Sweet Spot. Susan Mallery

little sister away from Kane.

      She glanced around the entrance to the prison, at the barred doors leading to inner corridors guarded by more barred doors. Despite the warden’s moans about funding for extra guards and security measures, the prison seemed awfully secure to her. Impenetrable. She couldn’t imagine how a prisoner could break out. Not without inside help. “How well did you know Kane, Duane?”

      Duane’s mouth curled in distaste. “Know him?”

      “Did you ever talk to him? Have any personal contact with him?”

      Duane shook his big head. “I don’t talk to the scum that lives here.”

      “Never?”

      “Not if I can help it.”

      “Are any of the guards friendly with prisoners? Or more specifically, were any friendly with Kane?”

      Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, he thought for a moment. “No one comes to mind.”

      “Can you think of anyone who would have reason to help Kane?”

      Surprise registered on Duane’s face. “Help him?”

      “Yes. Help him escape. Someone who might have helped him get through security and over the fence, so Dixie could pick him up.”

      Duane’s bushy brows turned down, and he shook his head. “I think you got it wrong. He must have gotten out on his own.”

      “How? It seems like it would be impossible for any prisoner to get out of this place on his own.”

      Duane’s big shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “I can’t imagine anyone lifting a finger to help a monster like that. But then I’m probably wrong. I can’t imagine anyone marr—” His cheeks and neck colored with embarrassment.

      “You can’t imagine anyone marrying him, either,” she finished for him, heaviness settling on her shoulders. “It’s okay, Duane. Neither can I.”

      “The best thing that could happen would be if someone took Kane out while he’s on the loose.” His voice dropped and shadows darkened his eyes. “He didn’t give those girls he killed a chance—hunting them down and gutting them like deer. Scum like that doesn’t deserve to live. Not one more day. Not even if it’s in a hellhole like this.”

      Risa barely kept herself from nodding in agreement. She wasn’t a proponent of the death penalty. At least not in theory. But in this case, with a man like Dryden Kane, she could almost justify strapping him to a table and sticking a needle in his arm.

      She pulled her mind from those morbid thoughts. Wisconsin wasn’t a death-penalty state. And wishing for Kane’s death wasn’t going to find him. And it wasn’t going to save Dixie. “Well, deciding whether Kane lives or dies isn’t up to us. All we can do is help find him. Can you think of anyone at all that seemed friendly with Kane?”

      Duane’s forehead furrowed and he heaved a sigh as if settling deeply into thought.

      Footsteps echoed through the corridor, growing louder, nearer. The barred door slid open and Trent strode through, carrying a cardboard box. Detective Wiley and the two uniformed officers who’d been outside Kane’s cell followed.

      She took one look at the determined line of Trent’s lips and pushed herself away from the wall, standing solidly on her feet. “Did you find anything more?”

      “Not much.” Trent paused only to sign out at the entrance desk. When he was finished, he turned a probing gaze on her. “How are you holding up?”

      The question and his tone showed nothing but concern for her, but she couldn’t help feeling the heavy thump of frustration hit her in the chest once again. Frustration with herself. “I’m fine.”

      Trent retrieved his gun and headed for the exit. “Good. Because we’re on our way to the police station.”

      She followed him to the door, giving Duane a parting glance.

      Forehead still furrowed, the guard shot her a shy grin. “I’ll think on your question, Professor. And if I come up with anybody who might have helped Kane, I’ll let you know.”

      “Thanks, Duane.” It was a long shot, but maybe Duane could tell her something useful. She hoped her trip to the prison hadn’t been a total waste. Giving the guard a parting nod, she followed Trent’s broad shoulders out into the night.

      TRENT RAKED a hand through his hair and glanced at Rees. She sat slumped in a chair in the area adjacent to the tiny Grantsville police station’s conference room, her eyes riveted on the polished tile floor in front of her. Her complexion was still ghostly, but at least she’d regained a little color since she’d seen the mutilated photo of her sister.

      Or maybe it was just the lighting.

      Another needle of guilt pricked his conscience. He’d had to let Rees examine the evidence in Kane’s cell, but that didn’t make him feel better about the horror she’d had to endure.

      He glanced over his shoulder and into the conference room. Several file boxes sat on the long table. File boxes filled with the crime-scene photos and case reports that had put Kane behind bars the first time. At least Trent didn’t have to wrestle with letting Rees see these testaments of Kane’s evil. There was nothing she could tell him about these case files that he didn’t already carry deep in the shadows of his soul.

      He drew himself up. He had to get his mind off Rees. He had work to do and only two hours before he was scheduled to meet with the emergency task force assembled to find Kane. Two hours to come up with ideas on where Kane had gone and proactive strategies for luring him into the open.

      He stepped into the conference room and pulled the door shut with a thunk. Turning, he faced Wiley.

      The detective glanced at the closed door and arched a blond brow but refrained from comment. Good choice. If he had let one negative comment about Rees cross his lips, Trent probably would have had to throttle him.

      The door opened behind him and a slightly built, dark-haired man slipped inside. He nodded to Trent, his eyes lighting up like a puppy who’d been reunited with his owner after a long absence. He thrust an eager hand forward. “Rook, sir. I’m Grantsville’s Chief of Police. It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

      Trent shook Rook’s hand. The varied responses he received from local law enforcement personnel never ceased to surprise him. Most of the time his presence was met with skepticism or even downright contempt. But then there were some who saw federal agents in a much more glamorous light. Obviously Rook was among the latter group. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Chief.”

      He ducked his head to the side, as if the title embarrassed him. “Please, call me Rook. Or John. My department has only three full-time officers, including me.”

      “It’s about time you got here, Rook,” Wiley growled. “Quit pumping Burnell’s hand like some damn bootlicker and sit down. We have work to do.”

      Rook meekly did as Wiley ordered. Apparently the young, small-town chief was intimidated by county law enforcement.

      Once they were all seated, Wiley zeroed in on Trent, waving a hand at the boxes of old files. “I looked for your profile of Kane, but I couldn’t find it.”

      Trent stepped to the table. “There is no written profile.”

      “Why not?”

      “We don’t want a comprehensive written report leaked to the press. There are too many factors that could be misconstrued, sensationalized. Besides, we want to be able to release only select details. Details that will make the serial offender nervous. Make him take unnecessary risks. Or force him into the open. If reporters get their hands on a written report that contains the entire profile, we lose that ability.”

      “Reporters. We set up a media office in Platteville. Hopefully we can keep the bloodsuckers off our backs.” Wiley shuffled through one of the boxes.