CHAPTER 1

"I know, I know. I'm working on it. Really! I just need a little moretime to come up with the right story!" Nikki Gillette glanced upat the skylight as rain drizzled down the pane. Above the glass, thesky was a gloomy shade of gray, the clouds thick with a coming twilighthurrying across the city. Beneath the window, inside her loftand curled into a ball on the top of the daybed, lay her cat, Jennings,his eyes closed, his golden tail twitching slightly as he slept. Seeinghim, Nikki reminded herself yet again that she needed to pick upMikado at the groomer's tomorrow. Her head was so full of her ownproblems, she'd forgotten him today. Luckily, Ruby had assured hershe could pick up the dog tomorrow at no extra fee, a kindness shewasn't generally known for.

Hunched over her desk, Nikki held the phone to her ear with onehand and fiddled with a pen in the other. The conversation wastense. Nearly heated. And for once, she knew she was at fault. Well, atleast partially.

As her agent described why her latest book submission had beenrejected by her publisher, Nikki glanced at her computer monitor,news stories streaming across the screen—an alert that yet anotherstorm was rolling its way inland, the latest breaking news.

"What was wrong with the Bay Bridge Strangler idea?" Nikkiasked, but deep down, she knew the answer.

Ina sighed audibly. "For one thing he's in San Francisco."

Nikki could imagine her agent rolling her expressive brown eyesover the tops of the bifocals that were always perched on the tip ofher nose. She'd be sitting in her tiny office, cup of coffee nearby, asecond, forgotten one, maybe from the day before, propped on apile of papers that had been pushed to one corner of her massivedesk.

"And you've never met him," she added in a raspy voice. "Andsince good old Bay Bridge is big news on the West Coast, I'll bet adozen stories are already being written about him by authors in thatenclave of mystery writers they've got out there. You know, I probablyalready have a submission somewhere here on my desk, if I'dtake the time to dig a little deeper through my slush pile."

Another good point. Irritating, yes, but probably spot on. "Okay,okay, but I also sent you an idea about a story surrounding FatherJohn in New Orleans."

"Who knows what happened to that freak? A killer dressed up as apriest. Gives me chills. Yeah, I know. He's a better match, closer geographicallyand infinitely more interesting than Bay Bridge, but really,do you have a connection with him? An inside look?" There was apause, a muffled "Tell him I'll call him right back" on the other end ofthe line, then Ina was back, never missing a beat. "As near as I remember,Father John disappeared. Either moved on or, more likely,is lying dead in some Louisiana swamp. Crocodile bait or something.No one knows, and right now, not a lot of people care. He's oldnews."

"No one really knows what happened to Zodiac, and he hasn'tkilled in decades, but there're still books being written about him.Movies."

"Meh. From authors and producers without any new ideas. Thereason your first two books did so well was because they were fresh,and you were close to the investigation."

"Too close," Nikki said, shuddering inwardly when she rememberedher up-close-and-personal experience with the Grave Robber.That horrifying episode still invaded her sleep, bringing nightmaresthat caused her to wake screaming, her body in a cold, damp sweat.

"I'm not advocating you ever become a victim again, trust me. Butyou know you have to write something that you're emotionally connectedto."

"So you keep saying," Nikki admitted as she looked around her littlegarret, with its built-in bookshelves, easy chair, and reading lamp.Cozy. Smelling of the spice candles she lit every morning. A perfectwriting studio, as long as she had a story to put to paper.

"Here's the deal," Ina said. "The reason your first book worked sowell, or at least in the publisher's eyes, is your connection to thestory, your involvement. That's what you need."

"That might have been a once-in-a-lifetime thing," Nikki said asshe twisted her pen between her fingers and rolled her desk chairback.

"Let's hope," Ina said. "Look, no one wants you to be a victimagain. God, no. But you had a connection with the second book too."

Therein lay the problem. She'd sold Coffin for Two, her first book,a true-crime account of the killer she'd dubbed the Grave Robber, apsycho who had rained terror on Savannah before targeting Nikkiherself. She had no intention of coming that close to a psychoagain—book deal or no book deal. Coffin for Two, into which she'dinfused a little dark humor along with her own personal account ofdealing with the madman, had sold thousands of copies and caughtthe eye of a producer for a cable network that was looking for particularlybizarre true-crime stories. The book was optioned, though notyet produced.

Her second book, Myth in Blood, also had a personal hook; shehad been close to that true-crime story as it had unfolded. Workingfor the Savannah Sentinel, Nikki had pushed her way into the investigation,stepping on more than a few toes in the process and pissingoff just about everyone in the crime department at the newspaper.That case, involving the rich and ill-fated Montgomery family, hadhad enough grotesque elements to appeal to the public, so anotherbest-seller had been born. While trying to get close to that investigation,she'd met Detective Pierce Reed, and their relationship had developedto something deeper. Now they were engaged, and she wassupposed to be writing book three of her publishing contract, but sofar, no go. She just didn't have a story.

Ina said, "You know, dozens of true-crime books come out everymonth, but the reason yours stood out was because of your personalinvolvement. Take a tip from Ann Rule; she knows what she's doing.You've read The Stranger Beside Me. The reason that book is sodamned chilling is because she knew Ted Bundy. She was there."

"She seems to have done well with other books, where she didn'tknow the killer."

"I'm just sayin' that we could use another Coffin for Two or Mythin Blood."

"Or The Stranger Beside Me."

"Yeah, I'd take that too." Nikki heard the smile in her agent'svoice.

"I bet."

"You can come up with something. I know it."

"Easy for you to say." Stretching her back, Nikki stood. She'd beensitting for hours, working on a story for the paper, and now her spinegave off a few little pops. She needed to get out. To run. To start herblood pumping hard. For as much as she was arguing with Ina, Nikkiknew her agent was right. She was itching to get to work on anotherproject, couldn't wait to sink her teeth into a new book about somegrisly, high-profile murder.

Cell phone pressed to her ear, she walked to the window, whereshe was lucky enough to have a view of Forsyth Park, with its gorgeousfountain and display of live oak trees. From her vantage pointabove the third floor, she could watch people in the park and lookbeyond the trees over the rooftops of Savannah. She loved the view.It was one of the selling features that had convinced her to buy thisold, converted mansion with her advance from the book deal. She'dleased the two lower floors to renters and had kept the third, withthis nicely designed loft office space, for herself. She was in debt toher eyeballs.

"Look, Nikki, it's getting to be crunch...