Tracy Montoya - Maximum Security

“Hmmm.” Brentwood turned the note over. “And this?”

Taped to the back was a photo. Maggie stepped closer, too intrigued to be frightened yet by the picture she hadn’t known was there. She picked up the bag and examined its contents. The photo was severely out of focus; the only thing she could tell was that it was taken inside a room with generic beige walls, and the subject was a woman with curly black hair.

“Maggie?” Brentwood’s voice broke her concentration.

“Well, that’s new.” She licked her lips. “He’s definitely sending a message.” She put the note down and pulled the rubber band off the end of her braid, combing her fingers through her hair until her black curls cascaded freely over her shoulders. From the look on Brentwood’s face, it was clear he knew what she was going to say next. “I think that’s me.”

Brentwood narrowed his eyes and squinted at the photo. “You don’t recognize anything in the background, do you?”

She shook her head. “That beige wall could be anywhere. This house, my home in New Orleans, any one of the places I used to give lectures.” She gave him a small smile. “Unfortunately, I’ve always had huge hair, so I couldn’t even tell you when this was taken. Especially since the face is so out of focus.”

Brentwood continued asking questions, and she answered, doing her best to keep herself divorced from the reality that was coming out of her mouth. Finally, the questions stopped, and he simply looked at her, with Adriana cracking her gum on the couch next to him. Brentwood’s mouth flattened, and he clenched his jaw tightly. The man wouldn’t have made a very good poker player.

“You can’t do anything,” she said. “I know.”

He stood, played with his tie, though his eyes never left hers. If he had to leave her at the mercy of a madman, at least he’d be honest and forthright about it. “It could be a prank. A lot of kids in this area know about your…condition.”

The crazy woman on Mermaid Point. Oh, yeah, they knew all right. “Sure,” she said.

“Even if he were stalking you, serial killers normally don’t stray from their comfort zones. This would be highly unusual.”

“Right.” Her gaze traveled out the window, to the shadows between the trees across the street.

“We’ll check for fingerprints on the knife and the note. If it’s any of our known offenders—”

“You won’t find anything,” Maggie interrupted flatly. “He’s better than that.”

Adriana, who’d been listening carefully to the entire exchange, finally burst out, “James, can’t you do something? What if she’s really not safe?”

“I’ll arrange for extra patrols past your house.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, then pulled them out again. “I’m sorry, it’s all I can do at this point.”

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. How many people had been apologizing to her lately? Would they keep saying it, even if she were dead? “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his tan trenchcoat, looking a little as if he ought to be in a black-and-white noir film. “I’m listening, Maggie. Call me if you have anything else.” Then he turned to leave.

Maggie turned and walked into the kitchen, only half listening to Adriana argue with Brentwood as she went outside to see him to his car.

She traced her fingers around the smooth, cool lid of her blue sugar canister, the Firestar nestled inside once more, loaded and ready. There were other weapons hidden around the house—guns, knives, Mace. Would they be enough?

They had to be.

Last time around, she’d had the protection of the entire NOPD and a few FBI agents, and it hadn’t been enough. She’d had her gun, her martial arts training, her normally flawless intuition that had warned her of approaching danger countless times. None of it had kept her safe.

Now, she had what her former colleagues politely called “a psychological condition,” she jumped at mere shadows, and she had all the credibility of an alcoholic bag lady. Sure, her friends and family would be there for her if she asked, but she couldn’t involve them. Keeping them far away from this crazy game, more than anything, had to be her first priority. This time, despite the fact that Addy’s detective might believe her, she was alone.

Her eyes fell on Billy Corrigan’s card.

She palmed it off the table, then curled her fingers around it until it was crushed inside her fist.

All alone.

Maggie balanced her weight evenly on the soles of both feet and slowly raised her arms upward to greet the sky—well, in her case, the ceiling. Tadasana—mountain pose. Adriana had told her that the yoga posture improved alignment, balance, confidence, and was good for people who constantly felt cold.

So far, it wasn’t helping with any of it.

She exhaled and bent her body at the waist, dropping her hands in front of her until her fingertips swept the ground. Shifting the bulk of her weight to her palms, she pushed one leg backward into a lunge, then brought the other leg back to meet it. Plank pose. The second part of a sequence that was supposed to “invigorate the nervous system” and relax her.

Whatever.

Do you wanna live forever, Maggie?

The whisper was so real, Maggie could almost feel the Surgeon’s breath on her cheek, the tingling steel of the knife blade as he trailed it down her spine with soft, butterfly touches that would soon turn vicious. Her arms gave out and she landed hard on her stomach. One breath. Two.

How would she ever stop him this time? Closing her eyes, she dropped her head forward until her forehead touched the soft surface of her yoga mat. Her hands curled around her face, creating a barrier that blocked her peripheral vision and reduced her world to one small square of blue foam. One breath. Two.

If you run, he can’t getcha. If you run, he can’t getcha. If yourunhecan’tifyourunifyourunifyourun….

“I can’t,” she moaned, a small pathetic noise from a small, pathetic person. “I can’t.”

A loud banging noise echoed through the house, abruptly bringing an end to her latest mental mini-collapse. The front door.

Maggie closed her eyes and listened to the muffled sound of the waves hitting the beach for a moment. Thank heaven for this house near the ocean—water always managed to relax her when she needed it most. Even through a barrier of stucco walls and thick panes of glass.

The banging on her door grew louder and more insistent. With a sigh, Maggie slowly rose to her feet, bringing her hands to the ceiling to stretch her spine one last time. Then, she pulled the coated rubber band out of her hair and quickly finger-combed it before redoing her ponytail. No sense looking like a crazy person, even if it was probably just Adriana kicking the door because she held a bag of groceries in her hands.

With one hand on the wall for balance, Maggie started to rise on her tiptoes to look through the peephole, but then dropped back down. She reached out and clamped her fingers around the small yellow spray can that sat on the nearby phone table. Just in case.

When she did glance through the peephole, what she saw made her wish she hadn’t bothered interrupting a perfectly good nervous breakdown. “I have Mace,” she called through the wood.

“It’s important,” came Billy Corrigan’s muffled reply.

She didn’t answer, preferring instead to remain quiet and see how long it took him to give up and go away. But instead of walking to the other side of the house, she stayed in place, watching him through the small bit of magnifying glass. Today his T-shirt was plain gray, and his jeans were the dark, smoky blue her Abercrombie & Fitch catalog called “dirty wash.” Trendy guy.