Operation Xoxo. Elle James

held up a dozen cars. “I’m in traffic and I have to go. I’ll call you when I get home.” She wished her sister was in Texas where she could go straight to her.

      “Do that. And, Elise, don’t worry. We’ll figure this out.”

      God, she hoped so. This all had to be a big mistake—a really big mistake. The letter was much like the ones Brenna had received in North Dakota when she’d been on the trail of a serial killer.

      That serial killer had turned out to be none other than Elise’s husband. He’d very nearly killed Brenna. Hysterical laughter bubbled up in her throat. What woman ever suspected her husband of being a serial killer? Especially a deacon in the church, a man most of the community looked up to and trusted.

      They’d told her Stan had died in the fire he’d set in his attempt to kill Brenna. Elise still had nightmares about that time. She’d almost lost her only sister.

      Elise had always wondered if Stan really died in that fire.

      Memories flowed in like the floodwaters of the Red River that had swept away the burning house with Stan inside two years ago. No body had been recovered, but then he’d been burned and carried away, so what had they expected to find?

      Her husband the serial killer was dead.

      Elise shifted the car into gear and pulled forward, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to hug her children. She wished she had someone big and strong to hug her.

      How could anyone know where she was? How could he have found out her secret? Was it really Stan?

      Damn it. Stan Klaus had to be dead.

      Elise couldn’t live through all that again.

      Then again…maybe that was the plan.

      PAUL FLETCHER STEPPED OUT into the bright afternoon sun. The heat radiating off the pavement warmed his air-conditioner-chilled arms. The contrast between the conference room inside and the South Texas heat had to be at least thirty degrees. He might never acclimate if he didn’t get out of the office more often.

      He marveled at the number of trucks in the parking lot. Hardly anyone in the urban areas of the East Coast owned pickups. Paul had succumbed to the lure of the four-wheel-drive vehicle within a week of arriving and bought a pewter-gray 4x4 truck, glad he’d passed on shiny black like the SUV parked in the space next to his. It looked good, but in the Texas sunshine, black absorbed more heat, making it blistering hot in the long summers.

      Before he stepped off the curb onto the sticky black asphalt, Melissa Bradley’s bright red truck pulled up next to him. Her automatic window slid down. “Get in.”

      “Why? I was on my way to the house for a cold beer.”

      “Change of plans.”

      Paul climbed into the passenger seat, the dream of relaxing by the apartment-complex pool with a beer fading as Melissa pulled onto Interstate 10, headed toward El Paso. “Where are we going?”

      “Breuer.” Dressed in jeans and Dingo boots, Melissa had made the transition from the East Coast like she’d been born and raised in Texas. She’d even picked up a little of the local dialect.

      “Why Breuer?”

      “Remember Alice Klaus?” She glanced at him before returning her attention to the San Antonio afternoon traffic. Slowing, she allowed cars from the access ramp to ease onto the busy interstate, headed to the suburbs after a day at work.

      “Alice from the Dakota Strangler case in North Dakota?” An image of a pretty lady with pale blond hair and two cute little boys swam into his head. “The wife of the serial killer Alice?”

      “That’s the one.”

      “What does she have to do with Breuer?”

      “Her sister, Brenna, called a few minutes ago. Apparently, Alice Klaus, now Elise Johnson, settled in Breuer and hired on as a high school history teacher.”

      A smile lifted the corners of Paul’s lips. He remembered her, all right. Pretty blonde, killer husband. “She changed her name.” He nodded. “A good thing.”

      “Yeah. Only someone’s found her.”

      Paul tensed and sucked in his breath. “Found her or killed her?” He’d barely known the woman more than a few days, but he remembered feeling regret. If the circumstances had been different, she was someone he wouldn’t mind getting to know better.

      Melissa shot a glance at Paul. “Found. She’s alive.”

      Paul let the air out of his lungs and leaned back in his seat for the twenty-minute drive to the hill country outside San Antonio.

      WHEN THEY PULLED ONTO Main Street in Breuer, Paul scanned the small town with a critical eye. White limestone buildings intermingled with old, German-style gingerbread houses. People smiled and waved to each other from the sidewalks and children played in their front yards. Paul would bet most residents didn’t even lock their doors at night.

      A veritable nightmare if a killer ran loose in their midst.

      “Here’s Highland Street.” Melissa turned left onto the street lined with gnarled live oaks whose branches shaded the curbs, giving the impression of a leafy arched bower instead of a city street.

      Melisa parked in front of a yellow cottage with a three-foot-tall, white picket fence surrounding the yard, front and back. “How cute. Reminds me of my grandmother’s house in Wisconsin.”

      Paul climbed from the passenger side of the truck and pushed through the rickety gate. Before he got halfway to the house, two little boys burst through the front door and raced out into the yard.

      “Luke, Brandon! Come back inside right now!” A beautiful woman with long blond hair flung the screen door open and raced out onto the porch, a worried frown creasing her forehead. When she spied Paul, she stopped, her eyes widening. She pressed a hand to her mouth as tears bubbled up and spilled over.

      Somewhere in her past life, she had to have been the high school beauty queen. She was so perfect in every way except the tears now pouring down her cheeks.

      For a man who avoided crying females like the plague, Paul couldn’t resist moving forward and taking her into his arms. “Shh.” He smoothed her hair and spoke to her in a soothing tone. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

      “He’s supposed to be dead.” She pushed away to stare up into Paul’s eyes, her jaw clenched, angry light refracting off the tears in her eyes. “He’s supposed to be dead.”

      Chapter Two

      She clutched his shirt like she was grasping for purchase on the face of a drop-off. She felt like she had fallen over the edge of a cliff, straight into her past.

      Just seeing Paul and Melissa made the memories of the nightmare all too vivid. These two talented FBI agents had been in Riverton and assisted in the investigation that ultimately identified the Dakota Strangler as Stan Klaus, Elise’s husband. During the evacuation of the flooded town of Riverton, Paul had been the one to help get her, the boys and her aging mother out of the evacuation center when the press converged on her.

      The solid wall of Paul’s chest and the security of his arms triggered all the emotions she’d repressed. All the fear, desperation and disbelief rushed in and threatened to swamp her.

      She’d held it together for the boys, but now that help had arrived, sobs rose in her throat and she pressed her mouth to his chest to keep from crying out and scaring the children. She needed to stay strong for the boys and so far she wasn’t doing a good job of it. Her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs and she huddled in Paul’s arms, wanting to stay hidden from the world.

      “Hey, boys,” Melissa said behind her. “Why don’t you show me that swing set I see in your backyard. Think I can swing on it?”

      From the