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  The propeller broke in two upon impact. Half of it landed a few feet from where Stephenson lay on the taxiway. Oblivious to the pain in his ankle, he got to his feet and rushed toward the plane. Adams had gotten out of the car and followed right behind him.

  “Are you nuts?” Stephenson heard his partner call out.

  He ignored the question and kept running toward the plane.

  “You okay?” Adams asked when they approached the back of the plane.

  Stephenson drew his firearm before moving to the front of the aircraft. Adams did the same.

  “I'm fine.”

  Stephenson stood at the door of the plane and aimed his gun at Jason. The pilot was visibly terrified but looked only mildly injured.

  “Hands above your head!”

  He kept his gun fixed while he waited for Jason to comply. Slowly, Jason raised both hands above his head. Stephenson used his left hand to open the door of the plane.

  “Get out of the plane and get down on the ground. Keep your hands on your head.”

  Jason complied and Adams handcuffed his hands behind his back.

  “Are you hurt?” Stephenson asked the pilot who was breathing heavily in the front seat.

  He rubbed his temple. “I hit my head when we crashed, but I think I'm all right.”

  “Help is on the way,” Adams said. “I've already called for backup and an ambulance. They should be here any minute.”

  Adams left Jason lying face down on the ground while he retrieved Jason’s pistol from the back seat. Stephenson helped the pilot out of his light aircraft. After Stephenson made sure he had no visible injuries, the pilot took a seat on the ground away from Jason while they waited for more help to arrive.

  Adams ran back to the car to radio their backup unit and let them know they were on the taxiway.

  “Are you crazy?” Adams asked after he got back from making the call. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

  “Sorry,” Stephenson said, suddenly aware of the pain in his ankle. “I couldn't let him get away. Especially not with a hostage. Jason wouldn't have had any use for the pilot once they landed somewhere.”

  They heard the wail of their backup unit's siren as it pulled into the airport.

  “How did you know the plane couldn't take off with you holding on to the tail?”

  Stephenson glanced back at the plane before turning to his partner. “I didn't.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Stephenson's phone vibrated in his pocket as he stepped outside the boutique, family-owned jewelry store ten minutes east of downtown Seattle. He saw it was Adams and continued walking down the busy street to his car.

  “Hey. How'd it go?”

  “I just finished booking them. They'll have their first court date tomorrow. What did your x-rays show?”

  “A couple bruised ribs and a sprained ankle.”

  “I'm surprised it wasn't worse. What did the sergeant say?”

  “That he's glad I wasn't killed and to never do anything that dangerous again. But he understands my desperation to catch Jason and keep him from killing the pilot. He didn't say so, but I'm sure he would've done the same thing.”

  “You're lucky McKinnon is the only person in the department who's crazier than you when it comes to catching a killer. How long are you off for?”

  “I’m hoping only a week. I’ll see the doctor on Friday about coming back to work.”

  “Get some rest. I know you probably won’t, but take more time off if you need to. Are you home now?”

  Stephenson looked down at the small bag he carried from the jewelry store. “Actually, I had an errand to run.”

  “An errand? After you nearly died? Please tell me you're joking.”

  “I didn't nearly die. And no, I'm not joking.”

  “You're unbelievable.”

  Stephenson pictured his partner shaking his head on the other end of the call.

  “Must've been an important errand,” Adams added.

  “It was.”

  “Well, I'm definitely not running any errands on my way home. I'm exhausted from watching you in action today.”

  Stephenson smiled. “Next time I'll let you chase the runner.”

  “There's just one problem with that.”

  “What?” Stephenson opened the door to his car.

  “I don't like to run.”

  He let out a short laugh. “That's what I thought.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Eric stayed up practically all night thinking of how he would kill Patricia. By the next evening, he had a plan. He’d done an incredible amount of research in the last twenty-four hours and felt certain he could pull off her murder without a hitch. Or a trace. Her husband's business trip was short, only two days. He’d be flying out of Sea-Tac on a red-eye to New York tomorrow night, and he planned to kill her right after he left.

  He remembered Patricia telling him the conference her husband was speaking at paid for him to park at the airport, so she didn’t have to drop him or pick him up. Eric would make sure her time of death was right after her husband left for the airport so he’d be the prime suspect. Or, at least, he would be after Eric sent the police Patricia's medical record that he’d doctored up to incriminate him.

  He checked his mailbox first thing when he got to his apartment building and was ecstatic to find his lock-picking kit had arrived. How he loved living in a world with overnight shipping.

  Once inside his apartment, he was filled with a nervous excitement. He gathered everything he would need for tomorrow night. He’d have to time it perfectly to ensure her husband went down for the crime. At least he would no longer have to live with Patricia. He was about to do the man a favor. This made him smile.

  He made a neat little pile on his dining table with his leather gloves, lock-picking kit, and a black baseball cap. He couldn't risk forgetting something. A gun would have been easier. But, being from Australia, he had always despised Americans for their overuse of guns. He shivered at the thought. Guns just seemed so...violent.

  He spent the rest of the evening going over every detail he’d preplanned in his head. Finally, he headed for bed, assured his plan was foolproof, if not ingenious. All this research and planning gave him a greater respect for murderers. At least, those who got away with it. Getting away with murder was no small accomplishment.

  He climbed into bed with a book to calm his nerves. It was a romance, which wasn’t his usual genre, but he needed something to relax him. It was also a New York Times bestseller, and he figured it wouldn’t hurt to check out his competition.

  The book was written by a bloke from the Pacific Northwest, the story taking place in Seattle. The author’s name was familiar to him even though he’d never read any of his other novels. One of his patients must’ve mentioned him.

  He snapped the book closed after only ten minutes upon reading the line: Winter came and went.

  Winter never came and went in Seattle. It lingered and stayed way beyond its welcome until it seemed it would never end. By mid-February, the entire outside world looked to have turned a shade of gray. Life was sucked dry of color. Finally, when it felt like there was nothing left to live for, a tiny patch of sun would peek through the clouds just long enough to give one hope that spring was, although late, on its way.

  No wonder he made so much money as a psychiatrist. Over the nearly twenty years he'd lived in Seattle, he'd heard several people say they didn't mind the weather. This never made any sense to him. Winter in Seattle was akin to watching a Renee Zellweger movie. The ending never came soon enough.

  He turned out the lights, the book spoiling any further appetite for reading. He’d no sooner rested his head against his pillow when he felt a steady, rhythmic vibration in his head. He knew instantly what it was. The drumming. It was even louder than usual. He tried to ignore it, but he could feel it resonate in his bones. He needed to rest; he couldn't afford to be disturbed. He had a murder to pull off tomorrow. And not just pull off, but get a
way with. But only if he kept a clear head.

  He’d tolerated the all-too-frequent noise coming from his neighboring apartment ever since the mediocre musician had moved in two months before. This was only because he was a night owl and the drumming always quit before he went to bed.

  The drumming stopped. But who knew for how long, and he couldn't risk not being at his best tomorrow. He threw back his comforter, walked into the hall of his building, and knocked on the drummer's door. He waited for a minute and was about to knock again when the door opened.

  There stood his twenty-something, good-for-nothing neighbor. His curly, shoulder-length hair looked its usual mess. He was dressed in sweats and a worn-out t-shirt.

  The drummer seemed to be home at all hours of the day and he’d never seen him wear anything nicer than what he wore right now. He'd wondered on occasion how the drummer could afford to live in such an expensive building in the heart of downtown and had concluded his parents must be footing the bill.

  “Hiya neighbor.” He smiled. Eric didn't.

  Who says that? he wondered. He realized the answer to his question was staring him in the face, grinning like an idiot while showing off his perfectly straight teeth.

  He was glad he'd never had children. Imagine spending all that money on orthodontics only to have them grow up to be nothing more than an unemployed, semi-talented drummer who annoyed the other residents in his apartment building.

  “Hi,” he said. “I came to ask if you could stop drumming for the night, given the time and the fact that this is an apartment building.”

  His neighbor ran a hand through his hair. “Oh. Sure, man. No problem. Sorry.”

  He hadn't expected him to be so agreeable. He’d already planned on aggressively convincing him to be quiet. But apparently there was nothing more to be said.

  “Thank you.” He walked back to his room, perplexed by the obnoxious drummer having been so polite.

  He lay his head back on his pillow and reveled in the quiet. Would he really be capable of murder tomorrow? It was a silly question to ask himself because he already knew the answer. He was, and had always been, capable. In retrospect, he’d always carried a grudge for the squeamish and weak because he had the ability to do whatever necessary to fulfill his destiny. No matter what. And killing Patricia was the only way to take his writing to the next level.

  After tomorrow, he would never be the same. He could never take it back or erase it from his memory. He wondered how his life might have been different if he’d never come to America. There were some things he missed about Australia, like decent people. But he had grown accustomed to life in America, even preferred it. It was now his home.

  When his excitement dissipated enough for him to fall asleep, he dreamt of Charlie.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Eric couldn't stop daydreaming about killing Patricia the next day as he suffered through listening to all the pathetic problems of his patients. He envisioned her lying on her bathroom floor, her eyes bulging and her pale skin with a bluish hue. It grew harder to fake interest in his patients as the day went on. Fortunately, most of them were too consumed with themselves to notice.

  Finally, his workday came to an end. The sun had already set when he pulled out of the parking lot right behind his last appointment and tailgated the slow-moving traffic back to his apartment. As soon as he let himself in, he went to his room and changed into running tights, athletic shorts, and a zip-up sweatshirt. This way, if anyone saw him in Patricia's neighborhood, they would just assume he was out for an evening jog.

  He tied his running shoes and checked the time on his watch. He’d made better time than he thought getting home, and it was too early for him to go to Patricia's. Her husband's flight wouldn't leave for nearly another four hours.

  He wondered how to fill the time until he went to her house and realized he was starving. He’d been so preoccupied with killing Patricia he'd forgotten to eat lunch. He surmised it would be best not to have low blood sugar when pulling off a murder and went into his kitchen to make a sandwich.

  He sat down at his dining table next to his killing supplies. It surprised him how much he enjoyed his ham and cheese on whole wheat. No condiments. That was how people got fat. He was nervous, yes, but not too nervous to enjoy a good sandwich. The next half hour passed slowly, and he gathered the pile off the table. It would be better to be ahead of schedule than behind.

  He used his free hand to wipe the crumbs off the table, take his plate into the kitchen, and load it into the dishwasher before leaving. He hated coming home to a mess.

  Avoiding traffic cameras on the way to Patricia’s Madison Park home took longer than he planned. He didn't put her address into his GPS in the unlikely event he became a suspect, but he’d found it on a map earlier and had a good idea of where he was headed.

  He found McGilvra and turned onto it. He slowed when he saw 3890, counting aloud until the street number reached 3898. He made sure there were no other cars on the street and stopped in front of the two-story home.

  Although it was dark, he could tell the front yard was immaculately landscaped. Much more than he would’ve expected, knowing Patricia. He couldn't imagine Patricia wearing gardening gloves in less-than-ideal weather pruning the bushes or weeding the lawn. Either her husband oversaw the yardwork, or they paid to have it maintained.

  Blue lights flashed from inside a front room window. Just as expected, Patricia was home watching TV. He turned his car around at the end of her cul de sac and parked on an unlit part of the street a few blocks away. He checked the time on his phone before slipping it back into his pocket. Patricia's husband's flight would depart in just over two hours. It would take him about forty-five minutes to get to the airport, so Patricia should be all alone.

  It dawned on him as he got out of his car that he should’ve come earlier and watched for Patricia's husband to leave the house. That way, he could've killed her almost immediately after his departure. Oh well, he thought, by the time someone found her body, her time of death would be only an estimation anyway. An hour or so shouldn't make that big a difference.

  He felt his sweatshirt pocket for his lock-picking kit and gloves. Satisfied he had both, he got out of his car and zipped his keys into his shorts. He slipped on the gloves, assuring himself no one would find them odd in this weather.

  His blood pumped with excitement as he jogged down the quiet street in the freezing cold. By the time he reached Patricia's, the ache in his ears and the burn in his throat from the cold reminded him of why he did indoor yoga to keep in shape. He stopped in her driveway, seeing his breath as it escaped his lungs.

  The dimly-lit front yard made it easy to approach her fence. He reached over the wood structure and undid the gate latch. His pulse quickened as he trod softly along the gravel on the side of the house.

  This was the first time, in all his preparation, that he stopped to wonder if she had a dog. He moved slowly, on his guard against a beast that might jump out and attack him. But the yard remained quiet. Upon reaching her back door without having his plan ruined by some stupid mutt, he felt himself relax. He chided himself for worrying; Patricia was far too lazy to take care of a dog.

  He tried the door and was glad to find it locked. It would’ve been a shame to not use his lock-picking kit when he’d come so prepared. He pulled out his tools and started to pick the lock. It wasn't quite as easy as the guy had made it look on YouTube. But after a minute, he heard the sweet click of the lock come free.

  He entered a small, narrow room and quietly closed the door behind him. He listened for a security alarm, but the house was quiet except for the sound of the TV playing down the hall. He knew Patricia had an alarm system, but she’d told him in one of their sessions that she never set the alarm until she went to bed. So far, so good. The door at the end of the room was open to the hall. The hall was dark except for the flickering blue light from the TV.

  He moved toward the door, his running shoes sticking to the
linoleum floor. He could make out a washer and dryer against the wall and realized he was in the laundry room. Fortunately, the sound from the TV muffled his footsteps.

  He peered out into the hall, making sure it was empty before he stepped out. The light from the TV illuminated the doorway at the end of the hall, which looked to open to a large living area. He paused in the hallway and listened. It sounded like a sitcom and when laughter from a studio audience sounded through the speakers, he heard Patricia let out a deep chuckle. Although he despised her, he was happy for her to have one last laugh. If she only knew what he had in store for her.

  He turned and moved in the opposite direction down the hall. He needed to find her bedroom. The other end of the hall opened to an entryway and stairwell. A light shone from above the stairs, and he decided to try upstairs for her room.

  He looked at the framed photos that lined the wall as he ascended the carpeted staircase. He was about halfway up when he realized Patricia wasn't in any of them. In fact, the two people who were pictured in most of the photos were a woman in her forties and her teenage daughter.

  Patricia didn't have any children. It was the one thing he liked about her. His phone chimed to the sound of his reminder alarm. He scrambled for the phone in his pocket, cursing himself for not putting it on silent. He held up his phone and fumbled to silence it. The words, Reminder: Kill Patricia lit up his screen.

  He cursed again at his phone when he caught movement at the top of the stairs out the corner of his eyes. He recognized the skinny teenage girl from the photographs standing at the top of the stairwell. Her curly brown hair came down to her waist, and, despite it being below freezing outside, she wore only a spaghetti-strap tank top and very short shorts.

  Her eyes widened upon seeing him, and she let out a high-pitched scream as he turned and ran down the stairs. Obviously, somehow, he had gotten the wrong address. He immediately blamed Patricia. Had she moved and not told him?