Ann Voss Peterson - Evidence Of Marriage

She remembered every excruciating moment of the days and nights she’d lain tied in that dark cabin. The burn of the ropes against her wrists. The incredible thirst. The emptiness like a chasm inside her. She couldn’t push it out of her mind. She’d been worried about Reed then, too. The helplessness was the worst. It ate into her soul until there was nothing left but bitter darkness. She couldn’t sit here in the dark waiting for Reed. Or wait for the killer to find her.

Oh, God, please, don’t let this happen again.

Just then, Reed stepped around the corner and rushed to her side, holding her on her feet. Her body dissolved, as if the muscle holding her upright had turned to quivering goo. The way she was shaking she didn’t know if her legs would carry her.

Worse, she didn’t want to leave the protection of Reed’s arms….

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To my father, Gil Voss, who is nothing like Dryden Kane.

Ever since she was a little girl making her own books out of construction paper, Ann Voss Peterson wanted to write. So when it came time to choose a major at the University of Wisconsin, creative writing was her only choice. Of course, writing wasn’t a practical choice—one needs to earn a living. So Ann found jobs ranging from proofreading legal transcripts, to working with quarter horses, to washing windows. But no matter how she earned her paycheck, she continued to write the type of stories that captured her heart and imagination—romantic suspense. Ann lives near Madison, Wisconsin, with her husband, her two young sons, her Border collie and her quarter horse mare. Ann loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at ann@annvosspeterson.com or visit her Web site at annvosspeterson.com.

Diana Gale—A victim most of her life, Diana has vowed to stand on her own two feet. Even if that means turning her back on the only man she’s ever loved and taking on her father–serial killer Dryden Kane.

Detective Reed McCaskey—Overprotective to a fault, Reed takes his vow to protect and serve seriously. Especially when it concerns Diana Gale. But when she takes on Dryden Kane, even he might not be able to protect the woman he loved and lost.

Dryden Kane—There’s a copycat killer loose on the streets, and notorious serial killer Dryden Kane is pulling the strings.

Detective Nikki Valducci—This cop might look like a cover girl, but she’s tough as nails. Will she be tough enough to help McCaskey get his man?

Detective Stan Perreth—The disagreeable detective is good at his job. But what are his priorities? Stopping a serial killer? Or stopping Reed McCaskey?

Louis Ingersoll—Diana’s neighbor wants only what’s best for her. And in his opinion, that would be him.

Meredith Unger—Dryden Kane’s attorney will go to great lengths to give her clients the representation they deserve. But does that include breaking the law?

Cordell “Cord” Turner—The ex-convict has a chip on his shoulder as complex as his tattoos. And as Dryden Kane’s son, is he also a chip off the old block?

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Laundromats made good hunting grounds.

Alone, for now, he sat back to wait, listening to the empty rumble of the drier and the tinny radio tuned to the blues. He liked a little blues on a hunting trip. The music was gritty and real and full of pain. Like the sweetness of a dying scream.

He’d never guessed how invincible killing could make him feel. The godlike power of holding life and death in his hands. It had taken a mentor to teach him. To guide him. Until he’d become brave. Until he’d become strong. Stronger than he’d ever imagined he could be.

But it had been too long since he’d tasted that strength. Eight months of fantasizing. Eight months of lying low, waiting for warm weather, waiting for the police and press to grow bored, waiting for word.

Now he was hungry to feel his power.

The glass door swung open and for a moment the rush of traffic outside eclipsed the low thunk of the bass guitar. The door closed, and a blonde shouldering a duffel trudged past the vending machines and between rows of whirring washers.

He took a deep breath. The air smelled sweet with detergent and fabric softener. Not as sweet as her hair would smell. Not as sweet as the scent of her blood. He’d never understand why women who would never walk down a dark street alone would brave a night like this to wash their laundry. Clean clothes were damn important to some people. He smiled as she came closer.

He could see she was older than the three he’d done last fall. Delicate crow’s-feet touched the outer corners of her eyes. Her mouth held the pinched look of a woman who had to work hard to make ends meet. She was probably in her mid-thirties, maybe close to forty. He didn’t like older women. They were smarter, not as easily misled.

She glanced at him with narrowed eyes. As if she could see something in him that bothered her.

For a moment he considered walking out, checking the Laundromat down the street. The last thing he wanted was for her to figure him out and give his description to the police. He couldn’t afford to give them a gift they didn’t deserve.

She opened one of the small, top loaders and sorted whites into it. Bras. Lacy panties.

She was the one.

He looked at her again, more closely this time. If her hair were a little lighter in color, if her lips were set in a cruel smile, she would look like his mother. He liked that thought. It got his blood pumping. Maybe he could even dress her in the slutty miniskirts his mother used to wear. And one of those oversize shirts with big shoulder pads that had gone out in the eighties.

He shifted in his chair. If he went on fantasizing about what he was going to do, his growing arousal would tip her off for sure. Besides, after eight long months, he’d fantasized long enough. He wanted action.

Humming along with the radio, she pulled a small bottle of detergent from her duffel, measured it into the cap and poured it into the machine.

He stood up and crossed to one of the machines whose wash cycle had finished. Pulling out wet jeans, he threw them in a drier near the woman. He pasted his most innocent and pitiful expression on his face. “Excuse me.”

She glanced up at him, offering a stranger’s smile, brief and insincere.

“My girlfriend told me to get some of those drier sheets. She says she doesn’t like the smell of my clothes. If you don’t mind my asking, what kind do you use?”

She dipped a hand into her duffel and pulled out a pink box. “These are the best. They smell the best and do a great job controlling static. Do you want to try one?”