who’s your momma?” one of them mimicked in a falsetto voice.
“Fuck off,” he shot over his shoulder, then strutted closer. With his four buddies at his back, Blue Hoodie thought he could take her on. Oh yeah, his comeuppance was long overdue.
Stepping around young Rico, she palmed the baton. “From what I’ve seen, this young man has more brains than you do.”
The teen’s blue eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. Bad choice.
Hunter shifted onto the balls of her feet, knees loose. Ready. The circle tightened—too close.
She slid a hand back without looking, a silent warning to Rico, then stepped into the space they’d left her and snapped her wrist.
Click.
The baton shot out, metal locking into place, long and unmistakable.
Jaws dropped. A couple of them took an involuntary step back.
Good. They were kids playing at being dangerous—and they knew it now.
“What the fuck—” one of them muttered, already retreating.
Hunter didn’t smile. “Last chance,” she said, voice flat.
The one in the blue hoodie pushed his chin forward, eyes empty. A challenge. No one moved. The moment stretched, brittle and ready to shatter. Somewhere out on the bay, a ferry horn sounded—too loud, too close.
Then a hand shoved something into Blue Hoodie’s palm.
Snick.
The sound hit her nerves like a live wire. The butterfly knife flashed open, closed, open again—smooth and well practiced.
Hunter adjusted her stance and narrowed her focus, studying him, waiting for the first move. She was here to defend—nothing more.
When his arm flicked in her direction, reflex took over. She pivoted sideways and brought the baton up and down in one smooth, vertical strike.
Ting.
The knife clipped the baton. Silence dropped as the knife stood embedded in the ground at her feet, quivering.
Rico sucked in a breath. “Rad.”
Hunter didn’t look away from Blue Hoodie. She kept the baton up, steady, eyes locked on his hands. “We’re done,” she said.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then Blue Hoodie grabbed a skateboard from the bushes and bolted. The others followed, scattering fast and ugly.
Only when they were gone did Hunter lower the baton. Her hands shook as she collapsed it and tucked it away, adrenaline still burning through her veins.
“I seen you around sometimes. You a cop?” the boy asked, sticking close to her side.
Hunter stared at him. “Do I look like a cop?”
“Naw—too skinny.” Rico’s chest finally deflated.
She snorted despite herself. She could like this kid.
Hunter crouched, yanked the knife from the ground, folded it, and slid it into her backpack. One less weapon on the street.
“Ya think I could learn to do that cool wand stuff?” He pointed at the baton, slashing the air with both hands.
“Maybe when you’re older,” she said, already scanning the shadows.
Rico hesitated, then blurted, “Can I hang with you for a bit? You know—watch your back in case Morgan and his losers come back?”
“Tell you what,” Hunter said. “I’ll show you a couple of defensive moves. Enough to get away if they try something again.”
Hunter spent a few minutes showing him how to slip a wrist hold and break contact. Basic stuff. Enough to get away.
“If you want more,” she said, stepping back, “the Y runs self-defense classes.”
Rico nodded, shoulders slumping as he turned to go.
She watched him take a few steps—and then the image slammed into her. Rico sprawled in the grass. Blood pooling.
“Be careful crossing the street,” she said, too fast.
He shot her a look over his shoulder.
Yeah. She deserved that. He was old enough to cross a street without her hovering. But damn it—he’d brushed a nerve she kept buried deep.
When he was gone, she spotted the baggie the kid in the blue hoodie had ditched. White powder. She crouched and picked it up, jaw tight. Her sister had fought that poison once and almost lost.
Leaving it behind wasn’t an option.
Outside the Wisteria Apartments, Hunter stopped at the front door. Studied the reinforced glass. Solid frame. She yanked on it anyway. Nothing.
Good.
She swiped her fob. The lock clicked open, smooth and clean. No scratches. No pry marks. She ran her fingers along the metal, searching for what shouldn’t be there—and finding nothing.
Inside, the lobby looked exactly as it always had. Immaculate. Untouched.
She’d inherited the building from Aunt Betty almost two years ago, and hadn’t changed a thing. Back then, grief had filled every corner.
After Lisa was murdered, the security firm Hunter hired stripped the lobby bare—no broad-leafed plants, no cute accessories, nothing that could hide a body or a weapon. In their place came reinforced glass, cameras, and a state-of-the-art key fob access system. Guests buzzed. Doors stayed locked.
Yet somehow, a killer had found a way in. And she was going to figure out how.
The first floor held six one-bedroom units and one two-bedroom apartment reserved for the superintendent, Mr. Gonzales. If she was ever going to feel safe here again, she needed answers. And they started with Rico’s father.
The bitter smell of beer rolled out with him. Her stomach clenched. So that hadn’t been just a psychic fluke earlier. Wonderful.
“Someone left a note on my door this morning,” she said evenly.
He tilted his head like a bird. Curious. His coffee-brown eyes were Rico’s eyes—and that only made this harder.
“Ah … good news?”
“No. Did you buzz someone in this morning?”
“Especial delivery for you.”
Hunter’s teeth clenched. Maybe the killer had slipped up. “What did he look like?”
“He wear a hat. Like a trucker. Big man, tall like you. Gring—uh … white.”
Great. That wasn’t much to go on. “What company did he work for?”
“Who?”
“The delivery man.”
“I … uh …”
Of all the incompetent—“Pull the security tape from the lobby camera and email it to me ASAP. At least we can give it to the cops.”
He nodded, still swaying. The waft of beer nearly knocked her back. “So, you let in a delivery man without confirming?”
His vacant stare said it all. Great. Just great.
“This is a secure building. No one gets in without explicit tenant permission.”
He ran a hand over his stubbled cheek. “Of—of course.”
“One warning. Sober up fast. Dump the booze. Get that footage to me today. And make damn sure every delivery driver has paperwork before you hit the buzzer again.”
“Yes, Miz Hunter.” He bobbed his head.
“Where’s Rico?”
“Oussside … playing.”
“Keep a closer eye on him. He nearly got his butt kicked in the park ten minutes ago.”
His gaze dropped. “Sssure. I keep an eye.”
Would he remember any of this sober? Probably not. If she didn’t have that footage by midafternoon, she’d get it herself. She wasn’t the same woman the killer left bleeding in the warehouse. She wasn’t his victim. Not anymore.
End of Excerpt
