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Informationen zum Autor Michelle Gagnon writes thrillers for teens and adults. A former modern dancer, dog walker, bartender, freelance journalist, personal trainer, and model, she’s currently pursuing a master’s degree in clinical psychology. She lives in Los Angeles with her family and way too many dogs. Klappentext "Amber Jamison cannot believe she's about to become the latest victim of a serial killer--she's savvy and street smart, so when she gets pushed into, of all things, a white windowless van, she's more angry than afraid. Things get even weirder when she's miraculously saved by a mysterious woman ... who promptly disappears. Who was she? And why is she hunting serial killers? You'd think escaping one psychopath would be enough, but Amber's problems are just beginning. Her close call has law enforcement circling a past she's tried to outrun. So she flees across the country, ending up at a seedy motel in Las Vegas with a noir-obsessed manager and a sex worker as her unlikely companions ... and danger right behind. She's landed in the crosshairs of the world's most prolific killer, caught up in a deadly game that's been going on for years. To survive, she's forced to dust off her old playbook and partner with someone she can't trust. The odds are against her, but sometimes you just have to roll the dice"-- Leseprobe Chapter One: You Only Live Once The worst part was that I felt stupid. Well, that's not entirely true. The real worst part was that I was tied up in the back of a van with a hood over my head, and based on recent news reports, something truly horrific was about to happen. But feeling stupid was definitely second worst. I'd followed every campus safety alert and obsessively read every news article. Johnson City, Tennessee, wasn't the kind of place where anything of significance ever happened, and then-whammo! It was the hunting grounds for a serial killer. The population of sixty-six thousand seemed to have doubled overnight: satellite news vans lined Main Street (yes, there was an actual, honest-to-God Main Street); the Holiday Inn was fully booked, which never happened outside of college reunion weekends; and the Johnson City Tribune finally had articles that didn't involve the school board or city council. The killings were all anyone talked about in the Foodtown checkout line, over drinks at the Crow Bar, heck, even at the local strip club (suffice it to say, I've explored the local adult entertainment options). Like me, the victims were all petite brunettes in their early twenties. Those similarities had elicited a tingle of excitement-the "it could've been me" awe of someone who missed a flight that crashed. Although I was equally certain that only a real idiot fell victim to a serial killer. That sort of thing happened to wide-eyed innocents who offered to help a guy with a fake cast load something into his van. I wouldn't fall for the old "Can you give me directions?" or "Help, I'm on crutches!" tricks. Not me, no way. Well, ha ha. The joke was on me. Because it turns out I'd been exactly as dumb as those other girls. Will I be his fifth victim, or the sixth? It was a strange thing to focus on, but while I lay on the floor of the van (of course it was a van), rocking from side to side as we drove along a bumpy road, that number seemed terribly important. Calm down , I told myself. There was an FBI task force dedicated to the case; the Tribune claimed they'd basically taken over the Johnson City Police Department. An intrepid agent was probably already on my trail, they'd surely find a critical clue just in time to save me- Except there were no clues; we hadn't scuffled, and I hadn't dropped anything. Stupid, I chastised myself again. The bastard hadn't even done something clever to trick me. Just past dusk I had been walking back to my crappy apartment in the University Edge...
