Tracy Montoya - I'll Be Watching You

But there could be another end to this story—she knew that better than anyone.

“I’ll keep you safe. I swear.”

“What about the cop who tried to protect me the last time?”

His mouth quirked upward in the crooked half smile she was starting to recognize. “Nothing’s going to make me leave your side.”

Oh, my.

“Okay.” She barely realized she’d agreed to his protection until the word shot out of her mouth, against her better judgment. He didn’t deserve to be involved in this. He didn’t deserve to die because of her.

As if he could read her thoughts, something softened in his deep hazel eyes. He reached up to trace her jawline with his hand, making the barest contact with her skin. It stole her breath all the same….

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To Kim Fisk. You earned this one with all of those blitz

critiques I made you do! I’m blessed to have you for a friend.

Tracy Montoya is a magazine editor for a crunchy nonprofit in Washington, D.C., though at present she’s telecommuting from her house in Seoul, Korea. She lives with a psychotic cat, a lovable yet daft I has a apso and a husband who’s turned their home into the Island of Lost/Broken/Strange-Looking Antiques. A member of the National Association of Hispanic Journalists and the Society of Environmental Journalists, Tracy has written about everything from Booker Prize–winning poet Martín Espada to socially responsible mutual funds to soap opera summits. Her articles have appeared in a variety of publications, such as Hope, Utne Reader, Satya, YES!, Natural Home and New York Naturally. Prior to launching her journalism career, she taught in an under-resourced school in Louisiana through the AmeriCorps Teach for America program.

Tracy holds a master’s degree in English literature from Boston College and a BA in the same from St. Mary’s University. When she’s not writing, she likes to scuba dive, forget to go to kickboxing class, wallow in bed with a good book, or get out her guitar with a group of friends and pretend she’s Suzanne Vega.

She loves to hear from readers—e-mail TracyMontoya@aol.com or visit www.tracymontoya.com.

Adriana Torres —Four years ago, Adriana’s fiancé was killed in the line of duty while hunting serial killer Elijah Carter. Now someone is leaving her mysterious threats, and dredging up all of her long-buried painful memories.

Daniel Cardenas —The Monterey police detective is determined to keep Adriana safe from the stalker whose threats seem to be escalating—even while she’s determined to shut him out.

Elijah Carter —A vicious serial killer whose struggle with police and FBI resulted in his falling into the dangerous waters lining Monterey Bay. His body was never found.

Stan Peterson —Adriana’s yoga student seems to have an unhealthy interest in his teacher.

James Brentwood —The Monterey police detective—and Adriana’s fiancé—was shot and killed by Elijah Carter.

Liz Borkowski —Daniel’s no-nonsense partner and Adriana’s friend, Detective Borkowski well remembers Elijah Carter, because she almost died under his knife.

A.J. Lockwood —The veteran detective knows Elijah Carter’s killing methods well—and he’s convinced Carter survived and is back to kill again.

Sean Cantrell —Could Adriana’s teenage neighbor be behind the threats left at her door?

Prologue

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

Stifling a yawn with his fist, Detective Daniel Cardenas wondered not for the first time what the hell he was doing up at oh-dark-hundred in the morning, several hours before his shift was supposed to start. His dashboard clock read 3:07 a.m. as he maneuvered his unmarked Crown Victoria slowly through the gauntlet of blue-and-whites lining East Alvarado Street, their flashing lights creating an eerie, pulsing red halo around the small neighborhood. It was normally considered one of Monterey, California’s, “safer” areas.

Not tonight, obviously.

When his partner had called him down here, she hadn’t bothered to give him any details. But something in her normally no-nonsense voice had sent his cop sense into overdrive, and he knew it was shut-up-and-go time. So he shut up, hung up and went. All without his usual morning jolt of caffeine.

God, he would have sawed off his right arm for some coffee.

Pulling his car alongside the curb, about a block away from the small shotgun-style bungalow at the center of all the activity, Daniel got out and made his way back toward 447 East Alvarado. Radio chatter had indicated a homicide had taken place, and from the fact that every cop in the metro area and then some seemed to be parked on this one street, it wasn’t going to be a pretty one.

He walked under a streetlight, and the sudden brightness of its tungsten lamp shining down upon him made his head throb. Ahead, some neighborhood residents huddled together in a tight, worried-looking group, occasionally craning their necks or shuffling from side to side to see what was going on. Unfortunately for them, an ambulance with two very jittery-looking EMTs leaning against it blocked their view. As if sensing his approach, one of the women onlookers turned around and broke away from the group when she saw him.

“Excuse me,” the woman said, tightly clutching the lapels of her ratty red bathrobe together with one hand. “Are you with the police? Because I didn’t know the girls who lived there well, but…”

“Ma’am, at this point, I don’t know any more than you do,” he said politely. “But—”

“It’s our right to know,” she said, falling into step beside him. “Our taxes pay your salary, young man. I won’t—”

Without breaking his stride, Daniel slanted a cool look at her.

“Oh, well, I—” Patting her hair, she scurried back among her friends, the rest of her statement hanging unfinished in the air. He wasn’t allowed to dole out any information to people who weren’t next of kin this early in the game. And he definitely wasn’t spilling his guts to the neighborhood gossip at any point. They were pretty much the only ones who tried to play the we-pay-your-taxes card.

Then again, if she’d come at him with a double-shot espresso, he might have been persuaded to make something up on the spot.

As he approached the yellow tape that cordoned off the scene, a street cop strode across the front yard to meet him, backlit by one of the homicide squad’s portable spotlights. Daniel flashed his badge, then ducked under the tape without waiting for the guy’s blessing. As expected, the uniform gave him a curt nod and backed off.