Dead By Midnight

The game is simple--he is the Hunter. They are the Prey. He gives them a chance to escape. To run. To hide. To outsmart him. But eventually, he catches them. And that's when the game gets really terrifying. . .

Private investigator Griffin Powell and FBI agent Nicole Baxter know a lot about serial killers--they took one down together. But this new killer is as sadistic as they've ever seen. He likes his little games, and he especially likes forcing Nic and Griff to play along. Every unsolvable clue, every posed victim, every taunting phone call--it's all part of his twisted, elaborate plan. And then the Hunter calls, wanting to know if they're really ready to play. . .

They all loved her. That was their mistake. Two husbands, her college fiancé, an influential boss--every man who gets close to Jordan Price is made to pay in blood. And the list is growing. . .

Hired by the Powell Agency to investigate Senator Dan Price's death, Rick Carson can see at once why people would believe Jordan Price incapable of cold-blooded murder. Slender, pale, and elegant, she stands by her late husband's graveside exuding sweet vulnerability. Only Rick notices that she never sheds a tear. And the deeper he delves into the string of deaths from which Jordan has profited handsomely, the more convinced Rick becomes that he is dealing with a callous, cunning, unstoppable killer. . .

The closer Rick gets to the chilling truth, the more dangerous this game of cat-and-mouse becomes. The targets are changing, and suddenly, nothing and no one is safe. If Jordan is as innocent as she claims, Rick may have placed her in a killer's cross hairs. And if she's guilty, he'll never live to regret it. . .

Perhaps the best thing he could do for himself and everyone he loved was to commit suicide.

Dan Price stared at the Glock pistol lying atop his desk. He had bought the 9mm automatic for his wife, but she had refused the gift, politely reminding him of her aversion to guns. But at his insistence, she had gone with him to the practice range and learned to use the weapon, only to please him. But to his knowledge, she had never carried the pistol, never kept it in her room or in her car.

If his sweet Jordan had any idea that he was contemplating taking his own life, she would do her best to convince him that no matter what the future held, she would stand by him. It was her basic integrity and loyalty that had first attracted him to the woman who had become his greatest political asset.

Dan lifted the half-full glass of Kentucky bourbon to his lips and finished off the remainder. The liquor burned a path down his esophagus and hit his belly like fire. He coughed a couple of times, then wiped his mouth, picked up the bottle, and poured himself another drink. If he was going to do this--and he fully intended to end his life tonight--he knew he couldn't do it stone cold sober. He wasn't that courageous. Before he could put the hammer-forged barrel into his mouth and pull the trigger, he needed to be more than a little drunk.

He sipped on the bourbon as he leaned back in the swivel desk chair and let his gaze travel over the room. His private study, as it had been his father's and grandfather's before him. An impressive room inside a 200-year-old antebellum mansion, part of an estate that had been in his family since before the War Between the States. Generations of Price men had served their country, first in wartime and then in local, state, and national politics. In Georgia, the name Price was synonymous with public service. If he killed himself, how would that affect his family's good name? No Price man had ever taken the easy way out of a bad situation.

But could he continue, knowing what the future held for him? Could he condemn Jordan to such a life? And what about Devon? And his brother, Ryan? They would never desert him, and that would mean great sacrifices for each of them.

You don't have to do this tonight. You have time.

But how much time? Six months? A year?

Dan finished off his second drink and poured himself a third.

The grandfather clock in the hall struck twice. Two in the morning.

He unlocked the file cabinet in the bottom drawer of the desk, rummaged through the folders until he found the file he wanted. A copy of his will. His lawyer kept another copy and a third was inside his safe at the house in Bethesda. The contents of his will were not secret to anyone. Everything he possessed would be equally divided among Jordan, Devon and Ryan. Jordan had protested, telling him that she didn't expect such an enormous legacy, but he had quieted her protests with a tender caress.

"I owe you more than I will ever be able to repay," he'd told her.

Dan finished off his third drink.

Minutes ticked by as he contemplated the Glock on his desk. Grandfather Price's antique desk. Family lore claimed the desk had belonged to Jefferson Davis, a contemporary of his ancestor, General John Ryan Price.

Dan poured another glass of bourbon, picked up the bottle and the glass and walked over to the leather Chesterfield sofa. He sat down, placed the bottle on the floor, and considered his options. Death was preferable to the fate that awaited him.

Dan's eyelids flicked open and shut. In the twilight zone of being half-awake/half-asleep, he didn't immediately realize where he was or what had awakened him so abruptly. Woozy from sleep and too much bourbon, Dan recalled that he had contemplated suicide to solve his problems, but in the end, drunk and, oddly enough, thinking more clearly than he had when he'd been sober, he had realized that killing himself would have been the coward's way out.

Dan swatted at something cold against his cheek. His fingertips raked across the metal object. He opened his eyes fully, stared up at the woman leaning over him, and smiled. She did not return his smile. His gaze zipped from her familiar face to his own hand holding the 9mm, its barrel pressed firmly against his head. And it was only when he tried to ease the gun away from his head that he realized her hand covered his, her index finger squeezed tightly over his against the trigger.

"What the--!"

Before he could react, she forced his finger down against the trigger, firing the gun at point blank range directly into his brain.

Dan's last thought was that someone he'd trusted completely had just killed him.

Cherokee Pointe, Tennessee. Deep in the Smoky Mountains, the victim lies, sacrificed on a makeshift altar--the gruesome work of a killer who has evaded the authorities in state after state. FBI agent Dallas Sloan knows the scene all too well--just as he knows the killings won't stop until there are four more bodies. . .

Genny Madoc's "sixth sense" has brought many of Cherokee Pointe's residents to her isolated log cabin, looking for help. But now it's Genny who needs help from the disturbing visions she sees--images that are getting stronger and more violent day by day. . .

Thrown together by necessity, drawn to each other by desire, Dallas and Genny must band together, searching the darkest heart of a town's hidden secrets before a twisted killer can complete a sinister plan that will make one of them the fifth victim. . .

The victims are all found face-down in the murky waters of the creek that runs through Cherokee Pointe, Tennessee. They are naked, except for the black satin ribbon tied around their necks. And each murdered woman shares a single characteristic. . .they are all redheads. . .

Socialite Reve Sorrell has come to Cherokee Pointe seeking answers about her family history and her shocking connection to wrong-side-of-the-tracks Jazzy Talbot. With their stunning good looks and shining red hair, the two are mirror images of each other--twins abandoned at birth and raised in very different worlds. And whoever left them for dead on a cold night thirty years ago isn't about to let them uncover the truth now. . .

As a serial killer leaves another chilling calling card in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains, Reve turns to Sheriff Jacob Butler to help her unravel the potentially deadly secrets of her past. But someone will do anything to stop her. . .someone who won't make the same mistake twice. . .someone more cunning than she knows. . .and closer than she ever could imagine. . .

"Fast. . .edgy. . .sexy. . .I loved The Fifth Victim!" --Linda Howard, New York Times bestselling author

"Smart, sexy, and scary as hell. Beverly Barton just keeps getting better and better." --Lisa Jackson, New York Times bestselling author on The Fifth Victim

It's the ultimate game--the adrenaline surge of the hunt, the thrill of victory, the agony of defeat. For in this game, the rules are simple: To win, you only have to kill. To lose, you will have to die...

The victims are former beauty queens found with a single rose beside their bodies. Lindsay McAllister has seen this signature before, when she was a rookie detective with the Chattanooga PD investigating the death of Judd Walker's wife, a murder that sent the handsome lawyer off the deep end. Now, Lindsay has the brutal task of telling Judd that his wife's killer has struck again, and she's going to need his help to outplay their opponent--because the killer is getting bolder, faster, and more ruthless. The game is escalating, and no one is safe.

Cherokee Pointe, Tennessee, has seen murder before, but nothing like what has claimed the life of Jamie Upton, heir to the Upton fortune. The crime is so vicious, so personal and filled with hatred, the authorities are certain it had to be someone he knew. . .someone hiding an unimaginable sadistic streak behind a friendly façade.

The number one suspect is Jamie's former lover Jazzy Talbot. The girl from the wrong side of the tracks has always been Cherokee Point's favorite target for gossip and worse. Jazzy knows she didn't kill Jamie. . .just as she knows she's being watched, stalked like prey. . .

Malcolm York is a sadistic monster, guilty of unspeakable crimes. And with his endless wealth he's funded a series of depraved hunts. The few who survived can never forget. They can only be thankful the terror is over. Until rumors start swirling. . .

Only Stops. . .

Griffin Powell knows the twisted depths of York's madness. He's also sure that York is dead. But then Griff's wife, Nicole, disappears and the phone calls begin--that familiar voice taunting him, promising to destroy everything Griff loves.

When You Die. . .

Using all the resources of the Powell Agency, Griff searches for Nic, aware that every step propels him further into a madman's web. Because the only way to keep Nic safe is to join one last perverse game where winner kills all, and the loser is dead by nightfall. . .

Praise for Beverly Barton's Don't Cry

A shivery read. . . Tight twists and hairpin turns will keep readers racing through the pages." --Bookpage

As the blazing heat of summer gives way to sultry September, a shroud of suspicion settles over Noble's Crossing, a sleepy Alabama town. Nothing is as it seems--and never will be again. Lane Noble Graham stands accused of murdering her ex-husband. And the one man who can help, Johnny Mack Cahill, vowed never to return to the town that scorned him--or the woman whose love he knew he didn't deserve.

. . .No One Is Safe From Cold-Blooded Murder

From the rusted-out trailers on the wrong side of the river to the stately pillared mansions along Magnolia Avenue, everybody has something to hide--but one secret could make Lane and Johnny Mack the next targets of a twisted killer, who's struck once and is bent on striking again. . .

To most people, men like Mark Cantrell are fine, upstanding pillars of the community, completely beyond reproach. But their killer knows better. They are sinners of the worst kind, and they must burn on earth before they burn in hell. . .

Eighteen months after her husband's unsolved murder, Cathy Cantrell has returned to her Alabama home, eager to build a new life for herself and her son. But pieces of her past are everywhere--including Jackson Perdue, the town's deputy sheriff. The spate of recent deaths--each victim burned in the same horrifying manner--leave Jack and Cathy in no doubt that a serial killer is at work, one whose rage grows more vicious each day. . .