The Stranger You Know. Andrea Kane
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It begins with a chilling phone call to Casey Woods. And ends with another girl dead.
College-age girls with long red hair. Brutally murdered, they’re posed like victims in a film noir. Each crime scene is eerily similar to the twisted fantasy of a serial offender now serving thirty years to life—a criminal brought to justice with the help of Forensic Instincts.
Call. Kill. Repeat. But the similarities are more than one psychopath’s desire to outdo another. As more red-haired victims are added to the body count, it becomes clear that each one has been chosen because of a unique connection to Casey—a connection that grows closer and closer to her.
Now the Forensic Instincts team must race to uncover the identity of a serial killer before his ever-tightening circle of death closes in on Casey as the ultimate target. As the stalker methodically moves in on his prey, his actions make one thing clear: he knows everything about Casey. And Casey realizes that this psychopath won’t stop until he makes sure she’s dead.
The Stranger You Know
Andrea Kane
To Mom and Dad—
always in our hearts, forever our nucleus, and forever connected.
I love you and miss you both more than words can say.
Contents
Chapter One
April
Offices of Forensic Instincts, LLC
Tribeca, Manhattan, New York
Just one more body.
But this one had a name. And a grieving father who needed answers before he died.
Casey Woods shoved the dozens of newspaper clippings that she’d collected into the thick file and slapped it shut. Then she leaned back in her chair, pressing her fingers to her closed eyelids.
It was Sunday, just after dawn. The streets were sleepy, occupied only by ambitious joggers and early morning coffee drinkers headed for the nearest Starbucks.
The brownstone that housed the private investigative firm Forensic Instincts was quiet.
Casey—the company president—was alone in the building, other than her bloodhound, Hero, who was stretched out by her feet, resting but alert. Casey had been up and working all night. Sleep wasn’t on her agenda. Work was.
As usual, she sat at the large second-floor conference room table, her notes sprawled in front of her. There were plenty of smaller offices to choose from in the four-story brownstone. She could even have worked in bed, since the fourth floor was her apartment. But the main conference room infused her with a sense of discipline and productivity she didn’t get anywhere else.
She needed to be productive now.
She wasn’t doing a hell of a good job.
Purposefully, she picked up the notes she’d printed out last night after her client meeting and reread them. She was unnerved, not by the meeting but by the entire case. That didn’t make her happy. She liked being in control. She almost always was.
This time was different. It wasn’t because this new assignment had come from the NYPD rather than from the client himself, but because it established