The moment she was inside and alone, Charlotte Walsh pulled off her too-thin black jacket and grabbed the duvet from the hotel room bed. Housekeeping must have just changed the linens, as the fabric seemed stiff and smelled of detergent. She didn’t care. During the ride back from the funeral she had grown so cold her hands and feet had gone numb. She looked around, desperate for a place to sit and huddle. Aside from two wooden chairs by a tiny table, a shallow windowsill, and a low dresser under the wall mirror, only the bed offered a perch. She hadn’t slept more than an hour or two for weeks.

If I lay down I will never get up again.

Sitting on top of the dresser, Charlotte leaned her head against the mirror. Her muscles ached with stiffness; all through the service she had sat rigid and unmoving, her gaze fixed on the flower-draped, smiling portrait of Zoey Vincent. Every word delivered by the minister had sounded soft and consoling, but that had been his job. He’d been there to provide spiritual reassurance for the family and friends Zoey had left behind in life. According to him the young artist had been a kind, generous person who had contributed so much to the community through her extraordinary talent. She had moved on to a better place now, the minister had promised, but she would not be forgotten.

That’s such a load of crap, Zoey would have said. I hated my family, drank my way through art school, wasted what little talent I had painting tedious tourist scapes, and slept around too much. I even got myself brutally murdered––only that was your fault, wasn’t it, Blondie?

Condensation from Charlotte’s breath formed on the mirror in a misty swatch of white that widened and shrank. She knew the voice in her head didn’t belong to her dead friend but her conscience, which had been tormenting her ever since finding Zoey’s body. She could do nothing but endure, and hope in time it would stop. For now she just needed to rest and collect herself; in a minute she would get up and turn off the air conditioning. In the glass she saw the reflection of tiny words printed in white on the front of her black T-shirt.

Stop staring at my boobs, pervert.

The shirt belonged to Zoey; Charlotte had pulled it on this morning thinking it was solid black. No wonder everyone had given her those weird looks; she’d worn a joke T-shirt to her friend’s funeral. For the past three days she’d been functioning on auto-pilot, doing whatever was required of her but remaining emotionally disconnected. She’d been like this ever since coming back from her studio and seeing what was left of her friend on the kitchen floor.

I let you move in with me and look what happened. Zoey, sassy and plump and filled with endless energy, grinned at Charlotte from her memories. He was waiting for you when I walked into the house. You know I was alone with him for hours, right? That too-chatty cop mentioned that I didn’t die right away, remember?

“Stop.” That came out of her like an apology, not a warning. “Please.”

I have nothing better to do now, Blondie. Want to know what it’s like to be tortured? Not as much fun as sleeping around, I can tell you that. What are the odds that they’ll ever find the rest of me? I wonder what the funeral etiquette is for that kind of thing.

Charlotte pushed off the comforter and staggered into the bathroom, falling to her knees in front of the toilet and ripping off the paper sanitized band before she threw up. Doing that until her stomach emptied finally silenced the phantom voice in her head, but it left her throat raw and her legs unsteady. She hauled herself up to rinse out her mouth and brush her teeth, and splashed her face with cold water before looking at herself in the sink mirror.

Even dripping wet, the tall brown-eyed blonde in the glass appeared remote and unaffected, no doubt the only benefit of inheriting her chic mother’s cold, elegant genes.

Why are you upset? Leona Walsh would ask her if they had still been speaking. Better her than you.

As Charlotte took off the T-shirt and replaced it with a white sweater, she didn’t look at herself again. Being blonde, well-built and almost six feet tall had made her unable to escape unwanted attention all her adult life; having her mother’s regally beautiful face had been bitter icing on an unpalatable cake. Throughout Charlotte’s childhood, Leona had been like an iceberg, silent and invulnerable, ready to smash and sink anyone and anything that tried to collide with her. She never attacked, but whenever Charlotte didn’t do as she wanted, Leona would smile and say something devastating.

Why should you make me happy? You never have before now.

You’re as careless and ridiculous as your father.

Someday when you’re in the sewer you’ll wish you had listened to me.

A Parisian fashion buyer who traveled the world, Leona had reluctantly married Peter Walsh after becoming pregnant from, what had been for her, a week-long fling. Twelve unhappy years later, Leona decided that she couldn’t squander the rest of her youth mothering her shy, awkward daughter. Once resolved, she had found herself another, richer man, filed for divorce, and promptly returned to France. Before she’d left, Leona had told Charlotte all of the sordid details of her conception, and blamed her for her lack of success as well as the marriage and divorce.

That is how you ruined my life, by being born. If I hadn’t wasted all these years on you and your pathetic father I would have my own label now.

Peter Walsh had tried to make up for the damage her mother had done to Charlotte, but he’d genuinely loved Leona, and couldn’t get over her dumping him. He kept making excuses for her mother when he knew she hadn’t loved either of them, and then drank himself unconscious every night after Charlotte went to bed. She’d only found out about his alcohol abuse a few years ago, when Peter had died suddenly. The autopsy revealed the terrible damage his secret drinking had done to his heart and liver.

Dutifully calling Leona once a year on her birthday had been the only contact Charlotte could maintain with her mother. After losing her dad she couldn’t bear even that one stiff, unfriendly conversation, and had stopped making the calls. Leona had never bothered to find out why.

Here I am, throwing a pity party for myself on the day of Zoey’s funeral, while I’m wearing her T-shirt. I’m worse than Mom ever was.

A knock on the room door made Charlotte dry her face and compose herself as she walked out and looked through the peephole. The armed plain-clothes officer standing outside had a take-out food bag, and looked bored. He’d been the one sitting behind her through the service; his partner had sat beside her. They had promised not to let her out of their sight until they caught Zoey’s killer. She took in a deep breath before she unlocked the door and opened it.

“Some lunch for you, Ms. Walsh.” Arranging his expression in a semblance of sympathy, he held out the usual bag and a can of soda.

“Thank you.” Charlotte took the food and glanced down the hall. “How long do I have to stay here?”

“Headquarters finally has the safe house, and we’ll move you there tomorrow.” As he spoke he tilted his head back to meet her gaze, but the corners of his mouth dropped. Like most men shorter than her, the officer resented having to look up at a woman. “Detective Logan will be coming by later to brief you on what happens from here. We’ve disconnected the room phone, and I have to ask for your cell.”

She handed it to him. “I really don’t have anyone to call.”

“It would be best if you only talk to us.” He pocketed her phone and stepped out.

Charlotte closed and locked the door before she let out a breath. At least the authorities finally seemed ready to take her seriously, but she hadn’t been the one to persuade them. Whoever had been stalking her had made it clear he would do anything he had to in order to get to her, and that included killing two patrolmen assigned to watch her. Poor Zoey, who had gone home on her lunch hour to get something she’d forgotten, had surprised the killer as he was searching the place.

You don’t look anything alike, Zoey’s older sister had said, sobbing into a crumpled tissue while they’d waited to give statements at the police station. Why would he kill her instead of you?

Charlotte set aside the food the officer had given her, and picked up the comforter, absently folding it before placing it on the end of the bed. She went to shut off the air conditioning unit, which Housekeeping had left on full blast, and pulled back the curtains. Downtown Toronto on a Sunday afternoon still looked busy, and the warmer temperature brought by summer had everyone wearing shorts. They milled below like colorful ants around the skyscrapers as they walked through the pedestrian markets and waited in lines at patio restaurants.

The first wave of the season, tourists and weekend visitors would crowd into the city for the next two months. Would anyone warn them that a serial killer targeting young women had been on the loose?

Your stalker, you mean, Zoey’s ghost chimed in.

The police still didn’t believe the man who had been shadowing Charlotte was the serial killer responsible for six other murders in Moss Park before he’d killed the patrolmen and her friend; they didn’t see any similarities between the crimes. Stalkers, she had been told, fixated on one target and if obsessed enough would kill to get to them; serial killers had specific desires and would kill only victims who could satisfy them. They believed the man terrorizing her to be an overly-obsessed fan who had copycatted the Moss Park Butcher, the serial killer hunting prostitutes and drug addicts in one of the worst neighborhoods in Toronto.

Charlotte would have agreed, except for one thing: the stalker had told her over the phone that he was the Moss Park Butcher.

You’ve seen the news, haven’t you, precious? They won’t mention that I drowned those six girls after I had my fun; they’re keeping that a secret. He’d uttered his high-pitched laugh before he’d asked, What do you think of my art?

Charlotte opened the can of soda and sipped from it, grimacing at the too-sweet taste but making herself drink. If she passed out from dehydration she’d end up in the hospital, and the killer would have no problem getting at her in there. He’d simply dress up in scrubs and a mask and walk right into her room. Like a ghost this man haunted her, seeing everything she did and knowing every move she would make even before she did. She knew now that he wouldn’t stop until he finished this ghastly game of cat-and-mouse, which really left only one question.

Why me?

As a freelance artist Charlotte had been under contract as an illustrator to three different publishers over the last five years. Creating the artwork for the covers and stories of children’s books had provided her with steady work since she’d graduated college, and she liked what she did. When she wanted to do something for herself she would paint original watercolors on the side, which a few small local galleries sometimes showed in multi-artist exhibits during festival weekends.

Her art allowed her to make a modest living and stay out of debt. After her father died she’d received his life insurance, which had been enough for her to pay off her car and lease a small professional studio. No one would call her rich, however, so it couldn’t be money.

As for relationships, Charlotte could count on one hand all the men she’d dated since moving to Toronto from the suburbs. Being very tall eliminated her as a prospect for most guys anyway. The few who had matched or topped her height seemed comfortable with her, but they had all been busy professionals. None had been especially upset when she had called it quits with them. Jack, the realtor whom she’d dated last year, had even assured her that she was great-looking arm candy but a schoolgirl in bed.

You should try to be a little more adventurous, babe, he had told her when he’d taken out a pair of handcuffs one night, and she’d stopped undressing. It’s not like you’re twelve, and who knows? You might even like it.

What’s wrong with treating me like a lady? she had countered.

A lady? Jack had laughed out loud. What do you think you are, royalty or something?

Because of his penchant for bondage, Charlotte had worried that Jack had been the one stalking her, but after she had mentioned him as a possible suspect the police had investigated and cleared him of any involvement. All that lingered from that relationship now was a weary resentment for having wasted her time on such a jerk. Of course she knew her attitudes to be slightly old-fashioned, but she didn’t regard mutual respect as an unreasonable expectation.

In reality she would have loved to find a guy like those she drew in her fairytale illustrations. Her ideal didn’t have to be a prince or a knight like the characters she painted, but he would be strong, fair and kind. A gallant soul who still believed in chivalry and courtesy as well as romance would be perfect for her. He would be the sort of man unafraid to be as affectionate as he was passionate. That kind of guy wouldn’t need handcuffs to make sex exciting.

Her dream man would never let anything bad happen to her, either.

For someone like that Charlotte imagined she could finally toss aside her inhibitions and reveal her own wildly romantic heart, but she knew she’d never find him. These days men seemed to be all about themselves, cheap thrills, and how they could personally profit from a relationship. Even after they’d broken up, Jack had still texted her to crow about making an important sale, ask if she wanted to hook up, or suggest his services if she ever wanted to put her condo on the market.

Another knock on the door brought Charlotte back to reality, and once she checked she let Detective Logan into the room.

“Sorry I couldn’t go to the funeral with you, Ms. Walsh.” A round-shouldered, beefy man with kind eyes, he smelled of recently-applied aftershave. “I’d like to talk to you about your living arrangements. We’ve secured a safe house for you, but…well, let me show it to you first.”

Charlotte sat down at the little table, where the detective showed her the image on his phone. The dingy one-room apartment had water-stained walls, dingy carpeting pocked by holes and tears, and a sagging, mildew-stained window shaker. An army of cockroaches likely occupied every nook and cranny; just looking at it she could almost smell the sour dampness.

“You want me to stay in a place like this?” she asked, just to be sure.

“I’m afraid with our budget it’s the best we can do right now,” Logan admitted. “It might be better for you to make your own arrangements. Do you have any family in the states or overseas, maybe?”

“My grandparents are in a long-term care home. I have some cousins in the UK, but I don’t know them very well.” She hesitated before she added, “My mother remarried and moved to Paris.”

“Could you stay with her for a while?” he asked, looking hopeful. “It really would be best for you to put some distance between you and Canada.”

That was when Charlotte knew he was keeping something from her. “Why do you want me to leave the country?”

Logan grimaced. “I can’t get into the details of the case, Ms. Walsh.”

He had a decent poker face, but the flash of anger in his eyes told Charlotte the situation had gone from horrible to worse.

“It’s the Moss Park Butcher, right? You connected him to Zoey and the two officers who were murdered.” That wasn’t all, either; she saw the way his mouth tightened when she mentioned the killer. “You know something else about him.”

The detective looked defeated now. “We won’t know until the coroner reviews all of the autopsy reports, but it appears that you’re right, and the two cases are related. We’ve also found some similarities to unsolved murders in Nova Scotia, Vancouver and Montreal.”

Charlotte’s scalp prickled with cold sweat as her dread deepened. “How many others did he kill?”

“As I said, we won’t know for a while, Ms. Walsh. However, if we can connect him to these cold cases, ah.” He ducked his head. “It’ll be over a hundred.”

In that moment she knew she would die if she stayed here. Nothing will ever stop him.

“I’ll go to France.” If Leona refused to take her in, Charlotte thought, she would live on her savings until she could arrange to work remotely from there. “I brought my passport with me. When can I leave?”

Logan met her gaze. “We’ll take you to the airport as soon as you reserve a flight.”