With Visions of Red 3 Read online

  With Visions of Red

  Broken Bonds, Book Three

  Trisha Wolfe

  Contents

  Copyright

  Quote

  Prologue

  1. Present Day: 45 Minutes After Avery’s Abduction

  2. Tick Tock

  3. Apart

  4. Pieces

  5. Frailty

  6. Pulse

  7. Me

  8. Shadow

  9. Trace

  10. Preparation

  11. Her

  12. Covet

  13. Final Act

  14. Ties

  15. You

  16. The Countess

  17. The Still, Dark Haunts

  18. Master

  FREE BOOK

  Also by Trisha Wolfe

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2015 by Trisha Wolfe

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. When you gaze long enough into the abyss, the abyss gazes back into you.

  ~Friedrich Nietzsche

  Prologue

  Two Years Ago

  Sadie

  The crunch of gravel beneath my heels echos against the tall pines shrouding the out-of-the-way bar. A solitary lamppost illuminates the seedy little building, shining a spotlight right on my target, as the softly muffled twang of country music from within beckons me closer.

  I smooth my palms along my hips and suck in a steadying breath, feeling exposed. The skimpy red dress leaves nothing to the imagination—and no hiding place for my gun. Not that I would dare bring it. This circumstance requires caution, but also common sense. Still, the missing steel against my hip leaves me feeling more than vulnerable.

  Exactly how he likes them.

  A loud burst of laugher greets me as I pull the wooden door open, and a gust of cigarette smoke blasts my face. The smoky plumes waft and curl in the dim lighting of the green plastic lamplights. The smell makes my back teeth clench, the craving hitting me hard. I bite the inside of my cheek, wishing I’d bought a packet of gum. I push through, my gaze sweeping over the strangers seated at the bar top, standing around the five pool tables, and the one man stationed at a lone corner table.

  He’s only slightly less out of place than I am in this establishment. Dressed in black slacks and a white button-up, his dark hair mussed after a long day, he’s miles away from the city in which he works. He could change his clothes before he makes his daily trek to the outskirts of Roanoke, but he likes the attention he receives from the girls. He’s not overdressed—just the right touch of sophisticated finery to denote he has a bit of money. Not enough attention to cause a ripple with the truckers; more of an air about him that states he likes to unwind from a hectic day with them. He’s really one of them. Accept me. And for the girls…he’s handsome enough. Reserved. Stoic. Polite. Even bashful at times. It’s not his first rodeo, but every time is like the first for him. He never gets used to it.

  And they love that. Because he treats them better than any truck driver passing through, looking for a quick, drunken screw. He promises them a reprieve; an easy and maybe even enjoyable romp. I can see the girls at the bar now, fingering their hair-sprayed, teased layers, inching their jean skirts higher, batting their mascara-coated lashes his way.

  He doesn’t even have to try.

  That’s his farce.

  Shaking my hair off my shoulders, I brazenly head for a table near the back wall. I can feel eyes on me, checking me out, hungrily roaming every inch of exposed skin—except for my chest. The dress stealthily designed to display my curves and flesh, while concealing that one, particular area with a choker-style collar that vees down around my breasts.

  I battled some on whether I should leave my neck bare or not. It’s his fascination with the neckline that ultimately decides who. I wasn’t confident that mine would tempt him enough…and so better to leave it to the full imagination. Sometimes it’s what you don’t see that drives you crazy. Stirs the monster within to act.

  Besides, I’ve been dying to wear this dress for him. The tight, silky fabric clings to my thighs as I saunter past his table. We both like to keep our backs to the wall, our vision unobstructed—a safeguard strategy for predators and prey alike. I can’t discern him watching, but I can feel his awareness of me, his arousal. I’ve studied his tastes. I’ve learned his triggers. I’ve applied them and enhanced myself to fit his selection process. And I’m wearing his favorite color.

  Another thing we have in common.

  In a dank and colorless room, I’m the brightest object—the one to capture your gaze and ensnare you. And that’s the mission. Become the bait, set the trap, and lure the hunter into his own web.

  I’ve been coming to this bar on and off for the month that I’ve been stationed in Roanoke, and I’ve been here almost every night for the past week. I followed him here the first time. Watched him watching the girls. He chooses prostitutes because they’re easy to make disappear with little consequence. Though I’ve since learned he has much finer tastes—rich, powerful, domineering women—he’s disciplined enough to play it safe. That’s why I know he won’t be able to resist me.

  I’m not just a working girl; I’m a wealthy, high-class call girl. An escort. I’m a bit risky for him, because I might be missed. I have a select clientele that probably includes members of law enforcement—but I’m also just too tempting. I’m counting on his need overriding his self-control. He needs to assert his power over me. Dominate me. Show me just how wrong I am for flaunting my audacious self on his turf.

  I just have to make sure I keep his attention, and that means eliminating the competition.

  As I take my seat at the table, a middle-age waitress walks up and crosses her arms over her ample chest. “Sweetie, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but none of the boys here are taking the bait.”

  For an alarming second, icy pinpricks needle my chest. The fear of being made clogs my throat. “Excuse me?”

  She pops her gum between her teeth. “Mostly truckers and a few lowlife locals. That’s all we have here. What you’re selling is too rich for their blood.” She scans her eyes over my silk dress. “And you’re pissing off the regulars.” She nods to a couple of working girls at the bar. “Why don’t you find a nice joint in the city to work?”

  I catch the gaze of one of the prostitutes and earn a nasty sneer. You’re welcome.

  Lifting a shoulder, I shrug. “I’m stuck here until I get my car out of the shop. It broke down. I’m just passing through.”

  She smiles. “Well, if you want some advice—” she uncrosses her arms and pulls a pencil from her coiffed hair “—tone it down some, honey. You’re scaring the boys. They like to keep it simple. That means the price is right, ya know? Can I get you your regular?” At my nod, she winks and heads off to pour my drink.

  As long as I’m here intimidating the locals, he’s not hunting them. But the waitress does have a point: I stand out too much. I wanted to entice him…not disrupt his routine. And I’m running out of time to catch him.

  Detective Quinn—the uptight asshat I’ve been assigned to assist twice now—has shut down the profile. He really doesn’t like working with a behaviorist—with me. We’ve butted heads the whole time I’ve been in Roanoke. I swear he’s from some ancient time before behavioral science. Like my skills are about as useful to him as a crystal ball. And he treats me like a green r
ookie who never clocked one single hour in the field. Like a delicate but irritating pain that cramps his hard-boiled detective style.

  I’m not breakable. I’m not delicate.

  And if he’d just apply the profile to the case, he’d see what I do: the man sitting adjacent from me. Mid-thirties. Attractive. Charismatic. With an inside knowledge of forensics, and a hatred for strong women that makes him impotent in real life situations.

  But Quinn is stubborn. Too damn stubborn to put the heat on Lyle Connelly, because Connelly has an alibi for the most recent murder, and because the forensic tech works within the local department. The fact that this recent murder happened within a month of the last denotes the offender is escalating. He’s been astonishingly patient in the past, waiting almost a year between attacks to claim his victims. The sudden detour in MO is what brought us here.

  While Quinn and his task force focus on the recent vic, tracking leads in Roanoke, I’ve been examining the pattern. Putting together the profile. The biggest aspect of which points to someone in law enforcement—someone with knowledge of forensics; who avoids praise but demands promotions and recognition from higher-ups. A classic narcissist.

  But that’s not what sealed Connelly as the Roanoke Roper for me; it’s the trail of brutally murdered women he’s left throughout Virginia. He was present in each city when a murder was reported. But here’s the kicker: his method changes from place to place, as if he creates a new MO each time. Honestly, it’s a brilliant tactic. One that takes extreme discipline for a ritualistic offender.

  Over the past three years, I’ve worked many of the cases, all unsolved—until now. It all keeps coming back to Connelly.

  I finally found him.

  Quinn, however, refuses to dig further to unearth the truth. Like Quinn, I don’t want to ruin a reputation. I don’t want to embarrass either of our departments. But isn’t that the price we have to pay, the sacrifices we have to make, to bring in these offenders?

  By the book, Bonds. We work within the law. We’re not vigilantes.

  Maybe Quinn is right; I am green, with a youthful idealism of the law to boot. I’ve been witness to the dark underbelly of the world. I’ve seen these creatures up close, smelled their breath, tasted their thrill, gazed into the blackness of their soulless eyes. I’ve been seared and branded by their cruelty. My body and mind violated by their evil.

  Quinn believes he’s sheltering me from this dark realm. By dismissing my theories and trying to get me thrown off his case, he’s offering me some kind of backhanded protection. But if he had a bit more training in my field, he might see that I’m way past that point—the moment to shelter me died in a dungeon. And in this dark world of ghouls and demons, I’m the monster to be feared.

  All his old-school chivalry aside, Quinn strikes a cord in me—a deep one. Despite his anal, by-the-book shit, I do respect him. That’s why I’m out here now, gathering intel on Connelly. I don’t feel the need to prove myself or my theories, or to justify myself—but I’ll be damned if this predator kills another woman right under my watch.

  I’m pulled out of my thoughts as the waitress returns with my champagne. “Don’t get a lot of requests for this,” she says as she sets the flute before me. “Had to order it in special just for you.”

  “Thanks.” I take a sip, my lips puckering at the tartness of the cheap champagne. “What’s his drink?” I nod toward Connelly.

  “Him? Mr. Lonely Hearts. SoCo on the rocks.”

  “I’ll have one also,” I say, receiving a raised eyebrow from the waitress.

  “It’s your liver, darlin’.”

  As she sets off, I push back in the chair and uncross my legs slowly, piquing the interest of several men around the nearest pool table. Connelly remains unaffected. His head bowed over his tumbler, as if he’s studying the grains in the wood table.

  When the waitress places the tumbler of SoCo in front of me, I note his slight shift in posture. His shoulders twitch upward, his neck straightens, jaw tense. I want to make sure I have his attention, let him know he has mine, but I hope my move isn’t too bold.

  Connelly likes to be the pursuer. He makes the move, not the other way around. He’s the dominant man over the more dominant woman. I might’ve just angered him. Though, that anger could work to my advantage, too.

  For the first time, his eyes meet mine. Dark pools of liquid black, they stare into me, a challenge. Keeping my facade in place, my guard up, I lick my lips deliberately. Watch his gaze fall lower to take in my subtle taunt. A hungry glint flashes in his eyes as he rests his hand, just a finger, over his mouth to hide a smile.

  Coy. Charming. Oh, how the girls must eat up his act.

  But this is good. I’ve pushed him just the right amount, letting him know I’m approachable, but I’ve left the ball in his court. He’s still the one in charge, the shot caller. He’s employing his tactics on me, which means I’m in his crosshairs.

  He won’t make a move on me in here, in front of others. The chance to be publically rejected is still too intimidating. He knows better from past experiences, and has learned to corner his prey, isolate them. He hates being humiliated. Even, or especially, by a filthy whore.

  As his gaze continues to rake over me, now that I’ve invited his assessment, I can feel the chilly fingers of apprehension clutching at my boundaries. I should be more than wary. I should be afraid. If Quinn knew where I was right now, if he was aware of the dangerous game I’m playing, he would be furious. And disappointed. Maybe even a little insulted. Despite his stern act with me, he does hold me in high regard as a young woman of the law, and the fact that I’m debasing myself to get on the same level as a deviant offender says more than he’ll ever know about the person I really am.

  Some truths are better kept in the dark.

  But I’ve tumbled in the filth with Connelly’s likeness before. I discovered a long time ago just how deviant my nature can be. I no longer know where my boundaries are—where my hard limits lie. All I know for sure is that I will do what it takes to stop him from torturing one more girl.

  Toying with a lock of my hair, I give him a smile of my own, encouraging him to finally make his move. He shifts in his seat, but doesn’t stand. I follow his cues, waiting for him to stand so I can follow him out. Right when I think he’s about to rise, his face hardens and my view is blocked. Someone steps in my line of vision.

  “Seen you here a few times now.”

  I glance up into the face of a tall man with sun-weathered creases surrounding his glassy eyes. Timidly smiling, I say, “I’ve seen you, too.”

  “Well, then,” he says, becoming bolder. He moves his pool stick aside and extends his hand. “We’re overdue for an introduction. Why don’t you join us for a game? We need another pretty face at the table.”

  I glance around him to see one of the girls bending over the pool table to make a shot. Then I look at the guy’s outstretched hand. “Sorry, honey. I don’t play.”

  This needs to move along quickly. Connelly will be offended if I shrug off his subtle advance for another man. I could lose what little connection I’ve made with him.

  The guy, who’s wearing a plaid shirt and baseball hat, wraps his hand around my wrist and pulls me up to stand. “I don’t mind teaching you a few things one bit, sweetheart.”

  Shit. Trying not to make a scene, I wrench my wrist free and smile. “Maybe I’ll just watch. Root for you to win.” I peek at Connelly. He’s downing his SoCo, attention intentionally averted.

  “That sounds real nice,” the guy says. “Stick close to me, baby. I need a good luck charm.” He winks as he settles his large hand at the small of my back.

  My whole body locks up. Tension gathers in my shoulders, snaps my spinal cord straight. My skin flames where he his hot palm rests. As he guides me toward the pool table, I instinctually pull away from him, unable to suppress the flaring panic.

  Pull it together, Sadie. The plaid-shirted trucker doesn’t notice my aversion to being
touched, but to my dread, Connelly does. There, in the pits of his black eyes, a twinkle of suspicion. A hint of doubt.

  He’s too fucking perceptive. A true hunter. This trucker might know a little about stalking, but he’s light-years apart from the forensic tech who dissects and analyzes his prey down to their most basic, visceral need.

  A prostitute who cringes at touch is either an intriguing specimen for him…or a red flag. As I settle in beside the trucker, I keep Connelly in my peripheral. I can almost see his brain churning the prospect; how excited he is by the thought of a woman, who’s terrified of being touched, bound and tortured. Her fear that much more palpable. The inflicted pain felt that much more deeper.

  Pure lust washes over his face, and he’s having a difficult time controlling the tremor in his hand as he tips the tumbler to his mouth.

  Caught.

  After a week of fruitless foreplay, in one unguarded moment, I’ve become his ultimate target. By revealing my greatest vulnerability, I’ve ensnared a predator that rivals even my abductor.

  This will end tonight.

  “Scoot closer, baby.” The trucker squeezes my waist, forcing my body close to his. “This game is about to get interesting.”

  My heart rate jacks, but I don’t move. Frozen in place, I allow Connelly to assess me openly. My triggers and my reactions. My weaknesses. I’m giving him a wealth of knowledge to use against me, but it’s a fair trade.

  I’m learning even more about him.

  Our desires can be our ultimate weakness, too.

  The man at the other end of the pool table catches my attention. He’s sussing out his own target. He sways to the side on a drunken stagger as he raises his pool cue. As his partner leans over the table to line up her shot, he slides the stick between her legs.

  She misses the shot, the tip of the cue marking the green felt. “Shit!” she snaps, glancing back at the guy. “That’s fucking stupid. I’m on your team, ya know.”