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skin. But no, it was not bleeding.
    She leaned back in the chair and raked her fingers through her tangled, short hair. Dear God! How much longer could she put up with the nightmares? It had been over eight months since Albert Stucky had trapped her in an abandoned Miami warehouse. She had chased him for almost two years, learning his patterns, studying his depraved habits, performing autopsies on the corpses he left behind and deciphering the bizarre messages for the game he, alone, had decided the two of them would play. But that hot, August evening, he had won, trapping her and making her watch. He had no intention of killing her. He simply wanted her to watch.
    Maggie shook her head, willing the images to stay away. She knew she’d be successful as long as she remained awake. They had captured Albert Stucky that bloody night in August, only to have him escape from prison on Halloween. Her boss, FBI Assistant Director Kyle Cunningham, had immediately taken her out of the field. She was one of the Bureau’s top criminal profilers, and yet Cunningham had stuck her behind a desk. He had exiled her to teaching at law enforcement conferences, as if complete boredom would be some sort of protection from the madman. Instead it felt like punishment. And she didn’t deserve to be punished.
    Maggie stood, immediately annoyed at her wobbly knees. She weaved through the maze of cartons to the cabinet in the corner. She checked the clock on the desktop and saw that she had almost two hours before the movers arrived. She laid her gun close by, sorted through the cabinet and brought out a bottle of Scotch. She poured herself a glass, noticing that already her hands were more steady, her heartbeat almost back to normal.
    Just then she heard a high-pitched whine coming from the kitchen. Jesus! She dug her fingernails into her arm, feeling the sting and finding no comfort in the fact that she was, indeed, awake this time. She grabbed for her gun and tried to steady her pulse, already racing out of control. She slid against the wall, making her way to the kitchen, trying to listen and sniffing the air. The whining stopped as she got to the doorway.
    She prepared herself, arms secure and close to her chest. Her finger pressed against the trigger. This time she was ready. She took a deep breath and swung into the kitchen, her gun pointed directly at Greg’s back. He spun around, dropping the freshly opened can of coffee, jumping backward as it crashed to the floor.
    “Damn it, Maggie!” He wore only silk boxers. His normally styled blond hair stuck up, and he looked as if he had just gotten out of bed.
    “Sorry,” Maggie said, desperately trying to keep the panic from her voice. “I didn’t hear you come in last night.” She tucked the Smith & Wesson .38 into the back waistband of her jeans in an easy, casual motion, as if this was a part of her regular morning routine.
    “I didn’t want to wake you,” he snapped through gritted teeth. Already he had a broom and dustpan and was sweeping up the mess. Gently, he lifted the tipped can, rescuing as much of his precious gourmet coffee as possible. “One of these days, Maggie, you’re gonna shoot me by mistake.” Then he stopped and looked up at her. “Or maybe it wouldn’t be a mistake.”
    She ignored his sarcasm and walked past him. At the sink, she splashed cold water on her face and the back of her neck, hoping he didn’t notice that her hands were still shaking. Though she needn’t worry. Greg saw only what he wanted to see.
    “I’m sorry,” she said again, keeping her back to him. “This would never happen if we had gotten a security system.”
    “And we would never need a security system if you’d quit your job.”
    She was so tired of this old argument. She found a dishcloth and wiped the coffee grounds from the counter. “I’d never ask you to quit being a lawyer, Greg.”
    “It’s not the same thing.”
    “Being a lawyer means just as much to you as being an