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By Margaret Carroll

Purely Caroline is familiar with the reality approximately her husband, the intense psychoanalyst whose checklist of sufferers contains a few of Washington, D.C.'s, so much celebrated. Caroline has visible the darkest aspect of this merciless, controlling psychopath who watches her each flow. With just a couple of invaluable mins disbursed to her, get away is now or by no means. Caroline needs to run for her existence . . . as a ways and quickly as she will. yet even thousand miles isn't really some distance adequate. a brand new id, new city, and new love—rugged pro-footballer-turned-outdoorsman Ken Kincaid—won't guard her. simply because Caroline understands Porter won't ever cease till he is hunted her down. And there'll be a reckoning . . .

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He now realized he had underestimated Lindsay Crowley. She was a loose cannon who had gone to the police with her concerns. She could have said things to arouse their suspicions so they would think him capable of almost anything, Porter realized. ” Porter glanced down, licking his lips that had turned dry. He tasted salt. The sweat on his face prickled his skin. He took a swipe at it, willing himself to drop his hands before he scratched at the hives that were bubbling beneath his beard, making him itch.

Today she was late. Ten minutes already. That never happened. A woman with long brown hair walked past, and for an instant his heart leaped. But the woman was not his wife. His stomach curled and contracted until it twisted into a tight ball, leaving him nauseated. The feeling dated back to his childhood, and Porter’s knowledge of that didn’t help. His first patient was lying on the couch. There was no sound from the upper floors of the historic townhouse he shared with his wife and her dog. Caroline was gone.

Caroline knew the codes for the main entrance, the residence, and the door to the tiny garden, but not the office. Only the cleaning woman knew that. Porter closed his eyes. Akua, his cleaning woman of ten years, had quit without warning two weeks ago. With a face as broad and open as the African veldt where she was born, she had started out cleaning his tiny studio in Foggy Bottom and stayed with him when he purchased his luxury condo in Dupont Circle. She had earned Porter’s trust and he had rewarded her with a bonus each Christmas, including one big enough to purchase an airline ticket for her husband, whom Porter suspected was here illegally.

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