The raspy voice slurs each word. I smell nothing but the cold, yet the memory of his putrid breath fans my face.

I hear the distinct clink of his Zippo. Then the strike.

On reflex, I strive to curl my numb fingers around the solid object buried under the snow.

“When I find you—”

It’s the last muffled words that touch my ears before time warps.

Distorted images flicker in freeze-frames as I claw to the surface. A slash of bright-red streaks a canopy of white. Vacant eyes absorb the black night as the flash of steel glints…before the images begin to fade into the recesses of my mind.

As consciousness grips me, I know the second my eyes part open I’ve been drugged.

I feel the sedative swimming in my bloodstream as fuzzy confusion stuffs my head. My temples pulse as my vision adjusts to make out the moonlit tree branches above. I bring my hand to my neck, feeling the tender patch of skin where Kyrie sank the needle.

The bruising ache in my chest snags my attention.

She fucking tased me.

But if she wanted me dead, I’d be buried in the riverbank.

I roll over and push myself up, my eyes further clearing to take in my gray-washed surroundings.

“Dammit.” I still have my phone, and I bring it out to check the time. I’ve been knocked out for maybe two hours. Diazepam, or possibly midazolam. A fast-acting sedative that also leaves the system pretty quickly.

“That wasn’t the first time we met.”

The bitter tone of her voice is a taunt against my throbbing headache.

I glance around for the body, the dismembered one Kyrie removed from a bag and tossed around the creek. The stream travels in a slow current, the embankment deserted.

This woman doesn’t want me dead—but she does want something.

Directly in front of me, the shovel is stabbed into the silty earth.

Right now, it’s clear she wants me to dig.

The scent of Kona coffee drifts through the department as I stand over the stainless steel table in the lab. For the first time, I’m tempted to pour a cup, in dire need of stimulation that not even my newest prospect can provide.

Before me are the cleaned remains of a recent donation. Three large monitors are arranged along the back wall, my desk directly beneath. One monitor projects the decomp data I’ve collected for the research grant, a field trip I’ve spent the past year devotedly, methodically working toward.

All of which has drastically stalled as last night plays on a menacing loop inside my head.

While I spent the remaining hours of the early morning digging up and collecting the severed body parts of a grad student, I thought back to every interaction I’ve had with Dr. Roth over the past three years. Which, I have no doubt, was her very intention.

By the time I had Mason Dumont relocated in a fresh burial site, I realized Kyrie never actually intended for me to be caught with a mutilated body, regardless of the evidence she planted at the scene.

She only left half of the body in the creek.

The other half she took with her.

Her threat was clear; if I go after her, if I try to silence her permanently, she has a contingency in place to expose me. A little melodramatic—if not fitting—after witnessing her in action.

Treading on the side of caution has always been my first rule.

Kyrie gets to live. For now.

If for no other reason than she’s piqued my curiosity with a number of things she brought to light. I’ve never been confronted with a challenge I couldn’t conquer, and eliminate.

And Dr. Kyrie Roth has presented an enticing challenge.

As the morning sun slips through the slatted blinds of the lab, I refocus my attention on the partial skeletal remains, comprising of a skull, vertebrae, and sternum. There are eighty axial bones in the core unit. But there is one bone in particular I’m fascinated by, that which I’ve devoted the better part of my research career to.

With a gloved hand, I select the hyoid. Positioned beneath the mandible, the horseshoe-shaped bone is unique as it’s the only bone presented on the skeleton that is not connected to any others. Suspended, it’s held in place by the attached ligaments and muscles.

To say I have an affinity with this free-floating, solo bone is obvious; there is no structure or support needed by the framework in order to exist.

When identifying remains, anthropologists and forensic experts by default look to the skull and pubic bones to determine age, race, and gender. However, in the event such bones are not present or compromised, the hyoid can reveal all of the above and more. One just needs to be skilled in the finer nuances of the bone.

My research on hyoid fusion and bone density for forensic purposes will revolutionize the remains identification process.

The dark irony of my extracurricular passions and professional interests hasn’t escaped me.

Dr. Cannon passes the lab doorway, then steps back to peek his head inside. “Morning, Jack.” He glances at the clock, the dark-brown skin around his eyes creased in confusion. “You’re here early. I figured everyone would sleep in after the gala last night.”

My smile is a thin line. “I came in early for the donation.” I never left.

Luckily I keep several changes of clothes in my office, and though I don’t recommend it, the campus showers are convenient when you need to wash the stench of sweat and death off you.

“Good deal,” he says, nodding and glancing around again as if struggling to make conversation. “Thank you again for your courteousness to Mrs. Spencer. I know charming donors isn’t your favorite thing, but she’s been one of our biggest—”

“Not a problem,” I say, returning my focus to the cleaned bones on the table. I pick up the Boley gauge as a hint to end the conversation. Hugh Cannon doesn’t have to fill the silence.

“All right, then. Have a great day, Jack.”

I flick my gaze upward as he heads down the hallway and lower the tool. I’ve already measured the teeth, and I’ve already read the data displayed on the monitor. I don’t want to be distracted when Dr. Roth arrives, which is why I place the hyoid aside for later inspection.

The fact Kyrie’s tantrum is costing me valuable research time proves what I’ve thought since day one: she’s not deserving of her position.

She’s obviously observant, and intelligent enough to have picked up on my activities. After following her last night, I would’ve been inclined to believe she simply seduced Brad to learn of his theories about me.

But the sight of her holding a severed arm stomps that simple logic into the silty ground.

She’s a killer.

A coldblooded predator.

She spotted me before I recognized her—and this is what has my grip tightening around the gauge handle. I forcefully set the tool aside, then flatten my palms to the table. The cool press of steel bleeds through the latex to douse the small lick of flame.

I relied on my preconceived notions, and that was my fatal flaw.

Always confirm your conclusions.

What could’ve happened to a girl like Kyrie to turn her into a killer? Women serial killers are a rare breed, rarer even than duos.

She has shown no clear sign of being a psychopath, so she wasn’t likely born this way. Some inciting incident in her life had to trigger this transmutation.

Unearthing this key piece about her is going to be the one puzzle piece I need to use against her to get her out of my life.

Typically, for killers discovered hunting on the same turf, one of them decides to leave for fear of discovery. Two top predators cannot occupy one hunting ground.

As a wildlife biologist, Kyrie understands this better than anyone.