Maggie watched the door close as her hands strangled and twisted a silk blouse.

Why didn’t she just tell Nick about the note, about Albert Stucky? He had understood about the nightmares. Maybe he’d understand about this. Maybe he’d understand that she just couldn’t allow herself to be psychologically poked and probed by another madman. Not now. Not when she felt so vulnerable, so damn fragile, like she could shatter into a million tiny pieces, just as she had earlier on the bathroom floor. She couldn’t risk it. It would cloud her judgment.

Perhaps it already had. Last night in the woods she hadn’t even seen the killer coming at her until it was too late. He could easily have killed her. But like Albert Stucky, this killer wanted her alive, and oddly enough, that terrified her even more. Somehow she knew sharing all that with anyone would make her feel more vulnerable. No, it was best this way—to leave Nick and everyone else thinking her departure was only because of her mother.

She stuffed the garment bag, crushing and wrinkling her dry-cleanables. Director Cunningham had been right. She needed to take some time off. Maybe she and Greg could take a trip. Someplace warm and sunny, where it didn’t get dark at six in the evening.

The phone rang, and she jumped as if it were a gunshot. She had already talked to Dr. Avery. Her mother had survived the seventy-two-hour suicide watch and was doing quite well. But this was the part her mother was good at—playing the model patient and devouring all the special attention.

Maggie grabbed the phone. “Special Agent O’Dell.”

“Maggie, why are you still there? I thought you were coming home.”

She lowered herself to the bed, suddenly exhausted. “Hi, Greg.” She waited for a real greeting, heard papers shuffling and knew she had only half his attention. “I’m catching a flight tonight.”

“Good, so that dunce actually gave you my message last night?”

“What dunce?”

“The one I talked to last night who picked up your cellular. He said you must have dropped it and couldn’t come to the phone.”

Her grip tightened. Her pulse raced.

“What time was that?”

“I don’t know…late. About midnight here. Why?”

“What did you tell him?”

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud. That asshole didn’t give you the message, did he?”

“Greg, what did you tell him?” Her heart thumped against her rib cage.

“What kind of incompetent hicks are you working with, Maggie?”

“Greg.” She tried to stay calm, to keep the scream from clawing its way out of her throat. “I lost my cellular phone last night when I was chasing the killer. There’s a good chance he was the one you talked to.”

Silence. Even the paper shuffling had come to a stop.

“For God’s sake, Maggie. How was I supposed to know?” His tone was subdued.

“There’s no way you could have known. I’m not blaming you, Greg. Just please, try to remember what you told him.”

“Nothing really…just to call me and that your mother wasn’t doing too well.”

She leaned back on the bed, sinking her head into the pillows and closing her eyes.

“Maggie, when you get home we need to talk.”

Yes, they would talk on a beach somewhere, sipping fruity drinks, the ones with little umbrellas stuffed in them. They’d talk about what was really important, rekindle their lost love, rediscover the mutual respect and goals that had brought them together in the first place.

“I want you to quit the Bureau,” he said, and then she knew there would never be a sunny beach for them.