What Are You Afraid Of? (The Agency #2)(3)

She ripped open the envelope, only to discover another envelope inside. It was a plain manila one, with her name scrawled across the front.

She scowled.

Usually this would be a desperate plea for help from some unknown person.

Since the release of her book, she’d been besieged with requests for her to investigate the murder of some relative. Or pleading with her to use her contacts to get their beloved son out of prison, despite the fact he’d bludgeoned his girlfriend to death or shot a neighbor in the head. On occasion some enterprising soul managed to discover where she was staying and shoved the information under the door of her hotel, but usually the requests ended up on the desk of her agent, or even her editor, who sent them on to the PR firm.

The same firm she’d given strict orders to hold all correspondence until after the first of the year.

Which meant that they knew better than to pester her with unwanted mail unless they were hoping to be fired. Something she doubted so long as her book remained on the best-seller lists.

So why were they sending her an overnight package?

A Christmas present? An appearance on the Today Show they’d been desperate to book for her?

There was only one way to find out.

Running her finger beneath the sealed flap, she pulled out the sheet of paper. Her gaze impatiently skimmed over the handwritten note.



Holiday Greetings, dearest Carmen. The new year approaches and I offer a challenge. You can be the predator or the prey.





She scrunched her nose. Well, that was cryptic. Her gaze lowered to the signature at the bottom.



The Trucker.





From one beat of her heart to the next, her annoyance was replaced by a bone-deep shock. With a gasp she was on her feet, knocking over the chair as she took a sharp step backward.

Crap.

The Trucker.

Details from her investigation fired randomly through her stunned brain.

Neal Scott. A forty-two-year-old truck driver from Kansas City who’d hunted whores and runaways along I-70 from Denver to Topeka. He’d killed at least twenty-seven women with a crowbar and dumped them along the highway. After his arrest in 1991 he’d admitted that he’d kept the bodies in the freezer of his semi until he found a new victim.

She pressed a hand to her racing heart, forcing herself to inch back toward the table. The envelope had been too heavy to contain only one thin sheet of paper.

Reaching out her hand, she grabbed the corner of the envelope and slowly tipped it upside down. There was a strange rustling sound and Carmen tensed. She didn’t know what she was expecting, but it wasn’t the stack of Polaroids that fell out of the envelope and splayed across the table.

Her breath rasped loudly in the silence as she reluctantly leaned forward. She’d seen the pictures before. They’d been found on Neal Scott when he’d been pulled over by a highway patrol. They had helped to prove Scott was the mysterious serial killer the press had dubbed the Trucker. As if the dead hooker in his trailer hadn’t been enough.

Carmen pressed her lips together and reached for the pictures. She’d used copies of them in her book, which meant she was intimately familiar with the gruesome images.

On the point of shoving them back into the envelope, she stilled, her gaze locked on the shattered face of the young blond woman.

The picture was grainy, and there was blood covering the woman’s brow from the brutal wound on her temple, but the rest of the features were visible.

Her face was thin, almost gaunt, with faint scars. There were newer sores on her chin. Probably from meth. And her long hair was tangled, as if she hadn’t combed it in a long time.

She looked forty, but she was probably closer to twenty.

A woman who’d lived hard, and died even harder.

Carmen’s hands shook as she shuffled to the next picture. Another blond. Her face was a little squarer and had been tanned to the texture of leather. But she shared the same painful thinness. And the same bloody wound on the side of her head.

There were three more pictures. All of them of young women who’d been brutally murdered.

They looked exactly like the Polaroids that’d been found on Neal Scott when he was captured. But not one of these had been used as evidence in the trial.

What the hell did that mean?

Had Scott been hiding the pictures? But where? And why send them to her?

Carmen dropped the Polaroids, wiping her fingers on her robe as if she’d been contaminated.

She had to do something. That much she knew. Unfortunately, her brain was churning without spitting out any answers. Like it was stuck in neutral.

Her gaze darted from side to side, at last landing on the large envelope that was still wet from the snow. Yes. This had started it all. The destruction of her fairy-tale vacation.

And she knew precisely who to blame for that destruction.

Cautiously backing away, she kept her gaze locked on the table. As if the pile of pictures were a rattlesnake that might decide to strike. At the same time, she stuck out her arm, blindly searching for the cell phone she’d left on the kitchen counter.

She knocked off an empty plate and tipped over a vase of flowers. Minor casualties. Then her fingers at last clenched around her phone.

Lifting it to a position where she could glance at the screen while still maintaining a close watch on the Polaroids, she hit the third button in her speed dial.