The Killing Edge Read online

  Praise for the novels of Heather Graham

  “An incredible storyteller.”

  —Los Angeles Daily News

  “Graham wields a deftly sexy and convincing pen.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “If you like mixing a bit of the creepy with a dash of sinister and spine-chilling reading with your romance, be sure to read Heather Graham’s latest…Graham does a great job of blending just a bit of paranormal with real, human evil.”

  —Miami Herald on Unhallowed Ground

  “A haunted mansion, a crazed killer, and plenty of romantic tension…will give readers chills while keeping them guessing until the end.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Ghost Moon

  “The paranormal elements are integral to the unrelentingly suspenseful plot, the characters are likable, the romance convincing, and, in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, Graham’s atmospheric depiction of a lost city is especially poignant.”

  —Booklist on Ghost Walk

  “Graham’s rich, balanced thriller sizzles with equal parts suspense, romance and the paranormal—all of it nail-biting.”

  —Publishers Weekly on The Vision

  “Heather Graham will keep you in suspense until the very end.”

  —Literary Times

  “Mystery, sex, paranormal events. What’s not to love?”

  —Kirkus Reviews on The Death Dealer

  Also by HEATHER GRAHAM

  NIGHT OF THE VAMPIRES

  GHOST MOON

  GHOST NIGHT

  GHOST SHADOW

  NIGHT OF THE WOLVES

  HOME IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS

  UNHALLOWED GROUND

  DUST TO DUST

  NIGHTWALKER

  DEADLY GIFT

  DEADLY HARVEST

  DEADLY NIGHT

  THE DEATH DEALER

  THE LAST NOEL

  THE SÉANCE

  BLOOD RED

  THE DEAD ROOM

  KISS OF DARKNESS

  THE VISION

  THE ISLAND

  GHOST WALK

  KILLING KELLY

  THE PRESENCE

  DEAD ON THE DANCE FLOOR

  PICTURE ME DEAD

  HAUNTED

  HURRICANE BAY

  A SEASON OF MIRACLES

  NIGHT OF THE BLACKBIRD

  NEVER SLEEP WITH STRANGERS

  EYES OF FIRE

  SLOW BURN

  NIGHT HEAT

  And a new adventure begins

  PHANTOM EVIL

  A Krewe of Hunters novel

  HEATHER GRAHAM

  THE KILLING EDGE

  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!

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  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 clam
ped 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 the bathroom, slamming the door behind them.

  Victoria started screaming then, and Chloe shoved her out into the hall. As Chloe started to follow, someone closed the door from the outside, leaving her no choice but to retreat to the other bedroom.

  There was more than one stranger in the house, she realized.

  More than one killer.

  The bedroom door started to open as someone began dragging a body in. A big body.

  Chloe quickly plunged under the bed.

  The full moon suddenly burst through the clouds, spilling oyster-shell white light across the room through the gaps in the drapes.

  That was when she saw red.

  Crimson. Spilling across the floor.

  Dripping from above her. From a body on the bed.

  She tried not to scream and waited, listening. They were barely discernible, but she could hear footsteps. She stared into the room from her hiding place and saw that the killer wore clear plastic freezer bags over his feet. And his dive skin, appropriate for the balmy waters of Florida and the Caribbean, was sold by the thousands in the area.

  Two killers, one in this room and one next door. Or were there more? Had Victoria made it down the stairs?

  She watched his feet moving stealthily across the floor and into the bathroom.

  He would find her there beneath the bed. He was bound to.

  Knowing she had no choice, she rolled out from beneath the bed, and carefully, silently, on bare feet, hurried to the door to the hallway. She looked out and saw no one, so she slipped out, hoping to find someone else alive, hoping to find something with which to save herself.

  Nothing. No one. She raced along the hall to the stairway. Ochre light filled the living room at the foot of the grand stairway.

  Red spilled out across the marble there, too.

  Red spelled a message on the wall.

  Death to defilers!

  There was a picture in red, as well….

  A strangely shaped hand drawn in blood.

  She sensed movement behind her and turned to look. Brad Angsley, Victoria’s college-age cousin, was staggering out from one of the other bedrooms, holding his head. She rushed toward him.

  “He’s right behind us!” he cried

  “Move!” she insisted, and helped him stagger down the stairs. As they reached the great entry with its double doors, she dared a quick look back.

  Someone was coming after them, another man in black, with some kind of knapsack or canvas bag over his shoulder.

  Which killer was he?

  Were there more ahead? What would happen when she opened the door? Would another killer be waiting there?

  She had no choice but to find out. She struggled briefly with the lock, then threw open the doors and raced out, with Brad clinging to her shoulder. They made it down the long gravel path to the driveway and had almost lost themselves amidst the collection of BMWs, Audis and beat-up cars that belonged to the average kids who had made their way here.

  Behind them, closing in on them, she could hear pounding footsteps.

  They turned together, and she could see the knife gleaming in the moon light, the blade dripping blood.

  She leaned Brad against a car and grabbed a statue of Poseidon. It was heavy, but she barely noticed its weight as she wrenched it from the ground and swung it with both arms.

  She caught their pursuer on the side of the head. He staggered back, and she let out a scream that seemed to last forever, until she realized that Brad had broken into the car, setting off its alarm.

  Lights suddenly blazed, illuminating the driveway. Chloe saw Victoria stagger from the trees bordering the drive, holding tight to Jared Walker, who appeared to be unharmed, though his face was ashen.

  Victoria was waving a cell phone as she yelled, “Hang on! Help is coming!”

  Thank God for technology, Chloe thought.

  The lights were coming from the cop cars that were swarming onto the property.

  Chloe stared at her attacker, praying that he would fall, that he wouldn’t come after them again before the cops could take aim and fire.

  The man stared back at her, his mask torn where the statue had caught it, and she felt as if she was staring into the face of pure evil.

  Her heart stopped, and she prayed.

  But he didn’t come closer; instead, he took one look at the approaching cops, then turned and ran.

  As if on cue, the moon slipped behind a cloud, and the killer was lost in the deep shadows beside the house.

  Cops and paramedics began rushing onto the property. Someone took Brad; someone else grabbed Chloe, and she opened her mouth to scream.

  “It’s all right,” a man’s voice assured her, and she found herself staring at a policeman. “You’re hurt. You need help.”

  “I’m not hurt,” she said, then lifted her hands and realized that they were bathed in blood.

  Crimson with blood.

  Red-shot darkness descended on her, and she slipped into oblivion.

  It was over, and yet not over.

  In the days and months that followed, she saw them all again. Her friends, with their good traits and their bad, who never had a chance to mature and become good people or selfish assholes.

  They haunted her dreams.

  She saw them dead, where they had lain on the floor in spreading pools of red.

  Yes, she saw them in her dreams. Or were they dreams? She would simply open her eyes to see them there, surrounding her bed, looking at her.

  Asking her for help. Begging her for help.

  “How can I help you…? Tell me,” she asked aloud more than once.

  But they never answered.

  Of course not. They weren’t real. They were symptoms of her own psychological stress and trauma.

  They were dreams. Bad dreams. Nightmares.

  And in the therapy that followed, she was convinced at last that she didn’t see them, that they were symptoms of survivor’s guilt that haunted her heart and soul, and that only time could ever begin to heal such a wound.

  Finally, like mist, silver and gray, they slipped away, and she learned to live.

  ONE

  Ten years later

  The old Branoff mansion on the beach was exquisite. Built at the dawn of the area’s first age of sophistication, it was over eighty years old and elegant in the Mediterranean-slash-Spanish style of the mid-1920s. It wasn’t far from a similar house where, not so many years before, Gianni Versace had been gunned down, and tourists often passed on their way to gawk at the murder scene, establishing their right to say they had been there.

  The less notorious mansion, now the local HQ and informal models’ dorm for the famed Bryson Agency, sat on an acre of land, with a formidable front lawn, now alight in a rainbow of colors. The gardens and walks were elegant, and the ornate iron gates that controlled access past the ten-foot stone wall that surrounded the villa weren’t locked this evening. But access still wasn’t easy. The beautiful people were entering tonight for the latest agency party. Mainly beautiful women. The kind of women who, if they didn’t already personify absolute perfection, could be air brushed to get there.

  Only the beautiful made it past the guards with the guest list, only the most elegant.

  And, of course, those with the most money. This was, after all, the ritzy area of Miami Beach.

  As he walked to the gates, displaying his invitation and fake ID to the tuxedoed men on duty, Luke knew he fell into the “rich” category—at least for the evening. Thanks to the fact that he spent the majority of his life in cutoffs and T-shirts, his few ensembles with designer labels were in excellent repair. And thanks, he commended himself dryly, to his tall-but-not-too-tall, just-right build, he was able to disappear i
nto any crowd full of said labels. Despite the age of the clothing, it—and he—fit right in. He wasn’t a cop, but he was undercover. He had to fit in.

  He didn’t usually wear sunglasses at night. But with this crowd, he had surmised that he might look more as if he belonged by wearing them than not. He hadn’t been mistaken. Even the guards at the gates checking IDs and invitations were wearing shades. Though in the colorful but soft light bathing the place, he was surprised that they could read anything.

  Maybe they didn’t read. Maybe they just knew. Or perhaps the rumor circulating among the less fortunate was true and exquisite beauty got you in, with or without an invitation. He noticed that the guards were only scrutinizing the IDs of the “regular” people, and then only if they didn’t recognize and approve of the labels being worn.

  He thanked the two burly men at the gate who stepped aside after eyeing him carefully. He had the height to match them, but he’d never been built like a bulldog, though he worked out enough each day to keep up the muscle he needed. He supposed, however, that for this evening, his appearance of being tall and lean worked well, and it made the clothes fit better, anyway.

  Once across the lawn, as he neared the house, he noticed a bevy of beauties on the porch. They were sipping cocktails and posing. Perched on the railing, seated at the edge of a chair, legs folded just so, elegant and certainly provocative. They weren’t being overt about anything—these girls weren’t looking for careers as porn stars. They were shooting for the big leagues, for uberstardom. Swimsuit issues and the covers of fashion magazines.

  They must have seen instantly that, though his features were attractive, he wasn’t young, and he was far from model perfect. In their world, that meant he was money.

  He was welcomed with a cascade of hellos and smiles, a few of them more obvious than the rest. He smiled in return and made sure to look like a businessman with a personal interest in the modeling business. The Bryson Agency, with offices not only across the country but around the world, was one of the most reputable in the business, known for creating some of the most highly paid celebrity models of the century, women far above the sleazy sex-for-a-swimsuit-spread trade-offs that were common at the low end of the profession, though he suspected some girls would certainly be more willing than others to engage in a little extracurricular activity to achieve the goal of stardom.