Will Graham had finally pushed his luck too far.

The seasoned investigator had grown confident, too confident. After years of studying killers, thinking like them, predicting their moves before they even made them, Will had started to believe he was always one step ahead.

This time, he wasn’t.

The trap had been meticulous. Carefully baited. Patiently set.

And Will had walked straight into it.

Now the world smelled of damp earth and rust.

When he came to, his head throbbed and his vision swam in the dim light of a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Rough wood pressed against his back. His wrists were bound tightly behind a thick support pole, the rope cutting into his skin whenever he tried to shift. His ankles were tied together as well, leaving him helplessly anchored in place.

A cellar.

Somewhere far from help.

His jacket was gone. His pockets had been emptied, no phone, no knife, no notebook, not even the small things he usually carried without thinking. Whoever had taken him had been thorough.

Of course they had.

This particular killer had built a reputation on preparation and intelligence. Every crime scene had been calculated, every victim carefully chosen, every escape flawlessly executed.

And now Will Graham, profiler, hunter of monsters, had become the next piece in their design.

Somewhere in the darkness beyond the weak circle of light, the floor creaked.

Will’s breathing slowed despite the pounding of his heart.

Because he knew one thing for certain.

The person who had captured him was close.