MAGGIE O’Dell jerked and twisted, trying to make herself more comfortable, only now realizing she had fallen asleep in the recliner again. The air was stale and warm, making it difficult to breathe. She fumbled in the dark, reaching for the lamp switch but getting no light. Damn!

Her eyes adjusted slowly, squinting around the boxes she had spent the day packing. Evidently Greg had not bothered to come home. She couldn’t have slept through one of his noisy entrances.

She tried to get out of the recliner but stopped when a sharp pain raced along her abdomen. Her fingers felt something warm and sticky soaking through her T-shirt. Jesus! What the hell was going on? Carefully, she pulled up the hem and even in the dark she could see it. A slit in her skin ran from below her left breast across her abdomen. It was bleeding, dripping down into the fabric of the recliner.

Maggie pressed her shirt against the wound, hoping to stop the bleeding. She needed to call 911. Where the hell was the phone? How could this have happened? The scar was eight months old, yet it was bleeding as profusely as the day Albert Stucky had cut her.

She knocked over boxes, searching. Lids popped open as cartons fell, scattering crime scene photos, toiletries, newspaper clippings and underwear and sending pieces of her life bouncing off the floor. Everything she had taken such care to pack suddenly flew, rolled, skidded and crashed around her.

Then, she heard a whimpering sound.

She stopped and listened, trying to hold her breath. Already her pulse beat too rapidly. Steady. She needed to stay calm. She turned slowly, cocking her head and straining to hear. She checked the desktop, the coffee table, the bookshelf. Where had she left her gun?

Finally, she saw the holster lying at the foot of the recliner. Of course, she would have kept it close by as she slept.

The whimpering grew louder, a high-pitched whine like a wounded animal’s. Or was it a trick?

Maggie edged her way back to the recliner, eyes darting. The sound came from the kitchen. And now she could smell a foul odor seeping in from that direction, too. The closer she got, the easier it was to recognize the smell. The acrid scent stung her nostrils. It was the kind of stench that came only from massive amounts of blood.

She crouched low and eased through the doorway. Despite the warning smell, Maggie gasped at the sight of it. Blood was everywhere. It had sprayed the white walls, splattered across the countertops and was dripping down the appliances. In the far corner of the room stood Albert Stucky. His tall shadow hovered over a whimpering woman who was on her knees.

Maggie felt the prickling start at the back of her neck. Dear God, how had he been able to get inside her house? And yet, she wasn’t surprised to see him. Hadn’t she been waiting for this?

Stucky yanked the woman’s hair in one hand and held a butcher knife to her throat. Maggie pressed herself against the wall, into the shadows.

Steady. She had prepared herself for this moment, had dreaded it for months. Now was not a time to let panic unravel her nerve. From this angle, she could get a clean shot. But she knew she’d be allowed only one. One was all she needed.

Maggie reached for her gun. The holster was empty. How could it be? She spun around, searching the floor. Had the gun dropped out?

Suddenly, she realized her startled reaction had blown her cover. When she looked up, the woman was reaching out to her, pleading with her. But Maggie looked past the woman, her eyes meeting Stucky’s. He smiled. Then, in one swift motion, he slit the woman’s throat.

“No!”

Maggie woke up with a jolt, nearly falling out of the recliner. Her heart pounded. She was drenched in sweat. She found her holster and this time ripped the gun out, jumping to her feet, ready to spray the stacked cartons with bullets. Sunlight had only begun to seep into the room, but it was enough to show that she was alone.

She slumped into the chair. Still not convinced it was a dream, she clawed at the hem of her T-shirt, pulling it up and twisting to see the bloody cut across her abdomen. Yes, the scar was there, a slight pucker of skin. But it was not bleeding.

She leaned back and raked her fingers through her tangled, short hair. Dear God! How much longer could she put up with the nightmares? It had been eight months since Stucky had trapped her in an abandoned Miami warehouse. She had chased him for almost two years, studying his depraved habits, performing autopsies on the corpses he left behind and deciphering the bizarre messages for the game he, alone, had decided the two of them would play. But that hot evening, he had won, trapping her and making her watch. He’d had no intention of killing her. He’d simply wanted her to watch.

Maggie shook her head, willing the images to stay away. She knew she’d be successful as long as she remained awake. They had captured Stucky that bloody night in August, only to have him escape from prison on Halloween. Her boss, Assistant Director Cunningham, had immediately taken her out of the field. She was one of the FBI’s top criminal profilers, and yet Cunningham had stuck her behind a desk. He had exiled her to teaching at law enforcement conferences, as if boredom would be some sort of protection.

Just then she heard a high-pitched whine coming from the kitchen. Jesus! She dug her fingernails into her arm, feeling the sting and finding no comfort in the fact that she was, indeed, awake. She grabbed her gun and slid against the wall, making her way to the kitchen, trying to listen and sniffing the air. The whining stopped as she got to the doorway.

Her finger pressed against the trigger. This time she was ready. She took a deep breath and swung into the kitchen, her gun pointed directly at Greg’s back. He spun around, dropping the freshly opened can of coffee, jumping backward as it crashed to the floor.

“Damn it, Maggie!” He wore only silk boxers, and looked as if he had just gotten out of bed.

“Sorry,” Maggie said. “I didn’t hear you come in last night.” She tucked the .38 into the waistband of her jeans in a casual motion, as if this was part of her morning routine.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he snapped through gritted teeth. Already he had a dustpan and was sweeping up the mess. “One of these days, Maggie, you’re gonna shoot me by mistake.” He stopped and looked up at her. “Or maybe it wouldn’t be a mistake.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “This would never happen if we had gotten a security system.”

“And we would never need a security system if you’d quit your job.”

She was so tired of this old argument. She found a dishcloth and wiped the coffee grounds from the counter. “I’d never ask you to quit being a lawyer, Greg.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Being a lawyer means just as much to you as being an FBI agent means to me.”

“But being a lawyer doesn’t get me cut up and almost killed. It doesn’t have me stalking around my own house and almost shooting my spouse.” He returned the broom, slamming it into the utility closet.

“Well, after today I guess it won’t be an issue,” she said quietly.

His gray eyes met hers and for a brief moment he looked sad, almost apologetic. Then he looked away, snatching the dishcloth Maggie had set aside. He wiped the counter again in careful swipes as though she had disappointed him even in this small task.

“So when are the guys from United getting here?” he wanted to know, as if it were a move they had planned together.

“They’ll be here at eight. But I didn’t hire United.”

“Maggie, you have to be careful about movers. They’ll rip you off…” He stopped, as if reminding himself it was no longer any of his business. “Suit yourself.”

Maggie turned and went back to the spare room, waiting, but hoping he wouldn’t follow her. Not this time. She wouldn’t get through this day if he continued to scold and pout or, worse, if he resorted to telling her he still loved her. Those words should have been a comfort; instead, they had come to feel like a knife, especially when he followed them with, “And if you loved me you would quit your job.”

She glanced around the room. How could this stack of cartons be the sum of her life? She rubbed a hand over her face, feeling the exhaustion as though it had taken up permanent residence in her bones. How long had it been since she had slept through an entire night? When was the last time she had felt safe? She was so tired of feeling as though she were trapped on a ledge, coming closer and closer to falling.

Cunningham was fooling himself if he believed he could protect her. Eventually, Stucky would come for her. Although it had been five months since Stucky’s escape, she knew it with certainty. It didn’t matter how long it took. He would come.