After She's Gone (West Coast #3)

Because Whitney Stone knew far more than she was telling.

She clicked the television off and silently congratulated herself for a job well done. The wheels had been set into motion. And it was just the beginning. Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the headboard of the bed and tried to calm herself. Her headache pounded painfully, the demons inside hitting their sharp fists against her skull, demanding to be set free. “No,” she said aloud. But, oh how they wanted to get loose. She’d named them. Pride and Invincibility were the most vociferous, their talons scraping through her gray matter. But their companion, Fury, deep-seated and ever growing, was the worst. Fury would be her downfall, she’d been told by more than one shrink. Fury would push her over the edge of sanity.

She thought about a drive along the coast. Something to calm the nerves. Wine hadn’t helped and she could drink a little more, but then she’d be over the edge and she couldn’t afford to lose her perspective.

The need inside her grew, began to thrum, a desire to hunt. She told herself to fight the feeling, that this kind of obsession was what the psychiatrists had warned her about, but her whole body ached to do something, anything to scratch the insidious itch. And why not?

She’d already picked out who would be the perfect victim, who would play her part.

The shrinks she’d seen would disapprove. “Tsk. Tsk.”

A half-smile played across her lips and she opened her eyes to the thick darkness. “Save me,” she whispered to the empty room and then laughed out loud.

The doctors were idiots.

She clicked off the TV and changed, then headed out the door. Cool air brushed her skin as she found her vehicle and, driving through the deserted streets of the city, she headed west.

She was keyed up. Eager. Her nerve endings alive. Adrenaline pumping through her veins.

It was dangerous being out where someone might see her, where a traffic cam, security camera, or even the camera app on a cell phone of someone who, like she, was up so late, but she didn’t care. The night was thick, clouds gathering overhead. The closer she got to the ocean, the freer she felt. She rolled down all of the windows, letting the scent of the sea into the car’s interior.

She felt tense.

Needy.

The wind tugged at her hair. She should feel free. Exhilarated. But she didn’t. Deep inside, anxiety roiled, coupling with a base, dark, and pulsing need, a desire she couldn’t fight much longer. Whether she admitted it to herself or not, she was on the hunt. It felt good, yet scared her to death. That’s where the rush came into it. She licked her lips in anticipation and hated herself for it.

Few cars passed her, their headlights glaring, but she didn’t think she’d be recognized as they flew past. No one was looking for her at this late hour. No one knew, and that gave her power, the fact that she was inconspicuous.

It also ground her guts.

Finally she reached the beach. With her first glimpse of the dark waters of the Pacific she considered driving up the PCH, catching views of the ocean. Maybe then she’d calm down. Maybe then she could tamp down her secret urges. Maybe the serenity of the ocean would help her fight the warring feelings of Invincibility and Frustration.

Of course it was too late.

She knew it as her fingers gripped the wheel, and the roar of the surf reached her ears. She was already on the search and, deep down, in that dark place in her psyche she didn’t like to acknowledge, it felt damned good to finally be doing something, to start assuaging the ache that drove her.

The soothing waters of the Pacific stretched darkly to an invisible horizon, but it didn’t matter.

Rain began to sprinkle on the windshield, a few drops falling into the interior. As she reached upward to reluctantly close the sunroof, she caught a glimpse of her eyes in the rearview mirror, eyes so like her mother’s.

She didn’t want to go there, not now. Not when she was already on the hunt. But there was no stopping the burn in her stomach and the taste of bile rising in her throat when she thought of her patchwork of a family, sewn together but always falling apart.

It was all that bitch’s fault.

CHAPTER 11

Ineesha Sallinger knew she should never have agreed to meet with Sig Masters. The man was a mess. A complete, bumbling mess. Or worse. A damned freak show. She had to distance herself from him. So, the sooner she could get out of his dump of a house tonight, the better.