"What-"
She cut him off with a slash of her hand through the air. "Shh."
Then she leaned closer to the computer. Listening. Concentrating.
She'd heard something, or someone. A familiar voice.
He froze. The speaker was a woman-Dr. Kean, maybe?-talking about the psychology of plastic surgery, how it changed lives.
"Does that answer your question?" the woman said as she concluded her remarks. "Or do you need me to spell it out a little further?" There was a mocking tone there, as if she felt some sort of antipathy toward the person she addressed.
"Nothing further," a man's voice said faintly, almost in the background.
"That's him," Lily whispered. She lifted one trembling hand to her mouth, pressing the other tightly to her stomach as if she had suddenly become nauseous. "That's him, Wyatt."
He didn't know if she was right. He knew only that
Lily believed she was. That she was convinced she'd just heard the voice of her would-be killer.
The audio continued for a few seconds, both of them still and silent, thinking of the ramifications. Then Lily suddenly snapped out of her daze. Mumbling something, she bent over the laptop, skimming her fingers across the touch pad. Pausing the digital file, she backed it up by about two minutes, then resumed.
"He asked a question. That's what I heard."
"What did-"
"Shh!" She leaned close to the monitor. A speaker droned on, then asked, "Are there any further questions?"
A moment of silence. Then a voice said something, indistinct and distant. Wyatt shook his head, not sure he could recognize his own voice if he'd been the one on the tape.
"Could you approach the microphone, please?"
Ah.
Another hesitation, then a man's voice spoke, loud and clear. "Yes, Dr. Kean? I was wondering if you'd tell us just how long a person should try to combat nature by buying a new face or body. When is it time to give up and age gracefully?"
Lily closed her eyes, nodding once, then slowly lowering to crouch down until she was eye level with the screen. "That's the man who kidnapped me, who held me prisoner."
"You're certain?"
She nodded once. "More certain than I've ever been about anything in my entire life. That cruel tone, that edge of sarcasm, did you hear it?"
Of course he'd heard it. The question had been an intentional insult, a taunting gauntlet thrown at Dr. Angela Kean. As if the unsub was mocking her.
Was the doctor, perhaps, an advertisement for her own practice? Someone who lived life that way-putting off aging with expensive surgery?
If so, the question would imply that the questioner knew her. Or at least knew of her.
They might just have broken this case. After all these months, one simple recorded question might have handed them the identity of Lovesprettyboys.
Lily listened to the answer, then the mumbled acknowledgment of the questioner, who once again had spoken off mike, having apparently returned to his seat. When it was over, she paused, scrolled back, and started the exchange again.
"He sounds cold, doesn't he? Jovial on the surface, as if he's intending just a harmless poke at someone he knows. But beneath it…"
"Cold. Yes." More than that, they knew now. He was vicious.
After the third playing, Lily stopped the recording, but this time, she didn't rewind. Instead, her fingers still resting lightly on the keyboard, she slid up onto her chair, staring vacantly at the paused screen. He sensed she was hearing that voice saying any number of other things. Words he whispered in her subconscious.
But she didn't give in to it. She didn't shrink, draw into herself in fear. Did not pull back whatsoever. If anything, the set of her jaw screamed determination and her entire body leaned forward, tense, as if ready to fight to defend herself.
She wouldn't have to. Damn it, he never wanted her to have to do that again.
"Dr. Kean might be able to identify the person speaking, since it sounded like there was some personal tension there," he said, believing every word.
"Exactly. Then well have a suspect"
"That's all we'll have, though," he said, warning her not to get her hopes up. "Remember, I can't do a thing to this guy, can't prosecute him, or even get a warrant to bring him in, without evidence. Namely you."
She nodded once.
"Meaning Lily Fletcher would have to come back from the dead and testify."
Her cheeks, so flushed with color this morning when she'd worked out down on the beach, were powder white. "Will it matter? My testimony, I mean?"
"Of course it will."
"I'll have no credibility. The frightened agent who pretended she was dead."
Wyatt could handle Lily fearing for her own life; she had good reason for that. But he was not about to allow her to question the choices she made to stay alive. He reached for her, taking her chin in his hand and forcing her head up so she'd meet his eye.
"The world decided you were dead without your help. Just because you had the fight-or-flight instinct and hid out so you could stay alive, hoping the monster who tried to kill you would be caught, does not reflect badly on you."
She licked her lip, nodding her thanks for the pep talk. Wyatt dropped his hand.
"I need to go call Brandon," he said, immediately turning toward the door. "I want him to segregate that snippet out, enhance it as much as possible."
"And then?"
"And then," he replied, "I'm going to make an appointment to see a doctor."
Something was going to happen. Soon.
After all these months, all the manipulation, all the effort, this whole ordeal was going to come to an end. The uncertainty, the fear, the worry that one day Lily Fletcher would crawl out of whatever hole she'd hidden in and ruin everything, would stop. No more worrying. No more waiting for a knock on the door from the police or the FBI. No more speculating about what the agent knew, what she remembered, how much she'd heard, or whom she could identify.
Fletcher had been badly injured during that entire week. Incoherent most of the time. Feverish and in pain, she'd held conversations with her dead sister and her sister's kid, and she should, by all rights, have died all on her own.
'Did you die?"
At first, in those early months, it had seemed the most likely scenario. That the media didn't report what would have been a pretty major story didn't mean anything. Maybe the FBI agent had staggered out onto the beach, died of her injuries, and been swept away by the tide. Or buried in the blowing sands of the dunes swept wildly on a cold winter's night.
A month had gone by.Two.Three. But instead of growing more at ease, more confident that no one would ever find out, the tension had built Because, wouldn't something have been found? If she'd been buried in a dune. wouldn't she have been discovered come spring when people started filling Virginia's beaches? Or if she'd been swept away, wouldn't her remains have washed up somewhere? Why had there never been a single piece of evidence, as if the woman had simply never existed?
Because you're hiding, aren't you, Lily?
Yes. Lily Fletcher was in hiding. Even though she had had no family and no close friends, she'd still found someone to help her get away. Then she'd stayed away, managing to remain dead in the eyes of the world for seven long months. The more time that passed, the more certain that seemed. The passing days of silence didn't comfort; they merely increased the insane uncertainty until it had become nearly all-consuming.
Until Lily was found, and dealt with, life could never go back to normal. Not really. Because, despite her injuries, the woman might have seen something, could remember something damning. If not an outright physical description, then the clothes, the eye color, the height, the build, the voice, a chance incriminating word. Something.
Damn it. Why hadn't he just killed the blonde when he'd had her at his mercy?
Weakness. Panic. Fear. Vindictiveness. Who knew?
And it was far too late to dwell on now. Fletcher would be found, one way or another. All that had been set in motion this past summer would come together to force her out of her hiding place and put her in position for elimination.