Serial Escape
A killer brought them together.
Now he will rip them apart...
Once hunted by a serial killer, Raven Elliot has tried to move forward. But memories rush back when her living nightmare escapes from prison...and Detective Lucien Match shows up at her door. Her bond with Lucien goes deep, as does a killer’s need for revenge. Lucien wants to protect Raven, show her the way to safety...and his heart. But in so doing, he might be heading into one last deadly trap.
He cleared his throat and lifted both of his hands to cup her face.
Words still didn’t come. The bad, old memories swirled around in his head, mingling with the good ones and mixing with the present. After a heavily weighted minute, it was Raven who spoke. Just one word, but somehow, she made it sound like an ache.
“Lucien.”
It was all he could take. Overcome, he dipped his face down and pressed his mouth to hers. For a moment, she was still. Just receiving the kiss. Her lack of reaction very nearly made Lucien pull away. Then—as if she sensed his intention to separate—her hands came up and landed on the back of his neck, holding him there. And more important, she came alive. Her lips moved with his, tasting and exploring, setting off the metaphorical fireworks that had waited under the surface for what felt like a millennium.
Earlier, Lucien had thought the brief contact between their lips had been a kiss. He’d been wrong. So very mistaken.
* * *
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Dear Reader,
Lucien and Raven are two characters who have been in my head for a long time, and I’m delighted to finally bring them to life in Serial Escape. This story actually has many elements that I like to find in the books that I read myself. There’s an escaped serial killer...a second-chance romance...and a mature hero with a gruff exterior.
Lucien is pretty sighworthy, if I do say so myself. And I love my wonderful heroine, Raven, as well. She’s been through hell. She’s lost those closest to her. She’s rebuilt her life. And she has a nice solid wall around her heart. She’s tough and kind and knows what she wants, too. All of which makes her a perfect match for Lucien.
Happy reading,
Melinda Di Lorenzo
SERIAL ESCAPE
Melinda Di Lorenzo
Amazon bestselling author Melinda Di Lorenzo writes in her spare time—at soccer practices, when she should be doing laundry and in place of sleep. She lives on the beautiful west coast of British Columbia, Canada, with her handsome husband and her noisy kids. When she’s not writing, she can be found curled up with (someone else’s) good book.
Books by Melinda Di Lorenzo
Harlequin Romantic Suspense
Undercover Justice
Captivating Witness
Undercover Protector
Undercover Passion
Undercover Justice
Worth the Risk
Last Chance Hero
Silent Rescue
First Responder on Call
Serial Escape
Harlequin Intrigue
Trusting a Stranger
Harlequin Intrigue Noir
Deceptions and Desires
Pinups and Possibilities
To all those who’ve given love a second shot.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Excerpt from Colton 911: Suspect Under Siege by Jane Godman
Chapter 1
The thump of Detective Lucien Match’s rubberized soles against the equally rubberized treadmill belt somehow rode a line between cathartic and jarring.
Tap-bounce, tap-bounce. Bounce-tap.
Tap-bounce, tap-bounce. Bounce-tap.
The rhythm didn’t change.
It didn’t get faster or slower.
He never missed a beat, not even when his cell phone buzzed on the little tray in front of him. He cast a glance down at the slim device and saw that it was his boss, who knew damn well that Lucien was on vacation, because he was the one who’d ordered the break in the first place.
Tap-bounce, tap-bounce. Bounce-tap.
Tap-bounce, tap-bounce. Bounce-tap.
He always kept up his steady, five-kilometer-per-hour pace for the full sixty minutes. It wasn’t easy, and he didn’t consider himself a natural runner. His body wasn’t leanly built, and in all honesty, he probably would’ve been better suited to weight lifting. But he’d learned as a rookie that being able to run for an extended period of time came in handy when chasing criminals through the streets of Vancouver, BC. Far handier than being able to bench one-eighty. In spite of the way it looked on TV, there weren’t a ton of unreasonably fit petty thieves and drug dealers lurking around, just waiting to lead cops on wild, citywide runs. In fact, most gave up after a block or two because they had no choice. Zero cardio endurance. Plus—even if he’d felt inclined to—adding any kind of weight system to the already cramped condo was a laughable idea. Lucien would’ve had to give up something important to make the space. Like maybe the bed.
He chuckled to himself at the thought, then grabbed his water bottle from the holder and took a hearty sip, still without a pause.
Tap-bounce, tap-bounce. Bounce-tap.
Tap-bounce, tap-bounce. Bounce-tap.
His eyes flicked idly around the area as he continued to run. He had the treadmill set up in the middle of the living room. The spot between the couch and the wall was just the right width to accommodate, and when Lucien wasn’t actively running, he folded up the behemoth of a machine and tucked it into a corner. It was a bit crowded, but the lack of space wasn’t a burden. It was a good thing, actually. No lawn maintenance. Little housework. Executive living, they’d called it when he moved in.
The condo had come mostly furnished, too. It’d been outfitted with the same couch that sat there now, and the coffee table and lamp were also standard. The kitchen was a stocked with cutlery and dishes, and a very plain, two-person table-and-chairs set took up the corner opposite the small fridge. In the bedroom were a wide dresser and a sturdy bed frame. Lucien had provided his own mattress, as well as the wall-mounted television set which was currently playing some old action flick in silence, and also the treadmill beneath his feet.
Tap-bounce, tap-bounce. Bounce-tap.
Tap-bounce, tap-bounce. Bounce-tap.
His phone buzzed again, this time with an incoming text, and Lucien aimed his gaze toward it a second time.
PICK UP YOUR DAMN PHONE, read the message under his boss’s name.
He looked from his cell to the timer on the display. There were still eighteen minutes left in his sixty.
“You can wait that long,” he muttered, his voice just barely tinged with exertion.
Grudgingly, he acknowledged that a part of his unwillingness to answer was just childish spite. This past Friday, Lucien had been called into HR, where he’d been lambasted for not taking any of his accrued time off f
or the last three years in a row. The official policy was a use-it-or-lose-it one, and supposedly, not a single other person had ever lost it. Apparently, working too hard set a bad example. At least as far as human resources and Sergeant Gray were concerned.
What the hell Lucien was going to do with the mandated week off was a still a mystery, and it was only the first Tuesday. So far, he’d used all his newly freed time to run, eat and repeat. Not at all productive. That didn’t mean he was going to let his boss turn it around. The older man could suffer for a bit. Or at least for another sixteen minutes and twenty-nine seconds.
Tap-bounce, tap-bounce. Bounce-tap.
Tap-bounce, tap-bounce. Bounce-tap.
The phone went off yet again, and this time, Lucien pretended not to notice. Still jogging, he grabbed the TV remote from its spot beside the phone, and tried to push the volume button. The sweat on his palm made his finger slip, though, and instead of just turning it up, he accidentally changed the channel, too. The local news blared to life, a serious-sounding anchor speaking over a flashing red bulletin.
“You’re hearing it here, on Choice News for the first time,” said the unseen woman. “For those who’ve just tuned in, we’re talking about serial killer Georges Hanes, dubbed the Kitsilano Killer because his victims were living or raised in the upscale Vancouver neighborhood. Most people are familiar with the man, who murdered four families over the course of just a single year. Only one victim out of the sixteen targeted individuals survived.”
For a second, Lucien tuned out the announcer’s voice. The Kitsilano Killer’s story was notorious. As highly publicized as it was gruesome. And there were few who knew the story as well as Lucien did. He’d been on the inside of it, and had even testified in Georges Hanes’s trial. Helping to put the man behind bars was one of the most satisfying moments of his seventeen-year career. He doubted—and hoped—that he would never experience another case like that one.
It wasn’t all of that, though, that made Lucien need a moment. It was the living victim, whom he knew even better than he knew the case.
Lucien breathed out. Then in. Then forced his eyes back up to the TV. The screen now housed a familiar mug shot.
Georges Hanes.
Average height, average build. Light brown hair, light blue eyes. No one would look twice if they passed him in the street. Yet there was still something in his face that made Lucien grit his teeth together uncomfortably. Maybe it was his cop gut, or maybe it was just knowing what he knew. Either way, his hands tightened into fists as he focused once more on the newscaster’s ongoing chatter.
“Today marks the three-year anniversary of Georges Hanes’s guilty verdict,” she was saying now. “So his escape early this morning during a routine drill is an even bigger blow.”
The statement finally broke Lucien’s rhythm.
Tap-bounce, tap-bounce. Bounce-tap. Stumble, thump.
His big body went flying, and so did everything else. At the same moment his elbow smashed the bottom edge of the treadmill, his water bottle hit the ground, spraying liquid from its abruptly popped top. The TV remote smacked against the fast-moving rubber three times, then sailed off and disappeared under the couch. His cell phone, which had just started to buzz another time, came out of nowhere and thudded against his forehead. Snarling under his breath at the debacle, Lucien snatched the cell up and tapped the answer icon with entirely more force than necessary.
“Where is she?” he demanded without preamble.
His boss replied with equally little pretense at small talk. “Damn well wish I knew. Why the hell haven’t you been answering your phone, Match?”
“Busy with vacation,” Lucien snapped. “Did you send anyone to her place?”
There was the briefest pause. “She moved, Lucien, and didn’t leave a forwarding address.”
Worry hit him like a baseball to the gut. “How long ago? Weren’t we keeping tabs on her?”
“We were. Minimally.”
“What does that mean?”
“That six months ago, our family liaison officer checked in on her and everything seemed copasetic.”
“So why would she suddenly—” He cut himself off, knowing it was a waste of time to ask rhetorical questions. It was far better to come at the situation like a police officer than like a man. He switched to a curt, professional tone. “What about the neighbors? Friends? Place of employment? Someone will have a hint.”
“Don’t go all detective on me, Match. I wrote the damned book on it while you were still playing cops and robbers. You know the uniforms are already out canvassing her old neighborhood, and we’re trying to track down where she’s working at the moment, but it seems a bit like she might’ve gone AWOL on purpose.” There was another pause, and then his boss spoke again, sounding far less irritated. “I figured you, of all people, would have the best idea about where she was.”
“Yeah, well...you figured wrong.” His own tone was almost bitter, and barely scraped by with not being childish, too.
“Okay,” his boss replied. “Guess this was just a courtesy call, then. I know you’ll want to be looped in, so if you feel a need to come down to the station...”
“I’ll be there.” He said it quickly, then closed his eyes and added, “Sergeant?”
“Yes, Detective?”
“How the hell did he get out?”
“Not entirely clear on that yet.”
It wasn’t even close to a good enough answer, and he had to loosen his jaw to answer. “All right. I’m on my way.”
The stone-heavy feeling in Lucien’s gut intensified as he hung up, and he cursed himself for the fact that he hadn’t kept proper tabs on her. Three years ago, she’d been his responsibility. For two months straight, he’d been directly in charge of her safety, more bodyguard than cop at that point.
Maybe because you would’ve liked it to be more than that?
As quickly as the question came, he shoved it off. Not because it wasn’t true. It definitely was. Not a day had gone by over the last three years that Lucien hadn’t thought of her. Even when he was trying to avoid it, his mind would always slip in a little bit of Raven right before he fell asleep. The soft, dark waves of her hair. Those deep blue eyes that looked almost indigo in the dark. The rare sound of her laugh, or the clean, soapy scent that hung in the air when she stood close enough. Yeah, there was no denying that Lucien would’ve chosen something more.
The problem was that he couldn’t acknowledge any of that to his boss. Even if he’d been the type to regularly expound upon his feelings, there was zero chance he’d just come out and say, Sorry, Sergeant. I didn’t follow up on her life because it was what I actually wanted to do, and that sure as hell wasn’t okay.
“Backfired in the worse way possible, didn’t it?” he muttered, finally opening his eyes again. “How am I going to find her, if she doesn’t want to be found?”
As the words left his mouth, the TV caught his eye once more, and he realized he didn’t even need an answer to the questions. The three-year anniversary date told him exactly where Raven Elliot would be, regardless as to her current address.
* * *
The morning breeze had the tiniest bit of a chill. It ruffled Raven Elliot’s long ponytail, reminding her that even though she had her jacket tied around her waist as she jogged through the streets, it wasn’t quite spring. Her step counter had buzzed a while back, telling her she’d hit the seven-kilometer mark. It was her target, four days a week. But today was different. She wasn’t out for exercise. She wasn’t out for fresh air. She wasn’t really even out to clear her head, though the clarity offered by the rush of oxygen was a bonus. But no. Today wasn’t about that. It was about a destination. And remembering.
One thousand and ninety-five, Raven thought as she hit a corner, then bounced on the spot as she waited for a car to go by before crossing.
That w
as how many days had passed since the bars slid shut on the man who’d destroyed her life by taking away everyone who mattered. And of those days, Raven had spent one thousand and—give or take—avoiding thinking about it. The solitary weeks after had been the hardest. She’d spent too much time thinking about it. Every waking second, it’d felt like. And there were still moments when she couldn’t help but let it overwhelm in. Birthdays. Holidays. Dates that should’ve been celebratory, but were instead nothing but tragic. But as soon as the thoughts reared up, she stuffed them back down again.
It wasn’t a particularly healthy coping mechanism. As a grief counselor, she knew that better than most. But it was her only coping mechanism. And if she was being honest, it worked better than any of the techniques she taught to her clients. Temporarily, anyway.
One day, she told herself. One day I’ll figure out how to confront it.
But for now, avoidance was what she stuck with. Except today, on the anniversary of Georges Hanes’s incarceration. It was the only time she consciously mulled things over. She thought about her parents and her brother, and she cursed the man who killed them. She remembered his complete lack of remorse and his final official statement, where he at last confessed, then admitted that if he were set free, he’d do it all over again. Raven also let herself consider whether or not there was anything she could’ve done differently, while it was happening. Some clue. Some missed hint. A move that would’ve saved a life. And on top of all of that, she thought about Detective Lucien Match—which was slightly more self-centered than the rest—and she let herself be painfully sad.
What’s he doing now? Raven wondered.
It was Tuesday, so probably working. She could easily picture his large frame straining against the crisp white shirt he preferred to wear while on official police business. His fingers would be tugging at his tie, perpetually loosening and tightening it until the very second his shift ended. Then he’d take it off, toss it aside and let out a dramatic sigh he wasn’t even conscious of. Raven, on the other hand, was conscious of every move he made. It was an unavoidable consequence of spending twenty-four hours a day together for two months straight.