Die For Me: A Novel of the Valentine Killer (For Me #1)(4)

But ignoring death wasn’t easy. She had the nightmares to prove it.

“If it’s Valentine,” she was now telling Detective Black, “then there should be eleven slices on Savannah’s left arm and ten on her right.” A precise twenty-one. The cops had never leaked that particular detail to the press. “Valentine always gave his victims those wounds because…because he had the same slices on his own arms.”

The cops hadn’t made the connection with the wounds. She had. When they’d made her stare at the pictures, over and over again, she’d realized that those wounds were in the same pattern as the scars on Valentine’s arms.

Silence beat in the small room. Then Detective Black leaned in until only a breath seemed to separate them. “Who the hell are you?”

“I told you. I’m Katherine Cole.” Say it until you believe it. “And I just want to help you find out if this is the Valentine Killer or if it’s just some wannabe trying to grab a headline.”

His gaze searched hers. She wondered what he saw there. No emotion, surely. She’d gotten very good at burying her emotions.

“This wannabe tortured a woman for hours.”

She didn’t blink.

“He drove his knife into her chest. Sank the blade into her heart.”

Her own chest ached. Katherine swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. Sweat slickened her hands. “Call your medical examiner. If he hasn’t already done it, then get him to count the slices on her arms.”

He grabbed her wrist. His hand was warm, almost hot, and when his long, strong fingers closed around her, she thought the usual fear would hit her. But it didn’t, and that fact shocked Katherine to her core.

Detective Black gazed into her eyes. “I get the feeling you’re a dangerous woman.”

She didn’t even have the breath to speak right then.

He pulled her toward the small table, pushed her into the wobbly chair. Katherine sucked in a deep breath that she really needed and tried to calm her racing heartbeat.

Then she saw the flash of silver handcuffs.

“Wait!” Katherine began, frantic. “What are you—”

He locked one cuff around the wrist he still held. Then he locked the other cuff to the leg of the table. “It’s bolted down,” he told her, giving a half grin that flashed the dimple in his left cheek, “so you’re not goin’ anywhere, lady.”

“I’m trying to help you!”

His fingers stroked over the skin of her inner wrist, an almost absent gesture, then he pulled back, taking that seductive warmth with him. “We’ll see.”

He turned toward the door with his broad back stiff.

Katherine realized he was going to just leave her there. Cuffed. “You can’t do this!” She knew her fear broke through the words.

“Watch me,” he tossed over his shoulder without glancing back.

“Please.” The plea slipped out, but she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t stand confinement. Being cuffed, yeah, that sure counted as confinement to her. And she felt like she was far too close to freaking out.

He stopped and looked back. A frown pulled his dark brows low. “Relax,” he told her, his voice softening just a bit. “I’ll visit that ME and be right back for you.”

He was checking out the story about the number of wounds. Okay. That was something. “Just hurry, okay?” Katherine tried to calm her racing heartbeat.

His gaze held hers. Then he left her. The door clicked closed quietly behind him.

She glanced around the room and finally saw the long mirror that ran the length of the left wall. A two-way mirror, she was sure.

So the cops could watch her.

She stared at the mirror and saw the dark-haired woman with too-pale skin staring back at her.

Katherine Cole.

Say it until you believe it.



A thin, white sheet covered Savannah Slater’s body, hiding her from the chest down.

Dane gazed down at her, his jaw tight. “Ronnie, how many slices did you find on the victim’s arms?”

Dr. Veronica Thomas glanced up at him. Freckles stained her cheeks, and her bright blue eyes were narrowed behind her glasses. “I’m working on the report now. It’s only been four hours. And do you know how many stiffs I’ve got down here?” She lifted her pointed chin. “Go back upstairs. Get some coffee. Yell at a reporter for leaking the story, but give me some time, got it?”

He crossed his arms. “Eleven slices on her left arm.” Be wrong. “Ten slices on her right.”

“You counted on-scene, huh?” She pushed up her glasses. “Well, why ask, then? She was—”

“I didn’t count on-scene.” There’d been too much blood covering her, and he hadn’t wanted to touch her until the techs had a chance to do their job. By the time the techs got to work, he’d been busy keeping the press away from the victim. He’d busted ass, and someone had still gone behind his back and leaked info to the vultures.

She blinked. “Then how’d you know?”

Every muscle in his body seemed to lock down. “I’m right.” Not a question.

She nodded. “Yes, you are.” Ronnie picked up a clipboard. “The wounds on her arms are meticulous, every slice exactly one inch apart. Like the killer was following some kind of pattern.” A sad sigh drifted from her lips.