Help Me (A Katie Winter FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 5)

PROLOGUE Stephanie Grant walked downstairs, shivering, making sure the light was on before she headed into the shadowy hall. The cold, blowing downpour was only part of the reason why she felt spooked. She'd woken from a troubled dream this morning, and in the early hours she’d been sure she heard screaming coming from somewhere. A fight, perhaps? Or maybe just a few wild youths headed home after the bars had closed? She was living in this rental in downtown Vancouver while saving for her own place, but she was wondering if it would be better to give up on that dream and look for a house-share out in the suburbs. She didn’t enjoy city living, and she felt uneasy at the thought of the eight-block walk to work in the rainy predawn. There seemed to be strange things happening in the area. Mel, her co-worker, had mentioned yesterday that she'd thought she was being followed when she left the bakery. She'd actually taken a different route home to make sure of avoiding the guy. And there had been a few muggings in neighboring streets recently. A few robberies. Maybe that was the reason for her nightmare, Stephanie wondered. Grabbing her umbrella from the stand in the hall, and pulling her jacket tight around her, she gritted her teeth, stepping out into the blowing darkness. She was looking forward to the warmth of the baker's kitchen, and making a start on the day's breads and rolls, which would need to be ready by the time her first early morning customers started arriving. Hurrying across the road, she noticed a broken bottle on the sidewalk, the glass glinting dimly in the streetlight. The memory of last night's screaming surfaced in her mind again. Teens, maybe. Rowdy and drunk, throwing things as they walked. That was all, she reassured herself. Vancouver's streets were still dark, the buildings silent. The only sounds were the gusting wind, the hiss of rain, and the distant rumble of traffic from the bridge. The wind had risen, blowing the rain in sheets across the street. She clutched her coat tight and her umbrella close, ducking her head as she hurried through the storm. Most days she didn’t mind the walk. And in summer she liked to see the way the city came to life as the sun rose. The shutters opening, the blinds pulled up, restaurants and shops getting ready to greet the growing crowds. But not today. The late-winter weather was too oppressive, the rain blinding. A few early drivers were out, headlights washing over the sidewalk and walls, shining on the puddles. In the distance she heard the high wail of a siren. She glanced behind her, wondering if there was someone following her. She thought she'd heard splashing footsteps, but when she looked, nobody was there. Turning back, she slipped on the wet sidewalk and almost fell. Stumbling and catching herself against a wall, she listened. No movement. No sounds. Maybe it had just been the rain and wind. She hurried across the intersection, her boots splashing in the water, and turned the corner. As she reached the street where the bakery was located, she shivered. From the cold, from the dream, and from the feeling that she wasn't alone. She turned, looking back over the road, the lights and traffic and blowing rain. But there was nothing to see. She frowned, thinking about the dream. And the feeling of being watched by someone. Then she turned and walked on. There, at last, was the cheerful pink and white sign of the bakery. She felt a sense of relief that this oddly disturbing journey to work was over at last. Only a few more moments and she would be safely inside. But then, crossing the road, she frowned. The light of the sign above illuminated something ahead of her, something strange and dark, in the shade of the overhang. Stephanie felt a chill go through her. What was it? It had been trash bag collection yesterday. This looked like a discarded trash bag. She moved forward, looking nervously and suspiciously at the dark form in the shadows just outside the open back door of the bakery. Her heart accelerated. It wasn't a trash bag. She could see two legs, in dark stockings and black velvet boots, in the shadows. And a pale, outflung hand streaked with blood. Clapping her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream, Stephanie realized the awful, impossible truth. "No," she whispered. "No, no, no!" It was Mel lying there. Her colleague. Yesterday, she'd been sure she was being followed. This morning, she was dead. Stephanie had no idea what had happened, but she could see a dark crimson pool beneath her and as her shocked mind processed what it must be, she screamed aloud. This had been violent. Mel had been attacked. Shrieking in horror, unable to believe what she was seeing, Stephanie backed away, fumbling for her phone, turning as she grabbed it to run. She wasn't waiting here to call 911. Not when Mel had been killed, just a few minutes ago. She fled across the street, her breath sobbing in her lungs, fear overwhelming her. She wanted to hide away and never come back here, ever. Why had Mel been targeted? Why? And then an even worse thought loomed in her mind. What if this killer was still lurking somewhere nearby, waiting for her?