Part 1 (2/2)

She'd called her Ash. Short for Ashleigh, her party name.

Jessie knew her real name. ”Ashleigh” and ”Jenna”-Jessie's party name-were only for show. Maybe she'd called her Ash because she was in her Party Girl mode.

While Kirsten had been thinking about Jessie's odd behavior, Ryan had taken his d.i.c.k out and pulled her dress up. Everything moved in slow motion. It was as if she were watching her body from afar. She knew this feeling, but she hadn't drunk that much. Had she?

”Condom,” she whispered.

”Already on, Sugar.”

How'd she miss it? She felt him inside her, but didn't remember him entering; her legs were around him, but she didn't remember how they got there.

Then he was done. She didn't know if it took him two minutes or an hour, but they were both sweaty and he had a grin. ”s.h.i.+t, you're hot.”

”I have to meet my friend.”

”Hurry and we'll go backstage.”

”Backstage” was a euphemism for getting horizontal in semiprivate. There were offices off the main warehouse, most empty, but people brought in blankets and mattresses, and there was even some old furniture still inside. If Kirsten were sober she wouldn't even think about it, because the place was filthy.

”Okay.” She started for the door. She had her purse tied around her wrist and felt inside for her phone, but it wasn't there. She looked and saw that the zipper was open; everything had fallen out. She didn't even know what time it was. She looked around the floor but didn't see her phone or money anywhere. She knew she should go back and look for it, but the loud music was making her feel ill again.

She walked outside. The icy air shocked her, but for a minute she felt amazing. And almost instantly sobered, at least enough to feel discomfort from whatever Ryan had done to her against the wall.

What had Jessie wanted her to do? Go out and turn ... left?

But it had been much longer than ten minutes. Twenty, at least. Maybe more. An hour? She had no concept of time.

Kirsten turned left and walked as straight as she could. She quickly became cold. The body heat of the warehouse, the dancing, and the spotlights someone had brought in had been enough to keep her warm; now she wanted to get back. Or go home. But her train to Virginia didn't leave until tomorrow afternoon. She'd planned on partying, then cras.h.i.+ng at a nearby motel. With what she made off the Party Girl site, she had plenty of money.

She felt around for her belt and breathed a sigh of relief when she felt her cash in the small zippered pouch. She didn't keep all her money in her purse, only a few bucks, because she didn't want to get stuck in the city flat broke if she lost it. No way was she going to call her mother for help. Maybe Ryan had found her phone and she could call Trey. Trey always said he would help her.

But she didn't want to call her ex-boyfriend. He'd lecture her about her bad behavior and she didn't want to hear it from him, or anyone.

Someone was lying on the ground. At first she thought there were two people s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g, but she was seeing double. She blinked rapidly and realized that only one person was there. A girl in a pink dress.

”Are you okay?” she said at the same time she realized that it was Jessie and she wasn't moving.

Kirsten opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. She was paralyzed, couldn't move, couldn't call for help, and Jessie was lying on the ground in an odd position ...

She could have pa.s.sed out. Kirsten took a step closer, but somehow she already knew that Jessie was dead. Both her eyes and mouth were open, and one arm was tilted at an unnatural angle.

Kirsten heard movement to the right, then a voice. But the voice sounded a million miles away, faint, as if through a tunnel.

Girls like you ...

Had someone spoken? Was it in her head? Unsteady on her feet, for a second she feared she'd faint. She turned and walked toward the warehouse, but she couldn't see well. Everything was blurry.

Don't you dare, b.i.t.c.h.

Kirsten bolted at the rough whisper. She ran straight ahead, not knowing where she was going except away from Jessie's body. The voice wasn't real, couldn't be, because she didn't see anyone, only a shadow. Still, she ran as fast as she could. Her heels caught on the cracked cement and she almost fell hard, but she caught herself and took off her shoes and resumed running as fast as she could. Away from the warehouse, away from Jessie.

Jessie had texted her. She'd called her Ash.

Maybe it wasn't Jessie who sent her that message.

Someone had been waiting for Ashleigh. Whoever had killed Jessie planned to kill her, too.

Her feet ached, viciously cut on the crumbly asphalt and broken gla.s.s. She ran until she saw a small grouping of cars. Maybe she could hide there. Maybe someone had left the keys. She just wanted to go home ...

She saw someone just sitting in the pa.s.senger seat of a small SUV. She didn't know if anyone was really following her, but she quickly glanced over her shoulder. No one. But she'd heard the voice! Hadn't she? Oh, G.o.d, she couldn't think!

Girls like you ...

Hearing the voice again, she stumbled and fell, cutting her knees and the palms of her hands. Tears ran down her face.

What was she going to do? Jessie was dead.

Someone was running behind her. Or coming right at her. Kirsten was dizzy and couldn't think. She scrambled to her feet and tried to run again, but the excruciating pain in her feet brought her back down to the cement.

There was no escape.

ONE.

As the cold wind whipped around her, FBI agent Suzanne Madeaux lifted the corner of the yellow crime-scene tarp covering the dead girl and swore under her breath.

Jane Doe was somewhere between sixteen and twenty, her blond hair streaked with pink highlights. The teenager's party dress was also pink, and Suzanne absently wondered if she changed her highlights to match her outfit. There was no outward sign of s.e.xual a.s.sault or an apparent cause of death. Still, there was no doubt that this was another victim of the killer Suzanne had been tasked to stop.

Jane Doe wore only one shoe.

Dropping the tarp, Suzanne surveyed the scene, trying in vain to keep her long, dark-blond hair out of her face. The relentless wind howled across the cracked, weed-infested parking lot of the abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn. It had also felled a couple of trees nearby; small branches and sticks skittered across the pavement. That wind most likely had destroyed any evidence not inside Jane Doe's body.

Though the corpse didn't appear to be intentionally hidden, waist-high weeds and a small building that had once housed a generator or dumpsters concealed her from any pa.s.serby's cursory glance. Suzanne stepped away from the squat structure and looked across the Upper Bay. The tiny Gowa.n.u.s Bay was to the north, the New Jersey skyline to the west. At night, it would be kind of pretty out here with the city lights across the water, if it weren't so friggin' cold.

A plainclothes NYPD cop approached with a half-smile that Suzanne wouldn't call friendly. ”If it ain't Mad Dog Madeaux. We heard this was one of yours.”

Suzanne rolled her eyes. Even with her eyes closed, she'd recognize Joey Hicks by his grating, intentionally exaggerated New York accent.

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