Page 1 of So Lethal

PROLOGUE

Monica Smith had been born completely deaf. She’d never once heard a sound. She could “feel” sound waves on certain occasions: the rumble of an approaching train, the pounding of music through an amplifier, and the thump of the dumpster as the garbage truck set it back on the ground. She had never actually heard sound, though, and the softer, more beautiful sounds of the world were a complete mystery to her.

But if her hearing was impaired, her sight was extraordinary. From a young age, she could perceive subtle nuances in light and color that others couldn’t. Her mother told her that she had always been drawing from the time she could pick up a crayon.

Nowadays, crayons were reserved for semiannual visits to her niece in Boise. Monica’s tools of the trade were almost completely digital, but she still reserved a few hours every Saturday to compose with oils and watercolors, or to sketch with pencils.

And she was—in her humble opinion—a damned good artist. Not just her opinion, though. Monica’s Design Studio was the most successful independent graphic design studio in San Jose and the second most successful in the Bay Area.

Best of all, she had built that business herself. From the ground up. Not a single loan, not a single financial stake paid to anyone else, not even a handout from her parents. They were completely supportive and would have given her anything she needed, but she really wanted to do it herself, just to silence the tiny little whisper in her head that still insisted she was less than because of her disability. This studio was her studio. No one else’s.

Sure, there had been a few weeks eating ramen and white bread with butter for all three meals, but she had pushed through that. Now, she could afford wheat bread and peanut butter.

She giggled at that thought. She couldn’t hear her laugh, but she could feel the spasms of her throat muscles.

Actually, she could feel something else too. Some low rumbling under her feet. She frowned. The waste management company picked up the trash on Tuesday mornings. This was Monday night. Late Monday night.

The rumbling grew “louder,” and Monica got to her feet. It was an odd and strangely alluring sound. It reminded Monica of the day she visited the Port of San Francisco as a child. A massive cargo ship was testing its engines prior to being tugged out to sea. The deep rumble of the diesel was powerful enough to send vibrations that reached from the water to the dock and travel up her feet.

This wasn’t a cargo ship, though. She lived two miles from the nearest beach and farther from the nearest port.

She got to her feet and followed the sound. She felt the slightest touch of misgiving as her mind warned her of some unseen danger, but she pushed it aside. What danger could there be on her own property in a secured lot protected by patrolling safety officers?

She stepped outside, and the rumble increased in intensity. She was so transfixed by the noise that she didn’t register the approach of the figure to her right.

She felt the cord wrap around her neck, though. Before she could react, her airway was cut off. She might have cried out, but she wouldn’t have been able to hear it if she did.

CHAPTER ONE

Special Agent Faith Bold took a deep breath and looked at the impressionist landscape of San Francisco Bay that sat on the room’s bookcase. That allowed her to avoid Dr. Keraya’s eyes. “So I messed up.”

As always, Dr. Keraya waited three seconds before replying in her buttery-smooth voice, “How so?”

“You remember I told you that my partner and I decided to publish the letters that Dr. West’s fangirl wrote to him?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, it’s not working. No one’s coming forward. What’s happening instead is that West is once more a celebrity, and I’m once more in the hot seat with the Bureau.”

Dr. Franklin West was Faith’s first therapist. He would have been her best therapist had he not also turned out to be the Copycat Killer, a prolific serial killer and the self-proclaimed disciple of the original Donkey Killer, Jethro Trammell, most famous for having killed Faith’s friend and mentor Jack Preston and nearly Faith as well. After a grueling manhunt, West had finally been kidnapped and was currently on trial for thirty-two confirmed murders.

But of course, his reign of terror had inspired another copycat, the seemingly even more deranged Messenger Killer, whose “letters” to Faith consisted of horrifically mutilated corpses and messages written in blood. The Bureau—and Faith herself—now believed that the Messenger was female and a hybristophile obsessed with West.

She had killed three people so far, among them Faith’s boss and one of the most celebrated agents in Bureau history, SAC Grant Monroe. Faith was trying desperately to lure her out into the open so she couldn’t kill anyone else.

“But she hasn’t killed anyone else, has she?”

Dr. Keraya’s question was so in tune with Faith’s own thoughts that Faith had to take a moment to process the question. “No, she hasn’t.”

“Then you haven’t been entirely unsuccessful, have you?”

Faith cracked a smile. “No, I suppose not.” Her smile disappeared a moment later. “But she will. She’s only laying low until people move on. Once everyone’s looking the other way, she’ll strike again.”

Dr. Keraya leaned forward in her chair. “I notice also that you said it was yours and your partner’s idea, yet you said only that you messed up. Why is that?”

Faith stifled the urge to roll her eyes. She really wasn’t good at therapy. It irritated her how therapists had to poke and prod at everything you said. That conversation somehow always led back to the conclusion that Faith disliked herself in some way.

“My mistake was allowing Michael to pursue an idea that I knew wouldn’t work.”

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