Cynthia remained seated, looking up at Lucy through light green eyes. “And whoever wrote on your manuscript doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

Now that took cojones. Cojones Lucy would never have thought Cynthia possessed. “I’ll let Madeline Dupree know you think so.”

“Madeline Dupree? The true crimes writer?” Cynthia’s brow wrinkled as if she were confronting the impossible. Then she shook her head and said, “No. Madeline is wrong.”

Lucy was going to have to tell Maddie and watch her laugh her behind off. In fact, they would probably laugh themselves into comas, but at the moment there was nothing funny about it. She lifted a hand for the folder. “Thank you for your input, but I really need to get home.” She smiled but was afraid it fell a little flat. She wanted to get the hell out of Cynthia’s house, and at this point she didn’t particularly care if it showed. “Gotta book to write.”

“Ocular petechiae are not always present at a death by suffocation.”

Lucy knew that and was sure Maddie did, too.

“And finding willing victims is incredibly easy.” Cynthia finally stood. “Even when the police are on television warning men not to engage in bondage.”

“Umm, yeah.” Lucy glanced down at the folder in Cynthia’s hand and wondered if she should just count to three, grab it, and run.

“They do it anyway. Every Friday and Saturday night, they come in and circle the aisle like sharks. After a few of them swim by, you can see they’re just bottom feeders.”

Lucy looked up as her brain skidded to a halt. “What?”

“You ruined it,” Cynthia said. “You ruined everything.”

Lucy felt her scalp get tight. She must have heard wrong. “What are you talking about?”

“In the beginning, I wrote to you because I wanted you to know how good I am at what I do. Just like you’re good at what you do. Your books have always brought such joy to my life, and I wanted to give you something as a thank you,” she said, looking for all the world as if they were discussing which brand of laundry soap worked best on stains. But they weren’t, and there was no doubt in Lucy’s mind that she was staring at a serial killer. “At first I thought I might send you some cookie recipes, but I didn’t know if you liked to bake.”

“Baking’s good.” Lucy took a few steps back and slid her hand into her purse. There was also no doubt in her mind that Cynthia wasn’t going to allow her to leave. She felt her wallet and cell phone, her sunglasses and lipstick.

“After I sent you the first letters, and you didn’t take them to the police, I thought you understood that dirty men had to be punished. I was so happy because I’d felt so alone for so long. I thought we were friends. Then I saw you with him and I knew it was all a lie. You lied to me.”

“I’m sorry you felt lied to,” Lucy reasoned as she edged toward the door. She felt her business card case and a pack of Breath Savers.

“No, you’re not. I will not be pacified.”

“I’m sorry.” Anger welled up within Lucy, and she had to fight an inner battle to keep a calm head. Cynthia didn’t look like she had a weapon, and Lucy was so mad that she thought she could probably beat her ass if it came to a fight.

“It’s not that easy.” Cynthia moved with her and slid sideways to block the door. “From reading your books, I knew to wear gloves and wigs and to set up false clues. I wore red and turquoise to the motel on Chinden, parading around as a member of the Peacock Society because I knew someone would see me.” She stuck her chin up and set the folder on a shelf, scattering Snow White and her Seven Dwarfs. “I was brilliant.”

Lucy felt a pen, but it wasn’t her stun pen. She stared into Cynthia’s eyes, still calm as could be, and forced herself to say, “That is brilliant.”

“I walked into those houses and that motel room and left nothing of myself behind. As if I’d never been there. I learned it all from you.”

“My books are fiction.” Lucy felt the cool metal of her brass knuckles and slid them on her fingers. “They aren’t how-to manuals.”

“You told me to kill those men. You can’t walk away from me now. I’m not going to let you.”

“You’re going to get caught,” Lucy said and wrapped her hand around her stun pen. She would have preferred the mace. “You left your fingerprints in Robert Patterson’s car.”

Cynthia’s nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. “That’s another lie. I was careful not to touch anything.” She reached behind her and pulled a kitchen knife out of somewhere.

Shit. “The police know I’m here,” Lucy bluffed as she took several steps back, keeping her gaze on the five-inch blade.

Cynthia shook her head and took a step toward Lucy. “You might be a good writer, but you’re a bad liar. I’m too smart for them and I’m too smart for you.”

“You left a fingerprint on the envelope you dropped in my mailbox.”

That stopped Cynthia, and again her brow creased as if she were forced to confront an impossibility. “Stop lying!” She lunged forward, and Lucy pulled her hand out of her purse and swung. Her brass knuckles connected with Cynthia’s forehead, and the other woman went down. Lucy sprang for the door without waiting to see if she’d knocked Cynthia out, but she only managed a few steps before Cynthia grabbed her ankle. Lucy fell on her side.

Cynthia was on top of Lucy before she could move. “I thought I’d feel bad killing you.”

Lucy rolled onto her back, jammed the stun pen into Cynthia’s boney thigh, and pressed the button. Nothing happened. “Shit!”

“I’m not going to feel bad at all.” Cynthia raised the knife, and Lucy’s mind raced. She wasn’t going to die like this. No way. She kept her eyes on the five-inch blade, waiting for Cynthia to bring the knife down. When she did, Lucy knew what she would do. She’d knock Cynthia’s arm with one hand and swing with the other. The only problem was that she’d have to let Cynthia get close enough so that she could punch her brass knuckles in the psychotic bitch’s nose.

“You’re just like the others,” Cynthia said. “They underestimated me, too.”

From outside the house, Lucy heard a shout a split second before the door burst open and sunlight flooded the living room. Within the path of golden rays, Cynthia looked up as a 9mm bullet drilled the pale flesh between her shocked eyes. Her head fell back, and Lucy pushed and scrambled from beneath her. She got to her feet and stumbled into a solid chest and waiting arms. She didn’t have to look up to know it was Quinn who held her so tight she could hardly breathe. “She was trying to kill me,” she gasped.

“I know.”

“I hit her with my brass knuckles.”

“Good girl.”

“My stun pen didn’t work.” She turned her head to look behind her shoulder, but Quinn’s hand brought her face back around.

“You don’t want to see that,” he said.

Kurt Weber brushed past, and Lucy glanced over Quinn’s shoulder to the white car on the lawn and the red light swirling from the visor.

“Is she dead?” Lucy asked.

“Before she hit the floor,” Kurt answered.

Lucy started to shake. “She’s the one, Qu-Quinn.”

“I know.” He kept one arm around her as he re-holstered his gun. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head as her knees began to knock.

Quinn took Lucy outside into the afternoon sunlight and moved with her to the driver side of the cruiser. The door was open, and he reached inside for a handheld microphone clipped to the radio. He stood, stringing the black cord along with him. Lucy grasped the top of the door frame as he called in the code. She lifted her face to the warm sun, felt the rays on her cheeks and forehead, and shook as if she were coming apart. She couldn’t seem to get enough air into her lungs. Her mouth was dry and her throat hurt. She was afraid she just might hyperventilate.

Quinn tossed the mic onto the seat and got a blanket out of the trunk. He wrapped it around Lucy, then looked into her eyes. “Lucy, you’re going to pass out if you don’t try to take calm breaths.” He ran his hands over the wool blanket on her shoulders. “We don’t have much time before this place is crawling with cops, so I need you awake and coherent for what I’m going to tell you.”

Concentrating on Quinn’s face, she managed a deep breath. “Okay.”

“An ambulance is on the way to check you out. If you’re transported to the hospital, you’ll be interviewed there. If you’re okay and don’t need to be transported, someone is going to take you to the office and interview you. I don’t know who, but you’ll be all right. Tell them everything you know.”

“You won’t b-be there?” she stuttered. If she concentrated, she could control her breathing, but no amount of willpower could stop the shakes.

“I’ll be there, but I can’t be there with you. I’m sorry.”

Sirens cut through the sound in the distance. “I’ll get through it. Do you have some wa-water?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner.” He rubbed the side of his face with one hand. “I was en route when I got your voice mail. I think my heart stopped and hasn’t started up again.”

“It never even o-occurred to me that Cynthia Pool was Breath-less.” She hugged herself inside the blanket. “She was so…bl-bland. Even when she was telling me who she w-was and all the horrible things she’d d-done. She was just so calm about it. Well, until the moment she came completely un-unhinged.”

The sirens got closer, and Quinn hugged her to his chest. “You’re safe now,” he said next to her ear. “It’s over and you’re going to be okay.”

Three police cruisers and an unmarked car screeched to a halt in the middle of the street, their sirens blaring and lights flashing. A moment later, an ambulance pulled in front of Quinn’s Jeep parked at the curb.

Lucy was quickly hustled to the ambulance, and it wasn’t until she was sitting in back with a blood pressure cuff on her arm and an oxygen mask on her face that she calmed down enough for everything to soak in. She could be the one dead right now. Not Cynthia. Stabbed to death by a deranged psycho.