Night Stalker. Shirlee McCoy

settled in the chair again.

      “It’s going to be okay, Charlotte,” he said, patting her lax hand.

      Her fingers moved—a tiny twitch that made his heart jump.

      He waited, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest beneath white hospital sheets, the flicker of her closed eyelids.

      “Charlotte?” He touched her cheek, his palm resting against cool dry skin.

      She opened her eyes.

      He’d forgotten how beautiful her irises were—deep purple-blue rimmed with black. He’d forgotten how it felt to watch her wake, the haze of sleep slowly dissipating, the softness of her features sharpening.

      “Why are you here?” she said, her voice raspy and raw, her eyes closing again.

      “I thought it was time I was finally around when you needed me,” he responded honestly, certain she’d already lost consciousness again.

      “I don’t need you,” she whispered so quietly he almost didn’t hear, and then she was unconscious again, the soft beep and hiss of machinery the only sounds in the quiet room.

      He could have left then.

      He’d done what he’d said he would. He’d stayed until she woke. She’d been lucid enough and aware enough to know who he was and to know she didn’t want him around.

      That shouldn’t have hurt.

      He told himself it didn’t.

      But there was a piece of his heart that still belonged to Charlotte. He might have failed her after Daniel died, but he wouldn’t fail her now. Whether she needed him or not, he was there to stay until the Night Stalker was found and he knew for sure that she was safe.

       TWO

      Nine days.

      That was how long Charlotte had been cooped up in the hospital. There’d been a steady stream of visitors during her stay. County police. Town sheriff. State police. FBI. All of them asking questions, most of which she couldn’t answer.

      She hadn’t seen the face of the man who’d shot her.

      She had seen his truck.

      Just enough of it to know it was old. Big. A pickup with two doors.

      She’d seen him, too. The man the FBI called the Night Stalker. She may not have seen his face, but she’d seen his height and breadth and the gleam of his eyes through the darkness.

      She shuddered, pushing the image away.

      She’d almost died.

      Everyone who walked into the room reminded her of that.

      Except for Adam. Her ex-husband. The one person she never would have expected to see sitting beside her hospital bed. In the earliest days of her recovery, she’d thought she was dreaming his presence, dreaming the shorter haircut, the fine lines near the corners of his eyes, the somberness in his gaze.

      Only, Adam hadn’t been a dream.

      He’d been as real as the wound in her chest, the tube in her side, the surgical staples in her skin. The tube had come out. The wound was healing, the staples were gone, but Adam was still in Whisper Lake.

      It still seemed impossible, but all she had to do was glance at the reclining chair he’d slept in the past few nights to know he’d really been there. He’d left his jacket lying across the arm, a duffel on the floor beside it. She wasn’t sure where he’d gone, but she was certain he’d be back.

      Charlotte’s calm, predictable life had turned to chaos. She wasn’t sure how it had happened or why. She only knew that she had to get things back on track. That meant going home to the cottage, sitting by herself, thinking through her options and making her own decision about where she wanted to go and what she wanted to do.

      If law enforcement had its way, she’d be taken to a safe house the minute she was discharged. Special Agent Wren Santino had outlined the plan for Charlotte earlier that day. They’d let her return home to collect a few personal items, and then they’d fly her out in a private jet, whisking her off to some destination only a few people were privy to.

      And, of course, Clover would be with her.

      That seemed to be the common theme. Everyone she spoke to about the FBI’s plan had assured her that she could take her dog along. As if she were a child who would be persuaded by that. As if there’d ever been a doubt or question. Of course she’d bring Clover wherever she went.

      If she went anywhere.

      She had more than Clover to think about.

      She had her teaching job at the community college, her dog-training class that met every Saturday morning. She had Bubbles to think about, too. Her neighbor wasn’t getting any younger, and if Charlotte wasn’t around, there’d be no one to keep an eye out for her.

      The fact was, Charlotte had no reason to believe the Night Stalker knew who she was, where she lived or if she’d survived. Based on what she’d learned from Wren and Adam, she thought it was more likely that he’d gone on his merry way and was currently searching for a new victim somewhere far from Whisper Lake.

      Of course, she wasn’t law enforcement. She was just someone who’d been in the wrong place at the right time. Someone who’d gotten mixed up in something that had almost gotten her killed. She could be very wrong in her thinking. It was possible the serial killer did know who she was and where she lived. It was also possible that he planned to pay her back for ruining his plans to abduct his tenth victim.

      She frowned. Maybe she did want to leave town for a while, go into hiding, let the FBI protect her.

      Maybe.

      But she needed to think about it, and the best place to do that was home.

      She eased out of her hospital gown and into the loose-fitting jeans and sweater Bubbles had brought her. It took longer than it should have, and she was shaking when she finished, but she’d accomplished the task.

      Now all she had to do was get home.

      She thought about calling Bubbles and asking for a ride, but she didn’t like the idea of her elderly neighbor driving out to the hospital at midnight. Besides, Bubbles had been spending her days at the cottage, taking care of Clover and sending away friends who’d been wondering why Charlotte hadn’t shown up for meetings or training sessions. The FBI had coached her carefully, and Bubbles had told everyone who cared to know that Charlotte was on vacation. Unplanned. Spur of the moment. Just one of those things that young people did.

      That was plenty for a woman in her eighties to deal with. She didn’t need to be dragged out of bed at midnight to ride to Charlotte’s rescue. Besides, if the Night Stalker was still out there, Charlotte didn’t want Bubbles to be in his crosshairs.

      She shivered, her thoughts going back to that moment on the road. The bright headlights. The dark form. The woman dropping to the ground.

      The explosion of sound and of pain.

      She’d been assured that she was safe. That the Whisper Lake Sheriff’s Department was working with the state and federal police to keep her that way.

      She believed she was safe.

      But she was still afraid.

      “That doesn’t mean you’re staying here,” she muttered. “You’re going home. You’ll make decisions about whether to stick around once you’re there.”

      “Are you okay, Charlotte?” someone called from the other side of the closed door.

      Someone?

      Adam. She knew his voice like she knew her own. Even after all these years.

      “Charlotte?” he called again.