What Are You Afraid Of? (The Agency #2)(6)

“I already tried to contact them.”

“Tried?”

Lucy released an aggravated sigh. “The telephone number that was left on the sign-in sheet actually belongs to a Chinese restaurant,” she admitted. “And when I googled the name of the company I couldn’t find it listed anywhere.”

“So who sent the envelope?”

“I don’t have any idea.”

Carmen shivered. “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Lucy agreed. “Shit.”

Carmen disconnected the phone. Right now she needed to think. Something that would be impossible when she had Lucy chattering in her ear.

Wrapping her arms around her waist, she glanced at the envelope before shifting her gaze toward the note.

Was it possible that the Polaroids had been taken by Neal Scott and never found by the cops? But who could have uncovered them? And why go to the trouble to make her believe that they were from the serial killer, including a note signed The Trucker?

Was this some sick joke? Her book had made her the target of all kinds of whackos. Could one of them have staged the pictures to attract her attention?

It was a plausible theory. There were all sorts of crackpots in the world.

But as much as she wanted to dismiss the Polaroids as a prank, there was something deep inside her that warned this was no joke.

She paced the floor, a terrible fear beginning to form.

If they hadn’t been taken by Scott, and they weren’t a prank, there was only one explanation for them.

A copycat killer.

She paced the floor, the horrifying suspicion churning through her mind. Was it possible? Was there some maniac out there who’d decided to follow in the footsteps of Neal Scott?

Was he even now bashing in some innocent girl’s head?

Halting near the table, she reached to touch the picture that was lying on top, her dread hardening to determination.

There was nothing she could do to save them. Not if they were already dead.

But maybe, just maybe, she could give them justice.





Chapter Two


December 20, Rocky Mountains



Not exactly sure which authorities should be contacted, Carmen hopped into the Jeep she’d rented for her stay in the mountains and drove to the small town that was tucked next to the ski lodge. There had to be someone there who could hand the photos over to the proper authorities.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t factored in the holiday season, or the flu bug that was making the rounds through the office. Or even the fact that the sheriff’s wife had just given birth to a set of twins.

Arriving at the squat brick building, she was grudgingly allowed into the eerily empty station by a bored receptionist and left in a cluttered office to await the deputy who was on duty.

She clenched her jaw as the minutes ticked past. What could be taking so long? There might be a new killer on the loose and here she was, twiddling her thumbs as she waited for someone to remember she was there.

Unless the receptionist had forgotten to tell the officer?

She gave an impatient shake of her head. Even if the woman had forgotten, this had to be the deputy’s office. There were scribbled notes on the whiteboard attached to the wall. And a framed picture on the battered desk. There was even a filing cabinet stuffed so full of beige folders that a couple were sticking out, apparently trying to escape the clutter.

Sooner or later he would have to return.

Another ten minutes passed before the deputy at last strolled into the room. He was a short man with a thickness to his frame that had more to do with extra helpings of pecan pie than muscles. He had a square face with blunt features, like a bulldog.

Currently he was dressed in a brown uniform with a ball cap pulled low on his head. He brought with him the smell of coffee and a recently smoked cigarette.

“Ms. Jacobs,” he drawled, casually dropping into his swivel chair.

With an effort, Carmen pasted a smile to her lips. “Hello, Deputy.”

“You want to tell me why you’re here?”

Carmen frowned. It was difficult to imagine how he could sound less enthusiastic. Clearly, she wasn’t the only one having a bad day.

Leaning forward, she ignored his attitude and tossed the envelope on his desk, quickly revealing what she knew about how they came to be on the porch of her rented cabin.

He tipped the pictures onto his desk, flicking through them with seeming disinterest.

“They arrived this morning?”

“Yes.”

More flicking, then without warning, he lifted his head to stab Carmen with a look of intense dislike.

“And you brought them to me?” He made the words sound like an accusation.

She frowned. “I didn’t know where else to take them.”

“Maybe to someone who . . . what did you say?” He pretended to consider his words. “Who isn’t so busy sitting on their ass and eating doughnuts that they can’t be bothered to investigate missing whores.”

Carmen swallowed a sigh and sat back in her seat. Ah. So that was the reason for the big chill.

It hadn’t even occurred to her that he might have read The Heart of a Predator. Stupid, really. The real estate agent who’d rented her the cabin had probably told the entire community that they had a famous writer coming to stay.

Which might have been fine if she’d written a top-selling cookbook.