Killer Heat. Brenda Novak

And what about those other bodies, the ones in the mass grave Finch had told her about? Was Butch responsible for those murders, as well?

      It held the remains of seven women….

      She believed Butch to be capable of extreme violence. She’d never met an individual who scared her as much.

      This was what some of the people she took on as clients went through, she realized. Now she’d become a victim, too. She tried telling herself it was good experience to have, that in future she’d be better able to relate to their feelings of helplessness and frustration. But trying to find something positive in what she’d gone through didn’t make these late-night hours tick by any faster.

      Agitated and restless, she stared at the ceiling. Although she tried to avoid it, she kept picturing Butch sitting at his kitchen table going through her purse while the rest of his family slept. Was he holding her driver’s license right now, memorizing her address? Had he checked MapQuest to determine the best route to take to her house?

      Surely he wouldn’t be that obvious. Besides, she lived two hours away, which meant he’d need a wide margin in which to be gone. But just knowing how easy tracking her down would be made every creak and rustle—normal noises on any other night—sound like someone was attempting to break in. She was so wound up she could feel her pulse beating in her fingertips. Would morning never come?

      Why hadn’t she listened to Jonah? He’d asked her not to go back home tonight. He’d encouraged her to stay with a friend for a few days, give Butch time to cool down. But Butch wasn’t the type to cool down. The way his muscles had contracted when she’d continued to challenge him for her purse made her believe she’d never be completely safe, not as long as he was free. And hiding wouldn’t solve the problem, not when Butch could simply use one of her business cards, a stack of which could be found in her purse, to come up with her office address. He could attack her midday as easily as at night. Crimes took place at all hours. If he really wanted to hurt her, he’d find a way.

      “Butch can go to hell as far as I’m concerned,” she muttered. And if he broke in and attacked her, maybe she’d send him there. She’d brought a large carving knife to bed with her. She also had a new can of pepper spray in the top drawer of her nightstand. She’d squirted a little on the sidewalk to make sure it worked—something she’d taken for granted with the old one that she wasn’t willing to do again.

      Were those precautions enough? Maybe not. She couldn’t imagine actually having to stab someone. A gun would be a much more practical form of defense. Maybe she should get one…. She’d never been tempted before, but she’d never been so rattled, either.

      Her hand was growing sweaty on the handle of the knife. She couldn’t go on like this.

      Forcing her fingers to unclench the weapon, she put it on the nightstand. If she did fall asleep, she didn’t want to roll over on top of it. But there was little chance of nodding off. She’d have to relax for that to happen. And she couldn’t relax. When she wasn’t thinking about Butch, she was thinking about Jonah. How ironic that he’d pop up on a day when she was so ill-equipped to deal with his reappearance in her life.

      Talk about rotten luck and terrible timing….

      Running a finger over each eyebrow as if she could smooth away the anxiety, she replayed the argument that had ensued after Finch had pulled away from the salvage yard.

      Jonah: “What the hell’s wrong with you, Francesca? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

      Francesca: “Weren’t you listening? I was trying to get my purse. He has the keys to my house, my cell phone, my wallet, everything!”

      Jonah: “I understand that. But you had no proof, no basis for accusing him. It was your word against his. Why provoke him?”

      Francesca: “You think I should’ve let it all go without a fight?”

      Jonah: “I think you don’t take on a man like that unless you know in advance that you’ve got him by the balls. He’d already allowed Hunsacker and his men to search the whole place. It wasn’t as if we could force him to let us look again. That would require a warrant.”

      Finch: “And, in case you’re wondering, there’s no way we could get a warrant. You were the one who was trespassing. You’re also the only one who inflicted bodily harm.”

      Francesca: “He tackled me! These abrasions and burns don’t mean anything?”

      Finch: “They don’t constitute an attack as obvious as the scratches you left on his face.”

      Jonah: “He could easily make up an excuse for that, say you flew into a panic when you thought that mannequin was a body and fell while you were running away. How would you prove otherwise?”

      Finch: “I’m telling you, any judge I approach would act to protect Vaughn’s rights, to stop a possible lawsuit if for no other reason.”

      Francesca: “A lawsuit?”

      Finch: “He could sue the city for ‘misconduct.’”

      Francesca: “Since when is following up on a lead considered misconduct?”

      At that point, the investigator had turned to face her for the first time since they’d left the salvage yard. “We descended on him like flies on shit because you’re an investigator. I believed you when you told me there was a body in that junkyard.” Here, he’d smacked the steering wheel. “Damn it, you hadn’t even looked at it!”

      Francesca: “I made a mistake, okay? That doesn’t mean he’s not responsible for April’s disappearance.”

      Finch: “No, it doesn’t. But we need proof before we go barging in there again. Solid proof. More than just your word.”

      Francesca: “Fine. I’ll get the proof!”

      Finch had shot her a sullen look. “You do that.”

      Jonah: “Considering what’s happened, the smartest response is to cut your losses and stay out of it. Your life is worth far more than whatever you had in that purse. Let us take it from here.”

      This comment had caused her to twist around in her seat. “So you do think he’s dangerous.”

      Jonah: “I plan to find out. That much I can promise.”

      Francesca: “Well, for the record, I’m not worried about my perfume and my lipstick, okay? I’m worried about him having my personal information.”

      Finch: “Cancel your credit cards and change your locks.”

      Jonah: “And until you can do that, don’t go home. Rekey your house and your car, put in a security system at your office, if you don’t already have one, and stay with your parents.”

      That wasn’t an option. These days, her parents spent their summers in Montana, building their dream house near her brother, Samuel, who was older by six years and had a wife and three children.

      Francesca: “In other words, leave my home unprotected.”

      Jonah: “Your safety is more important than your house.”

      Francesca: “But I can’t leave the house to him. Who knows what he’d do? He could install video cameras in my attic, sabotage the window locks, drill peepholes.”

      Jonah: “You can have it inspected before you go back.”

      Or she could defend her turf, refuse to let him disrupt her life.

      Francesca: “Thanks for the advice, but it never pays to run from a bully. That would only endanger whoever I chose to stay with. All he’d have to do is follow me from the office.”

      Finch: “There’s strength in numbers. It certainly beats staying alone.”

      Francesca: “Giving him the upper hand won’t make me any safer. I’m not going to run and hide.”

      Jonah: