As he approached the building, a woman pushed through the glass doors of the main entrance.  She wasn’t tall, barely standing over five feet, but she held her shoulders back and her clear green eyes cut.  Not more than thirty, gently tanned smooth skin accentuated a high slash of cheekbones.  She wore her light brown hair in a braid that brushed slender shoulders, a white Bonneville Vineyards T-shirt billowing over full breasts and tucked into faded work jeans hugging gently rounded hips.  Her boots were dusty, well-worn.  “Can I help you?”

Her voice had a rusty, whiskey quality giving this wholesome farm girl a seductive quality enjoyed by older more sophisticated women.

Elizabeth Templeton.

She was a far cry from the girl in the old image or the pictures Rory had taken.  The last dozen years had leaned out her frame and face adding maturity and an appealing naturalness.  But Rory’s images had gotten her all wrong.  What he’d taken for as anger and bitterness in the photos, in person, appeared to be a fascinating intensity.  He suspected this woman did no job halfway.

“I’m with the Texas Rangers.”

Elizabeth cocked her head, studying him close, as if sensing this place wasn’t his kind of place.  However, even as her gaze catalogued his large frame and the scar on his face she showed no fear.  “How can I help you?”

He managed a smile.  “You Elizabeth Templeton?”

Mention of her name triggered waves of tension that straightened her spine and narrowed her eyes.  Hesitation flickered as if she seemed to toy with a lie.  “That’s right.  But I go by my middle name now.  Greer.”

Elizabeth Greer Templeton.  Greer.  The woman who’d offered his boy a job.  “Sergeant Tec Bragg.”

**********

He studied her expression closely.  “I investigated a murder bordering your land yesterday.”

A hint of remorse darkened her gaze.  “I heard about that.  Some fellow hanged himself.”  And then as if to head off his next question, “A cruiser came by yesterday and spoke to my farm manager while I was in town.  I’m supposed to call him back but haven’t gotten to it . . . “

“You hear anything else?”

“No.  I don’t have time for gossip and news.  So if you’re here to ask me about the dead person I’m afraid I can’t do much for you.  I spend most of my days here working.  I don’t venture out much.”

And yet you’d made your way into town yesterday to talk to my boy.  “I think you might know the victim.”

“Could be, but I only know a handful of people in the area.”

He studied her face closely.  “The victim’s name was Rory Edwards.”

Irritation gave way to surprise.  Pursing her lips she drew in a deep breath, letting it out so slowly he barely saw her move.  “Is this some kind of trick?  Are you trying to prod information out of me because I hired your nephew?”

“No trick.  The medical examiner confirmed the identity of the body yesterday.”

She folded her arms over her chest.  “I’ve not seen Rory in a long time.  At least twelve years.”

“You’ve had no contact with him in this time?”

Her lips pursed.  “I had a message on my voice mail a week ago.  The caller said he was coming to see me.  He was an old friend.  I did not return the call.”

“Why not?”

Blue eyes clouded before sharpening.  “Some matters are better left in the past.”

“I get the impression he still cared about you after all this time.”

She shook her head.  “I have no idea.”

“I searched his room last night.  He had a box full of recent pictures of you.”

Her face paled.  “I don’t know about that.”

“Can I ask how you two met?”

The grip on her biceps tightened.  “I get the sense you already know.”

Apprehension rolled off her and all but slammed into Bragg.  Rory Edwards and her past were sore subjects.  “Answer the question.”

She glanced around as if making sure no one was around.  “We met when we were teenagers.  We were both in a clinic for troubled teens.”

“You both tried to kill yourself.”

The lines in her forehead deepened.  “I’m not proud of that time, but what does it have to do with Rory’s death?  Like I said, I haven’t seen him in a dozen years.”

Bragg unclipped his phone and scrolled to the picture he’d taken of the photo found at the crime scene.  He held out the phone, coaxing her closer toward him.  “You remember this picture?”

She didn’t approach right away but then moved closer.  The soft scent of soap rose up around her.  No flowery perfumes or exotic scents but simply clean soap.  His body tightened, unmindful of logic or reason.

For a long moment she didn’t say a word and then she cleared her voice.  “It was taken the last night we were both at the camp.  Rory left the next morning.”

“How’d he end up with the picture if he left?”

“I sent him a copy from camp.  I didn’t want him to forget me.”

“His brother said you wrote to him several times a week but Rory’s father threw out the letters.”

Her jaw tensed, and he suspected an old wound opened.  “I guess one letter made it through.”

“Rory never forgot you.”

She stepped back.  “I wish he had.”

“Why’s that?”

“Really, do you have to ask?  It was a painful time, and I’ve done my best over the last twelve years to forget about it.”

He locked his phone and tucked it back in its cradle.  “Were you really able to forget?”

She cleared her throat.  “Rory’s family did us a favor by keeping us apart.  But the rest?   No, I have not forgotten that I wrecked a car and killed my brother and his girlfriend.  I ruined so many lives.  I carry that with me every day.”

“That why you tried to kill yourself?”

“An entertaining mystery infused with suspense . . . the barely-held-in attraction between hardened Texas Ranger Tec and the guilt-ridden Greer resonates, as does their tension as they encounter a vicious killer. Crisp, in-depth writing yields a satisfying, gripping plot and steady pacing. This story is hard to put down.”
–RT Book Reviews

“[Mary Burton] once again demonstrates her romantic suspense chops with this taut novel . . . Burton plays cat-and-mouse with the reader through a tight plot, with credible suspects and romantic spice keeping it real.”
–Publishers Weekly

“There’s romance, a creepy killer and plenty of twists in this thriller that will keep Burton fans reading.”
–Parkersburg News and Sentinel (WV)

“Mary Burton’s third entry in her Texas Ranger novels and is just as much of a nail biter as the first two . . . her delivery is flawless. YOU’RE NOT SAFE carries just the right amount of suspense, creepiness, and romance that, when mixed together, creates a satisfying mystery with a shocker ending . . . you should not begin reading it unless you have the time to stay with it because you will not want to put it down for any reason until that final page is reached.”
—Fresh Fiction

“Bestselling novelist Mary Burton’s latest release combines suspense/thriller and romance novel as only she can. Beware! .. . . cliffhanging chapter endings, foreshadowing and red herrings keep the reader turning the pages.”
—Book Reporter

“[You’re Not Safe] delivers on excitement and romance. This book is so good and I highly recommend it . . .  after reading this one you’ll want to read the rest of the series.”
—As the Page Turns

“Well-written; it held my attention even through a second reading  . . . I look forward to the next . . .  book by Ms. Burton.”
—Smart Bitches Trashy Books

“Exciting, well written and a hot law man.”
—Cayocosta72-Book Reviews

“This series just gets better and better with each book and will leave you guessing rightto the last page.”
—Booktalk

“This romantic suspense novel about a woman determined to put her past behind her—and the killer who is trying to force her to remember—is the perfect sexy and sinister poolside read.”
—The Daily Basics

“Twists… romance… interesting characters…  I thoroughly enjoyed this… a solidly entertaining read and I recommend this book and others by Mary Burton to those who like good romantic suspense.”
—Reviews by Martha’s Bookshelf

“Another winner by Mary Burton . . . a thrilling, gripping romantic suspense . . . enlightening and insightful . . . fast-paced . . . the investigative plot is one of the best I have ever read . . . [the setting] added to the atmosphere perfectly . . . I will always remain a fan of thisauthor. Her attention to detail and perfect construction of the plot never fail todraw me in. Once I pick up a Mary Burton book, it is a guarantee that I won’tput it down until I’ve read the last word.”
—Swept Away by Romance

“Once I started it I couldn’t put it down . . . intense and fast paced and the characters are well written . . . this story unfolds just perfectly and I had no idea who the killer was . . . if you like a good mystery/thriller, then I highly suggest this book.  I was engrossed fromthe minute I started reading.”
—Shelly’s Book Shelves

Saturday, April 6, 11:00 a.m.
Austin, Texas

If Texas Ranger Brody Winchester had come to see Dr. Jolene Granger on personal business, he’d have come with hat in hand.  He’d have been ready to eat a heaping helping of humble pie, or better yet, crow.

But this visit wasn’t personal.  He’d not come to apologize or to make amends.  He had no intentions of digging up the past or rubbing salt in old wounds.  This. Was. Business.

He parked the black Bronco in the recreation center’s parking lot and shoved out a breath.  He reached for his white Stetson on the passenger’s seat, took a moment to level the silver Concho trimming on the hat’s base before setting it squarely on his head.  He stepped out of the vehicle, straightened his shoulders and eyed the large box-shaped building.  The sign above the double glass doors read:AUSTIN ROCK CLIMBING GYM.

As he stared up at the sign, he wondered if the boys back at headquarters were having a good laugh at the new transfer’s expense.  The Jo Granger he’d known hated heights and if anyone had bet him she hung out in a place like this, he’d have taken the bet, damn sure he’d win.

’Course, he’d not been face-to-face with Jo in fourteen years.  And time changed plenty.

Dr. Jolene Granger was no longer a wide-eyed college student but a psychologist who consulted with the Texas Rangers.  In fact, her expertise on violent behavior had landed her several television interviews last year when the reporter had been digging for the motivations driving a serial killer that had hunted along I-35.

He’d seen on television that she’d given up the peasant skirts and flip-flops in favor of dark suits, pencil skirts and a tight bun.  Always wore white pearls around her neck.  Reminded him of a librarian he’d had in school as a kid.   Cool.  Controlled.  Hot.

Yeah, she’d changed in fourteen years.  Maybe heights didn’t bother her anymore.

A couple of laughing teens wearing shorts and carrying gym bags raced past him through the front door.  He trailed behind them, finding himself in an industrial-style lobby tricked out with a cement floor, solid crate furniture and soda machines.  He moved toward a long narrow reception desk where a young guy was texting.  Dark hair swept over a thin pale face and tattoos covered every bit of skin exposed below his white T-shirt cuff.

If Brody had been in a more charitable mood, he’d let the kid finish his nonsense communication, which likely had to do with gossip or a party.  But a foul and dark disposition sapped all patience.

He smacked his hand on the reception desk.  “Need to find Dr. Jolene Granger.”

The kid jumped, his initial glance aggravated until he took stock of the Stetson, the Texas Ranger’s star pinned to Brody’s broad chest and his six-foot-four frame.  Displeasure gave way to startled deference.  “She’s in the main gym.  Can I tell her you’re here?”

“I’ll announce myself.”

The kid scrambled around the counter and took a step as if to follow.  “Is she in some kind of trouble?”

Brody stopped and eyed the kid.  “Why’s it your business if she is?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.  “I like her.  And if she were in trouble—”

Brody’s own worries sharpened his tone.  “What would you do if she were in trouble?”

Slight shoulders shrugged, but the kid’s gaze remained direct.  “I don’t know.”

“That’s right. You don’t know.”

“She’s a nice lady.”

Jo had always coaxed this kind of loyalty out of folks.  Kind, smart as a whip, she drew people.  The kid was no different and Brody gave him props for standing up to him.

He softened his scowl.  “Dr. Granger isn’t in trouble.  But my business is official.  If you don’t mind, I need for you to get back behind that counter and take care of your own business.”  He took a step toward the kid who hustled back behind the counter.

As Brody turned toward the main gym he imagined the boy on his cell again, texting his friends as fast as his thin fingers could move.

In the main gym, Brody was greeted by the smells of sweat and freshly polyurethane-coated floors.  The walls were covered with gray rocklike facings that jutted and curved as a rock ledge might.  Dispersed over the wall were colored footholds and handholds, some large and others so small he wondered how his large hands could maintain a grip.

A collection of climbers scaled the walls from the floor to ceiling.  Belayers stood at the bottom feeding climbers their safety ropes.  A young blond girl scaled the wall as if she were part monkey.  A couple of guys in their mid-twenties moved between the rock ledges with a power and grace he admired.  He couldn’t imagine that fourteen years had changed Jo so much that she now enjoyed this kind of foolishness.

The shouts and giggles of a group of girls in a side room drew him.  The ten girls, who looked to be between fourteen and sixteen, stood at the base of a tall rock wall.  Several were pregnant and most had tattoos and piercings.  Young, but he imagined they all had a lifetime of experiences already under their belts.

There was no whiff of anger or sorrow radiating off anyone.  They were cheering, like kids their age should.  His gaze trailed theirs to a woman racing a male climber to the top of the rock wall toward a bell.

Squealing young voices chanted, “Go Jo.  Go Jo.  Go Jo.”

Jo.

He’d found Dr. Jolene Granger.

Brody stood behind the students, rested his hands on his hips and shifted his gaze from the male climber to the woman.  Her chalked fingers clung to slivers of manufactured rock while her feet perched on similar pieces.  Tight black pants and a white fitted spandex top molded a trim athletic body.  Long red hair bound into a ponytail swept across her muscled back as she scrambled haphazardly from rock to rock.  Jo?  He looked closer.

Damn, if it wasn’t her.

When Jo reached the top and rang a bell, the kids cheered.  She looked over her shoulder, suspending from a single handhold and foothold and smiled at them.  “Now which one of you girls bet that I couldn’t win?”

The girls laughed, shaking heads and pointing to each other.  None fessed up to having any doubts about her.

Jo surveyed the crowd of girls.  “And seeing as I won, ladies, that means you all are going to study real hard for the rest of this semester, correct?”

A rumble of laughter and whispers rolled through the teens.  “Yes!” they shouted.

The male climber rang the bell.  He regarded Jo, his good-natured appreciation clear as he nodded his concession.

Brody assessed the man, wondering if Jo had really beaten him or if he had held back to win points with Jo.  If he had to wager, he’d put his chips on the latter.

“Doug buys ice cream for everyone!” Jo said.

The kids cheered.

Doug grinned.  “Rematch!”

Jo’s laughter rang clear and bright as she turned her face from the wall and gazed at the girls with tenderness.  However, as quick as she looked down, she looked back up as if the height flustered her.  “Gonna have to be a lot of A’s and B’s to get me up here again.”

Brody crossed his arms over his chest, taking inventory of her high cheekbones, pale complexion and full lips.  She was more relaxed, and a hell of a lot hotter than the grim woman he’d seen on television last year.

As if she’d read his mind, her gaze shifted from the kids to him.  For a moment she stared at him, as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.  He made a point not to blink or show the faintest sign of curiosity for this new version of Dr. Granger.

Shaking off her surprise, she moved to climb down the wall but missed her handhold and, in a blink, fell.  The girls squealed.  Brody tensed, moving toward the crowd, ready to shove his way toward the wall’s base.  But the rope tightened, halted her fall and the bilayer held tight.

Jo immediately grabbed for another rock and swung herself back into position on the wall.  For an instant, she didn’t move.

“You okay, Jo?” Doug said.

“Fine.”  She grabbed for a larger rock.  Within seconds she’d scrambled to the bottom of the wall.  She stared at the kids, and she wiped a bead of sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand.  “That’s why I harp on preparedness.  Never go into any situation without thinking about what could go wrong.  You’ll live a longer, happier life if you are careful.”

The kids chuckled nervously as Doug descended the wall.  He moved to Jo, putting his hand on her shoulder.  “You’re really okay?”

She briefly studied Brody before dropping her gaze.  “Yeah, I’m fine.  Would you excuse me?”

She moved through the crowd of girls.  Several stopped and asked her again if she was okay.  She assured them all she was fine.  Her back was straight and her gaze direct as she finally cut through the crowd and closed the distance between them.

Wisps of hair framed her face, which had grown more angular over the years.  Though she’d always been slim, her body now was trim and nicely muscular.  No hint of apology softened green eyes now as sharp as emeralds.  The years had been good to her.  And he was real glad.  The last time he’d seen her she’d been…broken.

Jo stopped a few feet shy of him.  Her expression was stern, controlled and mildly interested.  “I’m guessing you’re here on business.  A case.”

“That’s right.”  He removed his hat as he regarded the kids and Doug who stared at them with raw curiosity.  “Mind if we talk somewhere else more private?”

“Sure.  Let me grab my bag.”  She snatched up a gym bag from a wooden bench.  “Girls, I’ll be right back.”

“Are you getting arrested?” one shouted.

Jo glanced up at Brody.  “Am I in trouble, Ranger Winchester?”

“No, ma’am.”   He spoke loud enough for all to hear.

She followed him outside. Sweat glistened from her skin and mingled with a delicate perfume that reminded him of roses.  A lot had changed about Jo but not her scent.  “What gives?”

“You heard of Harvey Lee Smith?”

“Sure.”  She yanked out a hoodie jacket from her bag and pulled it on.  “Convicted serial killer.  I featured him in my dissertation, ‘The Mind of a Serial Killer.’  You were the original DPS arresting officer, as I remember.”

He’d been a Texas Department of Public Safety officer when he’d collared Smith.  But the arrest had been the coup that earned him his Ranger’s star.  The Texas Rangers were an elite group of one hundred and forty-four men and women in the Department of Public Safety.

“That’s right.  And if you’ve studied Smith you’d know he was convicted of killing ten women.  However, it’s believed his murder count is higher than thirteen.”

She zipped up her jacket and tucked her hands in the pockets.  “When he was interviewed he confessed to killing the women.  Ten bodies were found buried in his backyard in Austin.  Three victims linked to him were not found.  When pressed he wouldn’t give details.”

“I’ve interviewed him many times over the last three years.  But he kept changing his story and ‘forgetting’ where the other bodies were buried.  It was all a big game to him.”

She frowned.  “He’s dying of cancer, from what I hear.  Doesn’t have much time to live.”

“Docs say the disease spread to his liver.  Less than a couple of months.”

She was silent for several seconds.  “He’s going to his grave with his secrets and will deny closure for the victims’ families.  It’s the last bit of control he can exert.”

Brody’s jaw tightened and released.  He’d used every trick in the book to get Smith to open up but endless hours of interviews had been a waste.  Smith had taken pleasure in jerking his chain.

“Smith told prison authorities late yesterday that he wanted to talk.  He knows time is running out, and he wants to cleanse his soul.  He’s agreed to tell where the bodies are buried.”

Jo shifted her stance.  “He’s made similar promises before.  You said it yourself.  It’s all a game to him.”

“I know.  And I’d love to tell him to rot in hell.  But this might be my last chance to talk to him and to find those bodies.”

She nodded.  “And you can’t let it pass.  I get that.”

“That’s right.”

She met his gaze.  “Why me?”

Brody pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly.  “Because Smith requested that you hear his last confession.”

She shook her head, her brow rising.  “Me specifically?  I find that hard to believe.”

“He was clear he’d talk to you and no one else.”

“I’ve done some work for the Texas Rangers and I wrote a paper on the guy, but I’m by no stretch the most experienced psychologist.  Others have written more about him and have a lot more to offer.”

No traces of false modesty in the clear-minded assessment.  “Your record has been impressive.”

Green eyes narrowed.  “I’m building a reputation but again, why me?  I shouldn’t be on this guy’s radar.”

He settled his right hand on his belt next to his gun.  “The guy’s smart as hell.  He’s had all the time in the world to do what digging he can.”

A humorless smile tipped the edge of her mouth.  “And he figured out that you and I used to be married.”

“That’s my best guess.  I interviewed him more than anyone and each session he did his best to pull personal information out of me.”

“I can’t see you discussing personal matters.”

He caught the comment’s double edge.  “No, I did not.  But like I said, I’m betting he did some digging.”

“And somehow he figured out about me.”

“Somehow.”

A silence settled for a moment.  “Maybe he heard about my dissertation.  The university published it online.  Maybe this is a quirky coincidence.”

Leather creaked on his gun belt as he shifted his stance.  “Could be as simple as that.  But I’ve never been a big believer in coincidence.  By my way of thinking they are as rare as hen’s teeth.”

She tightened her hand on her bag.  “You’ve put some thought into this.”

“Since the prison called me this morning, overthinking is more like it.”

She dropped her gaze to the ground, shaking her head.

“If you don’t want to do this, there’s no harm nor foul.  I’ll go talk to Smith again and see if he’ll talk to me.  He might give in, seeing as death is close.”

“And what if he doesn’t?”

Brody shrugged.  “Then our last shot at finding those three bodies is lost.”

She drew in a slow steady breath and then released it.  “I’ll do it.  I’ll go.  Least I can do for those families.”

Jo might not cross a street to spit on him, but she’d give up her Saturday to talk to a killer to help grieving families.  “You sure about that?”

“As I remember, Smith is a control freak who only cooperates if all his demands are met.  When does he want to see me?”

“Today.”

A brow arched.  “Right now?”

“My plane is gassed and ready to go at the airport. I can have you in Livingston in two hours.”

“Strong storytelling and an intriguing plot that is guaranteed to cause goose bumps keep the pages turning . . . a terrifying, sadistic villain . . . heated sexual tension . . . one thrill of a read.”
— RT Book Reviews, 4 stars on NO ESCAPE.

“Mary Burton embraces the dark side of humanity . . . engrossing . . . a chilling thriller . . .a climax that is terrifying . . .excellent entertainment.” — Long and Short Reviews on NO ESCAPE.

Burton always writes great, edgy suspense, and this book is no different. Pages will fly by as the danger around Jolene and Brody increase!” — The Parkersburg News & Sentinel on NO ESCAPE.

Texas Ranger James Beck’s black truck kicked up dust and heat wafted on the horizon as he wound his way up the back road toward Lara Church’s home. Without Raines, it would have been a bitch to find Lara Church, who resided in a house still under her grandmother’s name. Raines got points for the tip.

Raines.

Raines shared a single-minded dedication with Beck. Firsthand experience had taught Beck that the trait was as valuable as it was volatile.

Beck slowed at the entrance of the driveway and noted the name on the mailbox. Bower. The Bower name tickled his memory, and for a moment he paused, staring at the scratched lettering on the rusted box.

The more he mined for the memory the more elusive it became so he tabled the search and drove down the winding gravel driveway. He shut off the engine, got out of the car, and surveyed the house.

Made of stone, the one-story house had to have been a hundred years old. Rustic with a bit weather-beaten charm, the house had a low, wide front porch furnished with a couple of bright blue rockers and a scattering of painted planters filled with flowers. Lara Church didn’t know much about Texas summers if she thought keeping those flowers alive was going to be an easy task. Last summer’s heat had cracked foundations and dried out wells. One missed day of watering, and the heat would burn up those pretty little flowers.

A rustic wind chime dangling from the porch jingled gently in a breeze. Twin sets of windows decorated with faded red curtains flanked the front door. A new stained-glass oval hung above the door.

Before he’d headed up here, he’d run a check on Lara. There’d been no priors in the system, but a quick Internet search led him to the 101 Gallery located on Congress Street in Austin. According to the gallery site, Lara Church was having her first photographic exhibit opening this Friday. It was entitled Mark of Death. It didn’t take a shrink to figure out what lurked behind her subject matter. The gallery site included several of Lara’s black-and-white images, but there’d been no picture of the artist herself.

In the distance he heard a dog bark. Judging by the animal’s deep timbre, it was big and running in Beck’s direction. Absently, he moved his hand to the gun on his hip. Nice places like this could turn nasty or even deadly in the blink of an eye.

The dog’s barking grew louder. Tightening his hand on the gun’s grip, he scanned the wooded area around the cabin until his gaze settled on a path that cut into the woods. In a flash, a large black and tan shepherd emerged from the woods, its hair standing on end. The animal glared at Beck, barking and growling. The animal was a beauty, but he’d shoot if it attacked.

Seconds later a woman emerged from the woods. She carried a shotgun in her hands and the instant she saw Beck she raised the barrel.

Beck didn’t hesitate. He drew his gun and pointed it directly at the women. “Texas Ranger. Drop the gun now!”

The woman stared at him, her gaze a blend of surprise and wariness.

“Put. The. Gun. Down.” Each word was sharpened to a fine point.

She lowered the tip of the barrel a fraction but didn’t release the gun. “How do I know you’re a Texas Ranger?”

The Texas Ranger uniform was easily recognizable to anyone who’d been in Texas more than five minutes. But that discussion came after she released the weapon. “Put the gun down, now.” He all but shouted the command over the dog’s barking. “Now!”

Carefully, she laid the barrel down and took a step back as if she was ready to bolt into the woods. The dog bared its teeth, but she made no move to calm the animal. She might have surrendered the gun, but the dog remained a threat.

He braced his feet. “If your dog lunges at me, I will shoot him.”

Her gaze flickered quickly between the dog and his gun. She understood he’d meant it. “Okay.” She looped her fingers through the dog’s collar and ordered him to heel close at her side.

“You and the dog step back.”

“Why?”

“Do it!” He glanced at the shotgun, knowing he’d not breathe a sigh of relief until he had it in hand.

“I am not turning around.” Her raspy voice stutter- stepped with panic. “I want to see your badge.”

He studied her. If this was Lara Church and she’d survived the Strangler, fear would be a logical response. “Step away from the gun.”

She drew in a breath and moved back with the dog. He picked up the shotgun and holstered his gun. Slowly, he pulled his badge from his breast pocket and held it up to her.

“Sergeant James Beck,” he said.

“Okay, Sergeant.”

He opened the break-action shotgun and found two shells in the double-barreled chamber. The safety was off. He removed the shells. “You always greet people with a shotgun?” He glanced from her to the growling dog.

“When I’m alone, yes. And it is registered, and I am on my land, so I’m well within my rights to carry a weapon.”

As he held her rifle, he glared at her and the barking shepherd. “You know how to shoot it?”

Blue eyes held his. “I sure do.”

As the adrenaline ebbed from his veins, his brain processed the details he’d only skimmed over moments ago when she’d been holding the gun. She was a slight woman, not much more than five feet tall. Long light brown hair gathered in a loose ponytail that left strands of hair free to frame a narrow face. Peaches-and-cream skin, a high slash of cheekbones, and blue eyes combined to create a face that would have made any man look twice.

“Why are you here?” Her raspy voice, seductive in quieter tones, was powerful when rising above the dog’s barking.

“Quiet that dog.”

She tugged gently on the shepherd’s collar, and he stopped barking. “What can I do for you, Sergeant Beck?”

“You are Ms. Lara Church?”

Her slim frame tensed, as she released the dog’s collar and scratched him between the ears. “That is correct. Can I have my gun back?”

He ignored the question. “I came to ask you a few questions.”

Her lips flattened as if she already sensed where this conversation was headed. “About?”

“We had a murder outside of Austin yesterday. A woman was strangled to death.”

She stopped stroking the dog between its ears. “What does that have to do with me?”

He snapped the shotgun barrel closed with a firm click. “I think you know why, ma’am.”

Her jaw tensed, but as if the words refused to be voiced.

“You were attacked in Seattle about seven years ago. Strangled nearly to death by a man police believe was the Seattle Strangler. And you are the lone survivor.”

Lips compressed into a fine line. “Seattle’s over two thousand miles from here. And seven years is a long time ago.”

He took a step toward her. The dog growled. Beck met the animal’s gaze and held it until the dog looked away. “This woman was wearing a white dress, and there was a penny in her hand.”

Absently, she curled the fingers of her right hand closed. Drawing in a careful breath, she released it slowly. “I still don’t know how I can help you.”

He wondered what shrink had taught her the self-calming trick. “Tell me what you know about the man that attacked you.”

The involuntary shake of her head told him she did not want to revisit the past even for a second. “If you found me here then you know people in the Seattle Police Department. Did they also tell you that I don’t remember my attack?”

“It’s been seven years, ma’am. Something’s got to have stirred up over that time.”

She cocked a brow. “Yeah, you’d think, wouldn’t you? But I’ve remembered nothing.” Reading his doubt, she added, “I know you don’t believe this, but I’d actually want to remember . . . even the dark and scary stuff. At least if I remembered this guy I’d know if he was standing in front of me. Maybe then I could take a walk in the woods without a shotgun.”

“You always carry it?”

“I walk with it. It’s close by when I eat, and it sits by my bed when I sleep.”

“You said yourself you are two thousand miles and seven years away from Seattle.”

“I think I don’t want to be a victim ever again. So I’ve learned to take care of myself.”

He handed the shotgun back to her. “Would you be willing to come into town and talk to our forensic psychologist? She’s sharp and might do you some good.”

She crossed her arms. “How did you find me?”

“I spoke to the Seattle Police.”

Her expression showed her distrust. “They don’t know where I am.”

“Mike Raines does.”

Her gaze narrowed. “Detective Raines. How?”

Beck rattled the shells in his hands. “He’s kept tabs on you.”

She tightened her fingers around the gun barrel. “If you talked to Raines then you know he had me speak to every doctor he could find.”

What Raines had done was of no interest to him now. “My doctor is top notch.”

A cynical smile curved the edge of full lips. “This doctor might be good, and she might think she’s different and smarter than the rest, but she’s not. I’ve seen more doctors than I can count, and I’ve talked to countless cops. I suffered a concussion during the attack and don’t have memories to share; otherwise I’d have shared them years ago.”

A dozen questions condensed to one. “What’s the last image you do remember before the attack?”

She slowly shook her head from side to side. “I don’t want to answer your questions. Now get off my property, Sergeant Beck.”

The abrasive clip in her voice thinned his patience. Deliberately, he kept his voice even and precise. “I came all this way to see you.”

“You’ve wasted a trip, Sergeant Beck.”

He managed a smile that didn’t feel the least bit friendly. “This visit was a courtesy because I did not want to put you out, ma’am. But I have come here for answers.”

Her hand tightened around the gun barrel. “You have come to the wrong place. I can’t give you what I don’t have.”

“I could detain you and drive you into Austin, where we could have a more formal chat.”

“Cops . . . so predictable,” she muttered as she rubbed her temple with her fingertips. “You’ve no cause to take me anywhere.”

“Ma’am, you are a material witness in an active murder case, and I have every right to take you in to Austin.”

“I don’t remember.” She sounded weary.

“Appears to me you haven’t even tried that hard.”

She tipped her head back as if struggling for patience and control. “If I had any detail I would tell you. I really would. But I don’t.”

“It’s in this morning’s paper.”

“I haven’t had the chance to read it.”

“Then I suppose you haven’t read about the woman in San Antonio?”

“The paper never said how she died.” And at his questioning look she added, “I do read the papers, Sergeant.”

The Austin paper and television stations had spent several days covering the unknown San Antonio body, trailing the story through the discovery and the identification. When the leads had run dry, the articles had stopped. “We don’t know how she died, but believe she was dressed in white.” He rested his hands on his belt, the heavy leather creaking. “She’d been exposed to the elements. Sun and animals took most of her away.”

Tension flattened her lips. “There was no mention of any of that in the paper.”

“That was deliberate on the part of the local police. They don’t want to show their cards until they have to.”

The pink he’d seen in her cheeks when she’d come out of the woods had faded. “The first woman’s name was Lou Ellen Fisk. Mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“What about Gretchen Hart? She’s the one that died yesterday morning.”

“No.”

Her clipped, almost defiant answers shortened his temper to breaking. She wanted to stay out of this game. Wanted him to walk away. Not happening. “You remember having that man’s hands around your neck? Remember what it’s like to have your wind slowly cut off?”

Her eyes widened. Fear and then anger shot back. “Is that supposed to shock a memory from me? Or make me go rushing to your doctor? Because if it is you’ll have to do better than that.”

“I got two dead women and I expect a little help from you.”

She sighed her frustration. “All I remember is waking up in a hospital room. My throat burned, and I could barely talk. I remember my face and neck were bruised and my eyes were so bloodshot it was hard to see my pupils when I looked in the mirror. The doctors said the Strangler just about crushed my windpipe. My voice is still hoarse today because of the attack.”

Imagining her face battered and bruised cooled the fire in his belly. “Any idea how you got away?”

“I was told someone passed by and saw what was happening. I must have blacked out by then, but I’m told the guy and his girlfriend called the cops and my attacker ran away.”

“Where were you attacked?”

“If you’ve spoken to Mike Raines then you have more details than me.” Impatience nipped at each word.

When he had a spare moment he’d read the Raines files cover to cover. “I want to hear what you have to say, ma’am.” His tone remained cool, even.

“There’d been a party, and I’d had too many drinks. I took a cab to my apartment, and I remember putting my key in the lock. And then my next memory starts in the hospital.”

“The other Seattle victims were killed by the highway.”

“It was in all the papers at the time. All women, including me, were thinking twice before heading out on Route 10. It never occurred to me that he’d be in my apartment building.”

He dug into his own memories of the crime. “The other victims had police records.”

She rubbed the side of her neck with her hand. “And I did not. Yes, I know. Some of the cops were certain I was lying and went to great lengths to dig into my past. In the end, they found out what I told them they’d find: one speeding ticket, which I got when I was sixteen. What I know is in Detective Raines’s files.”

“Except who attacked you. That detail is locked in your head, Ms. Church.”

She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “The key is gone, sir. There is no way to reach the memories. Now I need to ask you to leave. I’ve got to be in town in less than an hour.”

“You have a show opening, don’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“Photographs?”

“Yes.”

He dropped the shells in his jacket pocket and pulled out a couple of Polaroids taken of the body at yesterday’s crime scene. “They look like this?”

She took the pictures and glanced at crime scene images of Gretchen Hart. Immediately her face paled and she swayed before she handed him back the images. “You’re full of nasty questions and tricks.”

He suffered no remorse. “Thought if you could see firsthand what I’m dealing with you might be more open to helping me.”

“Get off my land, Ranger. I have no more to say to you.”

He slowly tucked the pictures back in his breast pocket. “I’ll leave for now, Ms. Church, but you are gonna see me again. That I do promise you.”

Gripping the shotgun by the stock, she turned toward the house, her dog following.

As she reached for the front door, he said, “If the Seattle Strangler is active again, don’t you find it a bit odd that he’d take up his work only twenty or thirty miles from where his last victim lives? I don’t know about you, but I’ve never put much stock in coincidence.”

She turned partway toward him, unwittingly giving him a view of her slim neck. “You’re assuming it is the Seattle Strangler. I am not.”

Tension rippled through his body. “It’s a solid assumption.”

She hesitated as if a blast of frigid air cut up her spine and then vanished with her dog into her house.

Lara Church wasn’t the timid artsy type he’d expected. She had steel running down her spine. Getting her help wouldn’t be as easy as he’d hoped. But in the end he would get it.

Bestseller Burton (Before She Dies) delivers action-packed tension as a cold case becomes new again… a compelling romantic thriller.” — Publishers Weekly on The Seventh Victim.

An excellent thriller, as well as a blooming romance, the author does a wonderful job of drawing readers in with the rapid pace and plot that include exciting and interesting back stories on all the victims. This is really a very twisted saga that readers will find unbelievably hard to put down!” — Suspense Magazine on The Seventh Victim

Burton’s latest novel has a calculating villain at its center, plus a strong yet vulnerable heroine and a tough Texas Ranger who is determined to protect her and root out a killer. Burton’s crisp storytelling, solid pacing and well-developed plot will draw you in, and the strong suspense will keep you hooked and make this story hard to put down.” – RT Book Reviews, 4 stars

“Dark and disturbing, a well-written tale of obsession and murder.”— Kat Martin, New York Times bestselling author

Chapter One

Tuesday, October 19, 5:15 a.m.

She had a power over him.

In this room, alone with her, words failed him. Here he followed her lead, moving with an economy of motion, undressing quickly and falling into bed before reason spoke. Their sex was always urgent. Hot. And it left his heart punching against his ribs.

This time, like every time before, she rose out of bed, his scent clinging to her, and dressed in silence. He knew what would follow. She’d manage a quick fix of her tousled auburn hair, they’d share obligatory, if not embarrassed, pleasantries, and she would leave never suggesting that there should be a next time.

However, this time when she rose, Daniel wasn’t content to just let her leave. He rolled on his side and watched her trembling fingers smooth the bunched cream silk slip down over her naked hips. She moved to the mirror and inspected once well-applied make-up now sinfully smudged and pale skin, crimson with sex’s afterglow.

He wanted her back in bed, curled at his side, but he hesitated to ask. She’d been clear from the beginning that she’d only signed up for good, hot sex. She didn’t want a lover or a boyfriend or anything that involved commitment.

That first time he’d agreed to her terms, counting his lucky stars and fully expecting little more than satisfaction and a pleasant memory. But from that initial release until now, he couldn’t get enough of her. The more she gave, the more he wanted.

And the line she’d drawn between professional and personal had entirely faded—for him.

Manicured fingers slid over the slip as she glanced at the clock on the nightstand, sighed and collected her scattered clothes from the floor.

He made no effort to hide his fascination with her. They’d shared his motel room five other times now but he’d yet to see her fully naked. She had a long sleek form, creamy skin, narrow tapered waist and a nicely rounded bottom. He wasn’t sure what she hid from him, but found the mystery more consuming each time they had sex.

Last time he’d seen the scar marring her side and thought he’d discovered her secret. He’d asked her about it she’d shrugged and said, “I was shot.”

Curious, he’d pulled the police file and read the details of the shooting. It had occurred three years ago. She’d been working late. A client’s hit man had entered her office and shot her because she’d been considered a loose end. Bleeding and alone, she’d escaped to a bathroom and locked the door. The shooter, unable to reach her, had barricaded her inside and left her for dead. It would be another eight hours before she would escape and call 911. The crime scene photos had stirred primal anger in him. Even now he could vividly recall photo images of her blood staining the bathroom’s carpeted floor; the door hinges she wedged free with the tip of her high heels; and her bloodied silk blouse left behind by EMTs.

“Do you think about the shooting?” he’d said as he’d kissed the scar.

She threaded her fingers through his hair. “No.”

“It’s got to bother you.”

Her fingers stilled. “I never dwell on the past.”

If she weren’t hiding the bullet hole scar, then why not take off the slip? Last night when he’d tried to tug it off her, she’d resisted. What else was there to hide?

She slipped on her blouse and efficiently buttoned it. Sliding on a pencil thin black skirt, she tucked in her shirttail and with the flick of the zipper was again all elegance and class. Maybe some old lesson from charm school kept her from stripping totally.

Thinking about that slip and what it hid gave him another hard-on. “Why don’t you stay?”

She found her panties and facing him tucked them in her purse. “We both have early calls.”

“You gave your final summation yesterday. The pressure is off until the jury comes back. Go in to the office late today. You’ve earned it.”

She arched a neat eyebrow. “I’ve never been late before.”

He propped his head on his head. “Be late.”

“Why?”

“Once is not enough when it comes to you.”

She readjusted her pearl necklace so the diamond clasp was again in the back. A smile played with the corners of her lips. “I wish I could stay for an encore. Really. But I’ve got appointments.”

“All work and no play makes Charlotte a dull girl, counselor.”

“All work keeps Charlotte liquid and her bills paid, detective.”

Naked, he rose off the bed and moved toward her until he was inches away. Towering, he fingered the pearls around her neck. She smelled of Chanel and him. “We should have dinner sometime.”

She grinned. “We just had dessert.”

“I’m talking about real food. Tables, chairs, forks, knives and spoons.”

She didn’t pull away. “I don’t think so.”

“You’ve got to eat sometime.”

“We drew a line. It has to remain fixed and secure.”

He curled the pearls around his index finger. “The defense attorney doesn’t want to be seen with a cop?”

“Maybe, the cop shouldn’t be seen with the older defense attorney.”

“Three years doesn’t count as older. And I don’t care who sees me with you.”

She untangled his finger from her pearls. “We are judged by the company we keep.”

The wistful, if not sad edge surprised him. She wasn’t talking about him. But who? Another mystery. Another reason to want her.

As she picked up her purse, he pressed his erection against her backside. “Stay just a few more minutes.”

She tipped her head against his chest. Tonight there’d been more urgency in her lovemaking, which he’d attributed to the murder trial’s conclusion. “I can’t.”

“That sounds half-hearted.” Sensing a shift, he pushed her hair aside and kissed her neck. Her sharp intake of breath pleased him.

“I have to go.” The trademark steel in her voice had vanished.

He turned her around and unfastened the buttons of her blouse until he could see the ivory lace of her slip. He kissed her shoulder, her chin, and the top of her breast.

“We have rules about avoiding tangles.”

“Fuck the rules. And the tangles.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. When she broke the connection she was breathless. “I really have to leave in twenty minutes or I will be late.” The whispered words gave no hints of the woman he’d seen on the courthouse steps late yesterday. Swamped by reporters, that woman had been cool, direct, and flawless ice.

The contrasts added to the mystery. “Have dinner with me.”

Her fingers wrapped around his erection. “No time for talking, detective.”

He swallowed, struggling to hold onto clear thought. “You are avoiding the question.”

Her hands moved in smooth, even strokes. “Nineteen and a half minutes.”

Until now she’d called the shots. But that would change. Soon.

Dinner and power plays relegated to another day’s battle, he kissed her as he scooped her up and laid her in the center of the bed. Straddling her, he reached for the package of condoms on the nightstand. Urgency blazed through him. He tore open the pack with an impatient jerk and slid on the rubber.

As she wriggled under him tugging up her skirt, he thought he’d explode. There was nothing else in the world that mattered more now.

When he nestled between her legs, his beeper vibrated on the nightstand. Fuck.

She glanced at him expectantly. “Do you need to get that?”

“They can wait,” he growled.

She gripped his shoulders as he pressed into her. “You sure?”

“Very.”

They both forgot about deadlines, clients and responsibilities.

“Burton’s latest romantic suspense will have readers sleeping with the light on…well-paced thriller.” 
Publishers Weekly

“Mary Burton developed a fascinating heroine in Charlotte Wellington, I became completely invested in her story . . . charisma and powerful masculinity . . . make Daniel Rokov a seductive hero . . . Burton pens a gritty, provocative story . . . the dialogue is crisp and intense . . . a strong supporting cast of characters . . . an intricate plot that hosts a number of revelations . . . a chilling, thought-provoking page-turner that stayed with me long after I finished the closing chapter. I’m looking forward to reading more of Burton’s work.
Leah Franczak, Happy Ever After, USAToday.com

“Burton delivers another page-turner that will keep readers up well past midnight. Strong, relatable characters like Charlotte don’t come around very often, and now she has a story all her own. Her mystery will keep readers guessing until the end.”
RT Book Reviews

“Before She Dies is an electrifying thriller that clearly defines romantic suspense.”
Lori’s Reading Corner

“Mary Burton has written a multi-layered, fast paced and high energy story.”
Romancing the Book

“When I pick up a Mary Burton book, I know I am in for a real treat.  Her idea of romantic suspense is more suspense, engaging plot and creating strong women . . . [She] does thorough research and writes from a wealth of knowledge and experience.  A truly enjoyable ride!”
The  Novel Life 

When her watch beeped and signaled she’d swam thirty minutes she glided into the wall, breathless but totally relaxed. She pushed out of the water and crossed to the bank of chairs where she’d draped her towel. She’d barely dried her eyes and hair when she heard a deep voice call out her name.

Angie stiffened. She recognized the gruff baritone. Detective Malcolm Kier. The cop made no effort to hide his contempt for her and her work. Instantly, she wished she had on her business suit and high heels. She straightened her shoulders and faced him. “Detective Kier. What a lovely surprise.”

He possessed a powerful build. Not more than an inch taller than her, he radiated a raw energy and a don’t-fuck-with-me demeanor that intimidated most everyone. He rattled her as well, but she’d decided long ago that she’d eat dirt before she ever let him know it.

“Counselor. Good to see you stay in shape.” He wore denims with muddied hems, a faded flannel shirt, a jean jacket and scuffed work boots. A leather gun holster peaked out from under his jacket.

“I try. You just roll in from the mountains?”

“Just about.”

“You’re a regular Grizzly Adams.”

His grin did not reach his eyes. “That’s right.”

Water dripped from her suit. Drying herself off in front of Kier felt awkward. But the cooling air and her refusal to be intimidated motivated her to slowly begin drying her arms and legs as if she didn’t have a worry in the world. “So what brings you to the gym, detective? Looking into membership?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “No, I’m here on official business.”

She wrapped the towel around her waist, tucked it in place and scooted her feet into waiting flip-flops. How had he found her? And then she remembered that she’d once told Kier’s partner, her sister’s boyfriend, that she swam daily here. “Need an attorney?” she goaded. “I’d be happy to see you in my office. Feel free to call my secretary for an appointment.”

“I don’t need your services.”

“Then why are you here? Bored? Here to rattle my cage a little more?” Kier had been a constant shadow presence since the Dixon trial. It seemed he never missed an opportunity to annoy her.

“I don’t rattle your cage.” The smugness didn’t support the words. “I could care less about you.”

“That why I see you at King’s several nights a week?”

He shrugged. “I like the food. Plus you know I took an apartment across the street.”

“Right. So why is it you always make a point to hold me up in the courthouse when I’m late?”

“Just making conversation.”

“How about the four parking tickets I’ve gotten in the last year.”

“The city marks its No Parking zones clearly. You’re being paranoid.” He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a theater program. “I’d like you to look at this.”

Annoyance crept up her back bunching the muscles she’d worked so hard to relax. “This is not the best time for me to discuss the arts, detective.”

As if she hadn’t spoken he turned a program toward her. “Do you know this woman?”

She held his gaze not wanting to look and give him the satisfaction that he’d won this little standoff. “Like I said, call my secretary.”

His stare darkened like an angry storm on the horizon, but it didn’t waiver nor did the picture in his hand. “Look here, or look at the station. Makes no difference to me.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Nothing would give me more pleasure than to steal a few billable hours from you.”

Asshole. He’d do it. She blinked and lowered her gaze to the program. The young woman’s pale face and blond hair accentuated a high slash of cheekbones. Bright green eyes sparked and her lip curved upward as if she knew a secret.

Angie knew her. “Her name is listed in the program. You can read, can’t you?”

He held the picture out an extra beat then slowly tucked it back in his jacket pocket. “How long has Sierra Day been your client?”

Staring down angry cops and prosecutors was part of any defense attorney’s turf. “I don’t discuss my clients. You remember attorney client privilege, don’t you detective?”

“Why did she hire you?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Tell me about the divorce. Was it nasty?”

“Seeing as you have all the answers why are you here?”

“Word is she and her soon-to-be ex husband mixed it up a few times.”

“Talk to him.”

“I’m asking you.”

And then she cut through her own indignation and really thought about why he was here. Kier was a homicide detective and he wasn’t making a social call. What had happened? She thought about the last time she’d seen Sierra. The woman had breezed into her office unannounced and demanded that Angie settle her divorce immediately. Sierra needed cash and wasn’t ashamed to admit it.

“Do you know where she might be?” Kier said.

Sierra could be reckless. “Why the interest in Sierra Day? Is she in trouble?”

“She was reported missing by the West End Theatre manager ten days ago.”

“You don’t work Missing Persons.”

He shifted his stance. “Did her husband ever threaten Sierra?”

“Has something happened to Sierra?”

“Like I said, she is missing.”

“And like I said you don’t work Missing Persons. What aren’t you telling me, detective?”

He studied her. “Sierra’s stats match the characteristics of a body we found late last night.”
“Characteristics?”

“Female. Mid-twenties. Five foot six to five foot eight.”

“That fits Sierra and a lot of other women.”

Her skin chilled. “What else do you know about your victim?”

“Not much.”

“Meaning?”

He studied her, as if wondering how much to give for maximum return. “All we have are bones.”

“Terrifying . . . this chilling thriller is an engrossing story.” —Library Journal on Merciless