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have are usually booked through the summer. Are all of your men staying tonight?”
    “Only Nelson, a profiler. We left in a hurry this morning, so we have a few loose ends in Jacksonville to tie up. The rest of my men will drive back tonight, set up a task force, and return with more manpower in a few days, if you’re agreeable to that.”
    “More than agreeable. I appreciate any help we can get, especially if we have less than three weeks to stop this killer before he strikes again.” He pulled his set of keys out of his pocket and worked one off the ring. “We’ll work on clearing some motel rooms for your team when they return, but for now, this should help.” He tossed the key to Pierce.
    “What’s this?” Pierce caught the key in midair.
    “I have an apartment about a mile from here. You and Nelson can use it for the duration. There’s only one bedroom but the sofa folds out into a bed.”
    “And where will you stay?”
    “I’ve been renovating a house outside of town. I’d planned on moving in by the end of the month anyway, so most of my things are already there.” He led the way through the glass front doors and down the concrete steps to the parking lot on the side of the building. “I’ll drive you to the apartment and grab a few things.”
    Pierce nodded. “I appreciate that. The bureau will compensate you, of course.”
    Logan paused with one hand on the door handle of his Mustang. “Help me catch the killer. That’s all the compensation I need.” He looked around, a feeling of unease passing through him as he studied the few people walking to their cars. No one looked suspicious, but he couldn’t shake the bad feeling in his gut.
    “Something wrong?” Pierce studied him over the roof of the car.
    Logan shrugged. “Just a feeling.”
    “What kind of feeling?”
    “Like someone’s watching me.”
    The agent glanced around as well, his body tense, alert. “You ever get that feeling before?” he asked, as they both got into the car.
    “Yes.”
    “And?”
    Logan raised a brow. “Someone was watching me.”
    T he metallic rasp of a blade sliding from its butcher-block holder echoed in the silence of the house. Amanda hefted the glittering knife, admiring the perfectly balanced craftsmanship, the finely sharpened edge that could cut through muscle and bone with little effort.
    Knives held a morbid fascination for her. Having been on the business end of one, she was determined to master the use of them. It was another way to face and overcome her fears, another way to not let him win.
    Raising the knife in the air, she brought it down with a resounding whack . The head of lettuce fell open into two perfectly sliced halves. She pulled the rest of the ingredients for a salad out of the refrigerator and set them on the countertop, next to the phone. She’d wanted to call her sister ever since the police left this morning, but every time she picked up the phone she lost her nerve.
    Her time in Tennessee at her sister’s home after the attack wasn’t pleasant for either of them. Heather had tried to be supportive—at first anyway—but the strain of living with someone who often woke up screaming at night was hard on a family with small children.
    And then there was Heather’s husband, John, the real reason Amanda and Heather rarely spoke anymore. John was controlling, a pathological liar, and he thought any woman living in his house was fair game for his attentions. He’d certainly had no aversion to Amanda’s scar. Of course, her face wasn’t what interested him.
    Amanda had tried to talk to her sister about John’s inappropriate behavior, but Heather was unwilling to listen and began to treat her as if she were the one coming on to John. That’s when Amanda had left, and aside from a phone call at Christmas or on the anniversary of their parents’ deaths, she and Heather rarely spoke to each other.
    But after Carolyn O’Donnell’s murder and Chief Richards’ dire warnings,