An excerpt from Linda Castillo's

Fade to Red

Prologue

Death terrified her. Somehow, she’d always known hers would be violent. That it would come early in life. That it would be terrible and grueling, and in the end she would beg for it.

This was worse than terrible. Worse than anything she’d ever imagined even in her nightmares. Not even the lavender haze of the drug could dull the sharp bite of the knife. She felt every injury to her flesh with a thousand screaming nerve endings. Every second that ticked by like a death knell.

She struggled against her binds, twisting and straining until the wire scraped against the exposed ulna, causing agonizing pain in her wrists. But she knew it was useless. They had been as careful as she had been careless. Now she was going to pay the ultimate price.

The realization sent a surge of hopelessness through her, followed by a sickening rise of panic that pooled inside her like vomit.

This was it. The end. They were going to kill her and there wasn’t anything she could do to save herself.

The reality that fate could be so merciless filled her with outrage. After everything she’d been through, everything she’d overcome, everything she had endured in a life that had been far from easy, the last thing she would ever see was this dank warehouse and her own blood under the bright glare of the lights.

Goddamn them all.

She didn’t care. Hadn’t cared for a long time. About life. About death. She just wanted it to be over. Quickly and without all the humiliations of dying. As far as she was concerned she had died a long time ago.

She drifted toward the darkness, reaching and straining for it with her mind, wishing desperately it would swallow her whole, like a giant, ravenous beast that would devour her so she would simply cease to exist.

Another vivid flash of pain wrenched a scream from her, long and shrill and animalistic. She bit down on the gag and screamed a second time in outrage and fury, cursing them with every cell of her body. She rode the agony, felt it tear through her like a thousand tiny blades wakening every nerve with a ferocity that left her breathless. She tried to deny the horror of what was happening. Tried to convince herself that the God she’d always known would never be so cruel. But the pain was hellish and relentless and a thousand times worse than death.

She looked at her tormentor through the wet hair that hung in her face, and hatred welled inside her. The mask he wore should have terrified her, but it didn’t. She understood all too well why he wore the mask, and she hated it. Hated him. Hated all of them.

She tried to speak through the gag, but it was impossible. With her last dying breath, she wanted to tell him she had betrayed him. That she’d left something behind that would destroy him. She wanted him to know she’d won one last tiny battle, if only for a fleeting instant of satisfaction before he killed her. That was all she had left, but it wasn’t enough to save her life.

I’ll see you in hell, she thought, and a maniacal sound bubbled up from her throat.

The eyes within the mask darted to hers. Within his gaze she saw the light of his exhilaration, the depth of his cruelty. And in that moment, she accepted her death. Accepted that it would happen here and now and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

Except die.

Oh, but she didn’t know how. Didn’t know how to take her last breath. Didn’t know when to close her eyes. When to let her muscles go slack. She didn’t know how to stop living.

Dear God, she hadn’t wanted to die alone.

She thought of her sister, and grief stabbed through her with the same hot vengeance as the knife. Regret stung her heart, but she knew there would be no reckoning, no righting of wrongs, no last good-byes.

Don’t cry for me, she thought.

And when she closed her eyes, the world faded to red.

Chapter 1

Lindsey Metcalf woke to her own scream. It was a terrible sound in the stark silence of her apartment. She sat bolt upright, the sheets bunched in her fists, her heart beating out a maniacal rhythm. For several moments, she sat there listening to her labored breathing, trembling and disoriented and more frightened than she’d been in a very long time.

Slowly, the nightmare receded and she became aware of her surroundings. The dim light from the streetlamp slanting in through her bedroom window. The sound of sleet hitting the glass. The tick of the wall clock from the living room. The hum of the ceiling fan above her bed.

Shoving back the down comforter, she got up and padded into the bathroom. She ran the tap into a glass and drank it down without stopping.

She rarely dreamed and never had nightmares. Not even as a child. But for the fourth time in as many nights, the nightmare had wrenched her from sleep. She’d wakened with a scream in her throat, her heart pounding, and her body bathed in cold sweat. Afterward, all she could recall was a man in a mask and the utter certainty that something unspeakable was going to happen.

Struggling to get out from under the dark press of the dream, she returned to the bedroom, yanked her robe from the foot of the bed, and jammed her arms into the sleeves. A look at the alarm clock told her it was nearly three a.m.

Midnight in Seattle, she thought, and a now-familiar shudder of worry went through her. She’d been trying to reach her younger sister for almost two days. For whatever reason Traci hadn’t returned her calls, and Lindsey’s initial irritation had grown into concern.

Knowing sleep would not come again, she went into the kitchen, poured a glass of milk, and carried it to the living room. At the bar she looked down at the answering machine and felt another low-grade flutter of anxiety. She knew listening to the message again would only feed her worry. But suddenly she needed to hear her sister’s voice—even if that voice was shaking with fear.

She punched the play button and listened. “Lindsey, it’s Traci. If you’re there, pick up.” A snowy hiss when she paused. “Lindsey, please. I really screwed up this time. I think I’m in trouble. Call me, damn it.” A muttered curse and then an abrupt “click” as the line disconnected.

It was the dozenth time she’d listened to the message, and each time it brought gooseflesh to her arms. Traci rarely called. If not for Lindsey’s determination to stay in contact with her, they would have fallen out of touch years ago. She wondered what had prompted Traci to break protocol, what had her so spooked.

I think I’m in trouble.

In all the years Traci had been in Seattle—even when she’d first run away at the age of fourteen—Lindsey had never heard her voice quiver like that. The only time she’d ever heard Traci scared was when they’d been children. Back then, they’d both had very good reason to be frightened.

Shoving thoughts of her childhood to the back of her mind, Lindsey snatched up the phone and dialed her sister’s number. Four rings and Traci’s answering machine picked up. “Hi guys. It’s Traci. You know what to do if you want me to call you back.” Beep.

“Traci, it’s Lindsey. If you’re there pick up the phone.” She paused, aware that her heart was beating too fast and that it was suddenly vastly important that she speak to her sister. “I’m at home, Traci. Give me a call, okay, Sweetie?”

For a moment she just stood there, holding the phone, trying hard to shake off the uneasiness that had settled over her. Traci might only be twenty-four years old—four years younger than Lindsey—but she had good instincts and she’d always known how to take care of herself. She was probably going to get a good laugh out of this once she realized her overprotective older sister had been so worried.

But deep inside Lindsey knew good instincts were no guarantee against harm. In the early morning silence of her apartment, that knowledge made the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end.

Separated by miles and years, Lindsey and her sister didn’t talk as often as they once had, but Lindsey still felt close to Traci. She sensed something was wrong. She felt it with the same intensity she had when they’d been kids and their stepfather had gone to Traci’s room instead of hers.

They’d never discussed Jerry Thorpe or the havoc he’d wreaked on their lives, but it was a connection she and her sister shared. An undeniable link between two girls who’d grown up in nightmarish conditions. That connection may have frayed over the years, but it was still there. Tonight, Lindsey felt it as strongly as she ever had.

Realizing there was nothing she could do—at least not until morning—she replaced the receiver. “Go back to bed,” she muttered to herself. “Traci’s fine.”

But as she walked down the hall toward her bedroom, she couldn’t quite make herself believe it.