Sharon Sala - Going Twice

New York Times bestselling author Sharon Sala enters the eye of the maelstrom as death and disaster stalk Tornado Alley—aided by an obsessive madman.

As bodies pile up in the wake of a storm—stripped, tortured and grimly posed—authorities must admit the unthinkable. The serial killer dubbed the Stormchaser has returned following a tornado and taken it upon himself to bring the death toll up to where he believes it belongs.

FBI investigator Wade Luckett is back on the case, assisted by an agent Wade knows professionally and personally: his ex-wife, Jo. Neither time nor the tragedy that tore them apart have blunted the ache Wade feels for brave, beautiful Jo. And though she tries to deny it, she feels the same. But the stirrings of renewed romance will have to wait until they catch a killer.

The Stormchaser has no intention of getting caught. He’s set his sights on a new victim. Jo can forget about the lifetime she dreams of spending with Wade. She’ll be lucky to see another day.

Praise for the novels of

“Vivid, gripping…this thriller keeps the pages turning.”

—Library Journal on Torn Apart

“Sala’s characters are vivid and engaging.”

—Publishers Weekly on Cut Throat

“Sharon Sala is not only a top romance novelist,

she is an inspiration for people everywhere

who wish to live their dreams.”

—John St. Augustine, host,

Power!Talk Radio WDBC-AM, Michigan

“Veteran romance writer Sala lives up to her reputation

with this well-crafted thriller.”

—Publishers Weekly on Remember Me

“A well-written, fast-paced ride.”

—Publishers Weekly on Nine Lives

“Perfect entertainment for those looking for

a suspense novel with emotional intensity.”

—Publishers Weekly on Out of the Dark

Going Twice

Sharon Sala

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This book is about strength of character and strength of heart, something of which we are rarely aware. It’s not until life throws us a curve, testing our mettle as to how much it takes before we might break, that we even know it is there. But when the need arises and we tap into that strength, it is then that heroes and heroines are born. They are the survivors, but not in just the physical sense. They endure, then they persevere, until finally they prevail.

I dedicate this book to the quiet heroes and heroines who go about their lives without medals or awards, who take care of business and walk away knowing they did what they had to do to take care of the people they love. Their legacy is their reward.

Contents

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

One

Washington, D.C.

Spring

It was the bird chirping outside the bedroom window that woke up Jolene Luckett, but her mood did not match the peppy sound. Even though it was her day off, it was going to take everything she had to get through it.

After a quick shower, she dug out her favorite pair of jeans and an old Washington Redskins T-shirt. It was a relief to wear tennis shoes rather than the leather half boots she often wore to work, but the soles made little squeaking noises on the hardwood floors as she headed for the kitchen. Yet another cheery sound that felt like an irritation.

A preprogrammed coffeepot had hot coffee waiting. She filled a to-go cup with the hazelnut-flavored brew, grabbed her purse and car keys, and headed out the door.

Next stop was the flower shop. The owner was just opening up, and her stomach rolled as she followed him inside. The smell reminded her of funerals.

“Give me a couple of minutes to get my register up and running,” the salesclerk said.

“I want to look around, so take your time,” Jo said.

She knew what she needed, but it was going to take her a few minutes to work up the nerve to pick it out and pay without breaking into tears.

Music began to play somewhere in the back as she moved toward a display of potted mums. Her grandmother had an entire flower bed of chrysanthemums on the east side of her house when Jolene was a girl. Seeing them made her remember a time when she still believed in happy-ever-afters. Now she knew different, and she also knew she couldn’t stare at plants all day. Not when she had another appointment to keep. As she moved down the length of the room, she caught sight of a table piled high with stuffed toys and immediately looked away. She wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

The clerk was at the register now, whistling beneath his breath as he worked. She curled her fingers into fists and lifted her chin as if she was readying for battle.

Focus, Jo. Focus.

She walked to the other side of the room, toward the cooler holding large buckets of cut flowers waiting to be made into arrangements. She saw blue flowers, but they were not the kind she wanted, and she moved on to another display with smaller potted plants. There were colorful pansies with their happy faces, and delicate violets with their green velvet leaves. Then she saw the small pots with the tiny blue flowers, and her eyes filled with tears. Forget-me-nots. Perfect. She sorted through them for a bit and then chose the one with the most blooms.

To get to the register she had to pass by the display of stuffed animals again, but this time she stopped. It hurt her heart to look at them, but it hurt even more to choose one, knowing where it was going to wind up.

“Anything I can help you with?” the clerk asked.

Jo flinched. Some FBI agent she was. He’d walked up beside her and she hadn’t even heard him coming.

“No, thank you. I’m just about done.”

As he walked away, her gaze fell on a small fuzzy giraffe. The first time she’d chosen a toy she’d picked a little teddy bear. Last year she’d chosen a small green turtle. This time it would be the giraffe. She picked it up and headed for the register.

The man was talking to her as he rang up the purchases, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember a thing he’d said. She handed him her credit card and signed the slip he gave her.

“Would you like to attach a card to the flowers?” he asked.

“No, thank you,” she said again, then picked up her purchases and walked out the door.

Traffic was heavy as she drove toward North Capitol Street, but it was good to have something to concentrate on.

Her cell phone rang, but she wouldn’t look. Didn’t care—couldn’t care—when she was on a mission this important. By the time she neared her destination, she began moving into the proper lane so she could exit on a service road to get to the entrance.

Her heart was hammering so hard when she drove through the entrance to Prospect Hill Cemetery she felt faint. The first time she’d come here she hadn’t come alone. Wade had still been with her. But no more. She blinked back tears, refusing to admit most of that was her fault. It had been a subconscious reaction to the guilt she felt, pushing him away instead of letting him in to grieve with her.

She drove through the cemetery with a heavy heart, found a place to park at the foot of the hill, and got out with her flowers and the toy.