Detective Dani Cole has been trying to make up for a
horrible and difficult past for years when the murders first
begin. The case is personal to Dani because one of the
victims is a young woman that Dani had helped. This young
woman was back on her feet and leading a life that would
have taken her somewhere good when she was brutally
murdered. After another young woman is murdered, it becomes
clear that this deranged killer has killed before and will
kill again. Dani is committed to finding this psychotic
murderer even as she finds herself in harm's way. The killer
has a very personal agenda and will not be stopped. As
Dani gets closer to the truth, the killer becomes focused her.
The investigation becomes even more personal when
photojournalist Mitch Sheridan, Dani's past love, becomes
involved. Mitch was the only man Dani ever loved but she
pushed him away. Now Mitch is back and very much
interested in rekindling what he and Dani once enjoyed.
So when he is put right in the middle of the murder
investigation, he's more than willing to help. Dani won't
admit it, but she wants him there, too. As the two of them
are thrown together during this investigation, the
attraction between them becomes even harder to deny. But
will either of them live long enough to give it another try?
Kate Brady's writing will keep you up way past your bedtime,
so do yourself a favor and don't start reading this book
until you have the time to finish it. The murderer and the
reasons
behind the killings are all very deliciously twisted and
different. You won't find this particular type of
murderer in any other book or movie.
The emotions Ms. Brady evokes in this book make the
characters stay with you long after you've read the final
page. This is a book that encompasses everything a great
book of this genre should have-- A tough, sexy heroine, the
rich, successful, handsome, and somewhat damaged man who
loves her, a scary serial killer, hot romantic tension, and
lots of nerve jangling stalking and murder scenes.
As for myself, I LOVED this book! I now must read every book
Kate Brady writes! Once you read LAST TO DIE, you'll be a
fan, too.
A killer hides in plain sight, portraying the ideal citizen
while hatching a horrific plan to avenge wrongs of the
past. Six desperate women will be brutally murdered for
their dark sins, their hair hacked with shears and
portraits destroyed with acid.
Detective Dani Cole is devastated to discover that one of
the victims was a young woman she’d pulled from a life of
crime. The investigation becomes even more personal when
it leads her to Mitch Sheridan, a renowned photojournalist
she remembers all too well. The two share a painful past,
and an attraction that re-ignites as they unearth a deathly
chain of deception operating right under Mitch’s nose.
Their efforts will reveal a killer much closer than they
think—and make Dani the last on a list of those who must
die.
Excerpt
Chapter One
Camden Park, Lancaster, MD
Sunday, October 3, 7:50 p.m.
Whoops and giggles, the scent of Belgian waffles in the
air, the screech of balloons being bullied into bubble-
eared poodles. The sidewalks teemed with mothers pushing
overstuffed strollers and fathers talking into Bluetooth
earpieces, while preschool children orbited their parents
like forgotten moons—lagging behind, straying from the
paths, lured from arm’s reach by the colorful remnants of
popped poodles on the ground or the call of a snow cone
vendor. Bait, if you were a child molester or kidnapper.
Easy pickings.
The killer was neither. Children were of no interest;
they committed no crimes. Their mothers did. Heinous,
unspeakable crimes they thought would go unpunished.
Wrong.
One such woman was about to learn that. Young, with
dark flowing hair and porcelain cheeks, she lurked behind a
magician’s kiosk, aiming her cheap little camera at the
Kinney family—Robert and Alana, and their two-year-old son,
Austin. For the past hour, the killer had watched the
woman secretly trail the Kinneys through the carnival,
snapping photo after photo of the child. Yes, two years
after the fact, the woman’s conscience had apparently
kicked in.
Too little, bitch. Too late.
Oblivious, the woman hunched deeper into her denim
jacket and followed the Kinneys into the parking lot,
keeping to the outer row of cars then edging into the woods
to sneak more photos of little Austin. Fool. She was
making things easy, tucked out of sight with her righteous
ambition and her camera. The killer cut between cars and
closed in, face lowered until the cover of trees, though
there was little chance of being recognized: boots, cap,
beard. Loose nylon jacket with big square pockets. Trusty
shears inside. They nearly vibrated with the need to
complete their mission.
Easy, now. Watch, wait for the right moment. The
Kinneys headed for the far corner of the parking lot,
Austin’s legs straddling his father’s neck, his little face
stuck in a blue cloud of cotton candy. Robert Kinney
pushed a button in his hand and a black Mercedes bleeped to
life, and the woman who was about to die skirted behind a
row of huge rhododendrons, lifting her camera. The killer
straightened, adrenaline surging. She was only fifteen
feet away. Distracted, out of sight, unsuspecting.
Now.
The killer came in fast, from behind, shears aiming for
that slender throat like a missile. The woman must have
heard; she whirled and opened her mouth to scream, but the
blades sank into her larynx and the sound came out, Unkh.
Her knees buckled and she dropped, the shears plunging in
and out, in and out, time dragging each thrust into the
slow motion of a dream. The cheek, don’t leave the cheek.
The shears pulled out and smashed higher against her face,
the smooth flesh turning to pulp, blood spraying onto the
killer’s lips, tasting like copper.
Fifteen seconds, maybe twenty—Stop now, before she’s
gone. It’s important that she live long enough to
understand what’s happening. Quit, stand up. Breathe.
The killer straightened, lungs heaving, and wiped
spittle onto the jacket sleeve. The woman lay on the
ground, pupils wide, her knees pulling in like an accordion
losing air. A gurgle bubbled from her throat and her heart
kept at it for another few seconds, then that beautiful
moment of dawning came to her eyes.
She knew. In that final, glorious second, the women
always understood. Take it, her dying eyes said.
Yes, now, take it. For Kristina. To bring her back.
The killer knelt, gathered a handful of blood-slick
hair, and sawed at it with the shears until the hank came
free.
A car horn blasted, picking up time again. Shit, get
going—there’s still so much to do. Call Fulton; tonight,
he would earn his pay. Even back here in the woods, if
left, the woman’s body would eventually be found. There
was no time for that sort of complication. Less than a
week until the meeting with Kristina.
So, pocket the shears and the hair. And take the camera—
for god’s sake, don’t leave the camera. Shot after shot of
Austin Kinney.
The killer looked down, satisfaction glowing from
within, pulled out an embossed card and opened it. The
clock was ticking, but this was important: Keep the
records straight. On the right side of the card, a
scrawled promise: Next Sunday, Kristina, 7:00 p.m. On the
left, in the killer’s flowery hand, a list of six names.
Smears of brownish-red marked through the first three.
The killer bent, touched a finger to dead woman’s cheek,
then placed the glistening red ink on the fourth name and
dragged a bloody line across it. Woman Number Four, done.
Only two more to go.
Now, to tie up the loose ends the dead woman had
unraveled. The killer gave a final glance to the body and
walked away, keeping to the woods and digging out a pre-
paid cell phone. Fulton answered on the first ring. "Are
you with Russell Sanders?"
Fulton yawned. "He’s been in his apartment all evening."
"What’s he doing?"
"How the hell should I know? He’s alone, spent some
time in the kitchen."
Okay. So at least Sanders wasn’t out talking to the
police. Maybe the dead woman hadn’t told him yet that
she’d found Austin Kinney. Still, she had consulted with
Sanders, that much was certain. Probably planned to run
right over to him with the camera full of pictures
tonight. Reason enough to make sure he didn’t go digging
around trying uncover secrets, or worse, calling his buddy
Mitch Sheridan.
"You want me to take him?" Fulton. He was getting
antsy. "He’s pacing. Looks like he might be on the phone."
Calling police? The dead woman? Mitch? Sanders had to
be stopped.
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