The Killing Edge. Heather Graham

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      For family and friends in south Florida who make me glad that Miami has always been home, especially Graham, Franci and DJ Davant and my brand-new little nephew—

      Mr. Davant at this moment!

      And for Victoria Sophia, Alicia and Bobby Rosello—and Anthony Robert Rosello!

      PROLOGUE

      Silver.

      It was the color of the night, of the light of the full moon seeping in through the open drapes in the living room.

      As he entered carefully, mentally calculating the floor plan of the house, he marveled at the brightness of the night.

      He stopped and stood over a sleeping young man, then hunkered down and studied the boy’s face. So young, bathed in a buttermilk glow, the silver of the night muted, warm and gentle.

      He placed a powerful gloved hand over the young man’s mouth, then slit his throat, his sharply honed knife moving as smoothly through flesh as the fastest Donzi speeding through a calm sea. It wasn’t half as easy as it appeared in movies to slash a throat. Even with a knife as sharp as his, it took effort. And talent.

      He had the strength, and he had the talent.

      The boy made a slight gurgling sound, but that was it. Two feet away, crashed out on the floor, a young woman slept with her hands curled around a throw pillow. She hadn’t heard a thing.

      He stepped closer to her.

      His overwhelming impression as he stood there was of gold, the color of her hair.

      He dispatched her to a more glorious world with swift, cold calculation, then paused to take a good look at her face. He held still for a split second, then told himself to move on. He had not yet achieved his objective. Of course, he wasn’t working alone, but still… .

      He couldn’t trust anyone else not to screw things up. Not to mention that he was the one with a mission.

      He paused again, going dead still. Silence. The house was filled with silence. It was time to make his point before finishing the mission. He dipped his gloved finger in the dead girl’s blood, then walked over to the wall, writing quickly so he could finish while the blood was still wet and glistening. There was still so much to be done.

      A cloud slid over the moon, bringing pitch darkness in its wake, a blackness that ruled for a few breaths of time.

      Black.

      How apropos.

      Because black was the color of his soul.

      Red.

      Dark, rich crimson.

      The color spilled, deep and thick, over the white marble flooring.

      At first, hidden beneath the king-size bed in the master bedroom, Chloe Marin was aware only of the richness of the color.

      She was so frozen with terror that she couldn’t comprehend the meaning behind the flow, only the fact that it was red.

      Time had no meaning, either. She didn’t know if she had wakened just a few seconds ago, or if a dozen minutes had ticked away. She’d heard something, some sound, as she slept in the beachfront mansion, and though it was enough to wake her up, it hadn’t scared her in the least. After all, the housekeeper was sleeping somewhere on the property, as were the two live-in maids, and there were at least twenty young people scattered around the house, ranging in age from sixteen to twenty-one.

      David Grant, a big, burly football star, had passed out on the sofa downstairs, she knew. And Kit Ames, his girlfriend, had claimed the floor nearby. Even if it meant sleeping on the floor, Kit wouldn’t go far from David. She protected her turf with more ferocity than most of the players demonstrated on the field.

      But then something, something too elusive to identify, had alerted her, as if her every sense had been attuned to the night. She’d sensed movement somewhere in the house. Not the natural movement of those who belonged, those who had been invited in. It was subtle, as if she had heard the slithering of a snake moving through distant grass.

      She was sharing a room with two of the other girls, and at first both of them had appeared to be sleeping peacefully. But then she’d realized something was wrong, though she couldn’t explain how she’d known it. She’d tried to wake Jen Petersen, but Jen had been so deeply asleep that she hadn’t responded to her urgent whispers. She’d had more success with Victoria Preston, who’d just begun to rouse, when she had seen the man enter the room. He’d been all in black, wearing what looked like a black dive suit, including a tight hood that covered everything but his eyes and mouth. He hadn’t seen her or Victoria but had gone straight to Jen and stared down at her for a moment. Then, before Chloe could move, he struck.

      She tried not to scream and clamped a hand over Victoria’s mouth. Jen’s bed was close to the door, so to get away they had to make it to the bathroom connecting their room to the bedroom next door. Amazed by how quickly her mind was working in the midst of panic, she grabbed Victoria’s arm and dragged her into