Page 75 of Chilled

She’d expected her sister’s minivan to be parked in the driveway. It wasn’t, and Brenna assumed her sister was busily packing it with the garage doors closed. At least Stan had finally shown up to help.

Brenna hurried to the door. Nick would be furious if he knew she’d left the station alone. Too bad. She didn’t need a bodyguard during the day. Besides, after she helped her sister get their mother ready to leave, she could get back to the station before Nick arrived.

As she passed the passenger side of Stan’s truck, she noticed a long scrape and a dent in the right front bumper. Brenna leaned closer. Had Stan, the perfect driver, had an accident? Part of Brenna was glad he wasn’t so faultless. But as she studied the damage, she noted the scrape had white in it, a stark contrast to the dark pewter paint of Stan’s truck.

Brenna’s heart slammed against her ribs. White paint? Robin’s words echoed in her head. A truck had run them off the road. Stan’s truck? As one thought led to another, Brenna straightened. Could Stan be the killer?

No. She shook her head. No way. Stan was her brother-in-law. He and Alice had the ideal marriage and two perfect little boys.

Alice. Where was Alice? Brenna ran to the house and burst through the door. “Alice? Brandon? Luke?”

No one responded, and the house had that empty, echoing quality like it had been weeks since anyone had been in it.

Brenna raced through the living room and into the master bedroom. “Alice!”

“She isn’t here.” Stan stepped out of a walk-in closet behind Brenna, pulling an oversize wheeled suitcase.

Brenna turned to face him. Could this man be the killer? If she was wrong, her sister would never forgive her. If she was right, where the hell was Alice? “Hi, Stan,” she said in what she hoped was a normal tone. “I came to help Alice with Mom. I guess you already did?”

“Yes, I did.” Stan unzipped the suitcase and laid it open in the middle of the floor. “She should be on her way out of town by now.”

“Then they’re okay?”

“Of course. Why shouldn’t they be?” His slow, methodical movements gave Brenna the creeps. But the creeps weren’t evidence enough to point to murder. She had to be wrong. “Good. Then I guess I’ll get back to work.” The first chance she got, she’d call her sister’s cell phone to make sure they were in fact okay and that the case was making her delusional.

“Did you ever find your killer?” Her brother-in-law knelt next to the case and unzipped an inner pouch.

Stan’s question knocked her delusions out in left field, and all her misgivings returned. “Not yet, but we’re getting close.”

“Oh, you’re close all right.” He reached into the suitcase and removed a nine-millimeter pistol. With a click, he slid free the clip.

The air caught in Brenna’s throat. All the pieces spiraled into place. The notes sent to her, the Ethernet cable to tie the victims, the location close to his mother’s old home. And why the women would let him into their homes without a struggle. Who wouldn’t trust the deacon of their church and the man they’d always depended on to fix their Internet service?

Stan stood and gazed at the sleek black weapon. “Never know when you’ll need one of these, especially with a serial killer on the loose.” He slammed the clip into the handle. “Tell me, Brenna. Did your killer ever take anyone out with one of these?”

“As a matter of fact, no.” And she sure as hell hoped he didn’t start now.

He nodded. “Too messy. He hates getting blood everywhere.”

The way Stan said “he” sent shivers down Brenna’s back.

Stan stood between her and the bedroom door, hefting the gun like it belonged in his hand.

Without any alternative exit, Brenna knew she had to go around him to get out. She eased slowly to the side as casually as she could, her growing concern leaving a metallic taste in her mouth.

“Do you know the funny thing about a serial killer?” Stan didn’t wait for her response. “Once he starts killing, it gets in his blood. He can’t stop.”

“He can if he wants it to stop.”

Her brother-in-law glanced up, his eyes narrowing. “No, Brenna, he can’t.” A smile spread across Stan’s face. A smile colder than anything Brenna had ever experienced.

She forced herself not to reveal her fear or revulsion. “It’s over, Stan. It's only a matter of minutes before the trace on your map query comes through."

He caressed the barrel of the nine-millimeter. "By then I'll be in Canada. And you...” the nose of the gun turned toward Brenna, and Stan cocked the hammer, “...will be dead."

“You won't get away. They expect me back at the station in ten minutes. When I don't show up, they'll put out an A.P.B for you. Don't be stupid, Stan."

As soon as Brenna said the word “stupid,” Stan's face flushed a mottled red. “I’m not stupid. Don’t call me stupid.” The hand holding the gun shook. “Mother always called me that. But she was wrong.” He jabbed the gun toward Brenna. “How many women did I walk right out of their homes without anyone knowing?”

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