After The Dark. Cynthia Eden

      But he said he only brought me here because reporters were at my house.

      Samantha hesitated.

      Or maybe...maybe Cameron—in his ever-so-controlling way—had always intended for her to stay at his place after he’d learned about the bloody details of her day. She knew his protective instincts had a tendency to kick into overdrive where she was concerned.

      She yanked open the door. Cameron was across the hall—about to enter his bedroom. “You know I hate being manipulated.” Her hands were on her hips. Her eyes narrowed on him.

      “I do.” He nodded. “And I hate for my only friend to suffer alone.”

      “I’m not your only friend.” Cameron had a freaking entourage of women following him around. “Tomorrow, I am so going to kick your ass.”

      His lips hitched into a half smile. “No, you aren’t. But thanks for the warning.”

      She stepped back and slammed the door shut. Samantha toed off her shoes, ditched her pants, drained that glass of water and fell asleep—wearing just her shirt, her bra and her panties.

      * * *

      IT WAS THE thirst that woke her later. Always a side effect of whiskey shots. Samantha’s eyes cracked open, and she climbed out of bed, her throat absolutely parched. The empty glass sat by the side of the bed, seeming to mock her. She stumbled to the door, then made her way—as quietly as possible—down the hallway and into the kitchen. After guzzling two glasses of water, she propped back against the counter.

      The clock on the microwave told her it was nearing 4:00 a.m. Far too early. Or late, depending on how you wanted to look at it. Unfortunately, now that she was awake, her mind was already spinning, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to shut down again and go back to bed.

      No blood on Allan. That was why the scene was so wrong. He had a dead woman at his feet, blood splatter all around her, but no blood was on him.

      Not until he’d been shot by Blake. And then—once the guy had killed himself, Allan’s blood had been everywhere. So by the time all of the other agents had swarmed to the scene, the place had looked like a bloodbath.

      She put her empty glass in the dishwasher and padded into Cameron’s office. She sat down in his leather chair, and it squeaked softly beneath her weight. She didn’t bother with a light but just moved his mouse so that his computer would wake up. Illumination immediately flooded out from his screen. His two screens. What an ego.

      A faint smile curved her lips as she typed in the password for his system. Cameron was such a Greek mythology junkie. She knew that Hades was his password of choice—for pretty much everything.

      The password got her access, but before she could click the internet icon...

      Another file opened on his desk. A file that must have still been in use when Cameron last operated the computer. And that file...

      It’s the dead girl. A close-up shot of Amber Lyle, the girl who’d been sprawled at Allan’s feet. Her eyes were closed, the wound at her neck gaping, and the blood...

      Samantha leaned closer to the screen even as every muscle in her body clenched. Cameron shouldn’t have that picture. It looked like a crime scene photo. It should be classified. It shouldn’t be—

      A trophy.

      “Samantha?” Cameron’s raspy voice came from the doorway. “You okay?”

      Her head snapped up. She was behind the computer screens—his desk faced the door. So he couldn’t see what she was looking at on the monitors.

      But he could see her face. Right there, in the glow of the light, and whatever he saw on her face must have given her away because Cameron sighed. “Found out, did you?”

      Her profile for the Sorority Slasher ran through her mind.

      Highly intelligent... Cameron was a freaking genius, and he had the paperwork to prove it.

      Strong. Fit. Cameron worked out every single day. Not just some light gym work. He was into martial arts, boxing. Hell, he’d even taken up Krav Maga in the last year.

      Attractive. His features were absolutely perfect. Sharp cheekbones, deep, dark eyes, sensual lips.

      In his late twenties or early thirties... Cameron was twenty-eight.

      “I left in a rush before,” Cameron mused. “I shut down the computer, but I didn’t stop to think that you’d possibly get up in the middle of the damn night and come snooping on me.” He gave a low hum. “Figured out my password, did you?”

      Her lips felt numb as she said, “I’ve always known your password.”

      “The Lord of the Underworld.”

      Her hands inched toward his desk drawer. It was open, just an inch, and she’d caught the gleam of a letter opener in there.

      “How will this end, Sam?” Cameron asked her. “Am I really supposed to kill you now?”

      It’s him. It’s him. It’s him. Inside, she was screaming.

      Cameron took a step toward her. “What do you see on the screen?” Now he sounded curious, not angry. “Is it her? The last one? And she was going to be my last one, by the way. My experiment was over.”

      “Experiment?” Her left hand had slid into the drawer and curled around the letter opener.

      “Um. Yes.” He took another step toward her. He hadn’t turned on the lights in the room, so he was just a big, dark shadow. “I wanted to see if I could do it, you see. If I could kill. If I could get away with the crimes. And I wanted to see...what are people like...in that last terrible moment? What is it like when they know that hope is gone and they’re dying?”

      Nausea rolled in her stomach. “Cameron?” She said his name as if he were a stranger, and right then, he was. Not the man she knew. Not her ex-lover. Not her friend. Cameron was a respected professional. He was on the fast track to become the head of his department at Georgetown—after only two years there. He charmed his way past everyone’s guard.

      He was...a killer.

      He took yet another step toward her. She couldn’t see his hands. She wished that she could just see his hands.

      “There were some surprising results. Would you like to hear them?”

      Cameron always enjoyed bouncing ideas off her.

      “I felt alive when I killed those women. Interesting, don’t you think? That death finally made me feel alive? Until that point, I’d only felt that way, well...when I was fucking you. But that ended when you met Blake Gamble.”

      She flinched. “Blake and I are just...partners. Nothing more. We haven’t been together.”

      His smile was cold. “Not yet. But I know you, Sam. I know what you want.”

      This couldn’t be happening.

      “It was easy to kill.” Now his voice was almost musing. “I never hesitated. I mean, I always suspected I was a bit of a psychopath, but as we all know...psychopaths aren’t necessarily monsters. They’re just...unemotional. Detached. Able to become such great surgeons, CEOs, lawyers...even profilers for the FBI...”

      Her phone was in the guest bedroom, and Cameron didn’t have a landline. She needed to call Blake. Call Bass. Call the cops.

      “Covering up the crimes—well, that was easy, too. All so easy. The hardest part? That was staying two steps ahead of you. Because that profile you made up? The one that your boss called shit?” He was in front of the desk now. “It was dead-on.”

      She could hear the frantic drumbeat of her heart. Every. Single. Beat. “Show me your hands.”

      He laughed. “You think I’ll hurt you?”

      “Show me your