Maybe now they were getting somewhere. “Yes.”
“I am. If you tell me what this is about, maybe I can make some sense out of things. For both of us.”
Okay. He’d roll the dice. Since the client in this matter was actually himself, the case’s confidentiality was as flexible as he needed. “I came across your sister’s name yesterday. It was on the sign-in sheet at the Banesbridge prison. She visited an inmate there several times in the past year. I want to know why.”
Pale blue eyes rounded in surprise. “Diana Gale?”
“Yes, Diana Gale.”
Her eyebrows pinched together. “I don’t understand.”
“She signed in as part of a university research project under the supervision of a Vincent Bertram.”
“Bertram?”
He did his best to tamp down his frustration. He wanted answers, not to listen to her parrot his every word. “He’s a professor in the psychology department.”
“Diana is earning her Ph.D. in English. I can’t see her finding a lot of twelfth-century poetry in prison. Are you sure it was her?”
“The guards recognized her picture. The only other person it could have been is you.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Of course, your sister might have used her affiliation at the university to gain access, and the visit was personal.”
“Personal? How?”
“I was hoping you might have some idea.”
“I’m sorry.” Through the sliver of the opening, he could see her throat move under tender skin. “What prisoner was she visiting?”
He hesitated. The idea of saying the man’s name to those delicate eyes already filled with fear felt cruel. And although his kid brother Tanner had accused Bryce of being heartless more than a few times when he’d hesitated to take his brother’s charity cases, Bryce was not an abusive man. “My cell phone number is on that card. Have your sister call when she gets home. I’ll be up late.”
The door slammed shut followed by the rattle of the security chain. A second later the door flew open and Sylvie Hayes jolted into the hall. “Wait.”
Bryce could tell she was attractive through the small space in the door, but he still wasn’t prepared for the full view. The green dress flowed over smooth curves like water. Cheeks flushed pink under translucent skin. Wide eyes flashed with light-blue fire and more than a little desperation. “You have to tell me who she visited.”
“It’s confidential.”
“I can probably pick up the phone and find out tomorrow.”
“Then do that.” At least he wouldn’t be the one to break it to her.
“Who did she visit? Please.”
Down the hall, a neighbor’s door creaked open. A young man’s spiked red hair poked out. Narrowing his eyes, he watched them with interest.
Bryce spared him a quick glance, then stepped toward Sylvie. “Invite me in.”
“Tell me his name.”
“Invite me in. We’ll talk.”
She backed into the apartment.
He followed her inside and closed the door behind him.
Sylvie stood her ground between the living room and a small dining area. “Okay. Tell me.”
“As long as you tell me everything you know about your sister.”
She nodded.
“Diana has been visiting Edward Dryden.”
He’d thought it impossible for Sylvie’s eyes to grow larger. He’d been wrong.
“The serial killer?”
“That’s the one.”
“No… Are you sure?”
“Your sister visited him once a month, starting seven months ago.”
“That’s a month before I met her.” Her eyebrow ring dipped in a frown. “She never said anything about it. About him.”
“You were worried about her. Before I came to the door tonight. Why?”
“She was supposed to be married today. But the wedding never took place.”
That explained the fancy dress—a dress, he now realized, marred with brown smudges. “Is that blood?”
She nodded. “Right before the ceremony, I found Bobby—the groom—unconscious and bleeding. Diana was missing.”
“You called the police?”
She curled her fingers to fists at her sides. “The police think she did it.”
“Do you know for a fact that she didn’t?”
She glared at the suggestion, as if considering leaving Bryce unconscious and bleeding if he didn’t zip it. “The cop in charge made up his mind before he knew anything about what happened.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. But he didn’t care what I said. He’d already decided Diana was guilty, and I should convince her to turn herself in.”
“So why aren’t the police here? If they really suspect her, I would think they would be searching her apartment.”
“I imagine they’re on their way.”
“And that’s why you’re here? To search her apartment before they arrive?”
She looked down. Her fingers tangled together. Busted.
“Then why are we standing around wasting time?” he asked.
She stared at him a long moment, as if trying to decide whether she should trust him or not. Finally the press of time seemed to win out. “I thought I’d start in her office.”
“Lead the way.”
The office was a neat but obviously well-used workspace. White walls and desk gave the room a clean, fresh feeling. Papers rose in orderly stacked piles. But it was the splashes of color, the artwork and figurines dedicated to female superheroes, that made Bryce’s lips twist in an ironic smile.
Too bad Diana herself was no champion of justice.
Sylvie sank into the desk chair, woke the desktop computer, and typed in the password. She clicked on various folders, scanning the files inside.
Bryce read over her shoulder. Student evaluations. Files dedicated to research. Drafts of her dissertation. Sylvie had searched through most of the document folder when Bryce noticed an unmarked, old-fashioned paper folder tucked behind the monitor. “What about that?”
Sylvie fished it out and flipped it open. A photo stared up at them—ice blue eyes in a face that looked much younger than its years.
The back of Bryce’s neck prickled.
“This isn’t…”
“Ed Dryden,” Bryce supplied.
“He looks so normal.”
Bryce couldn’t argue. Some might even say he was good-looking. And that was exactly what made him so dangerous. God knew his civilized appearance had fooled Bryce at first. He tried to swallow the bitter taste in his mouth. “What else is in the folder?”
Sylvie turned the photo face down. Piled behind it were copies of newspaper articles, some more than twenty years old. The first few detailed Dryden’s brutal murders of blond college coeds and his circus of a trial. Behind those were articles from ‘96 and ‘97 telling the story of his prison marriage to an eighteen-year-old girl named Nikki, his notorious escape, and his eventual recapture. More recent articles poked out from underneath in the original newsprint.
Bryce pointed to the photocopies on the top of the stack. “These look like they were made from microfilm.”
“What’s microfilm?”
“A way of storing outdated newsprint and magazines. Libraries used to use it in the old days.”
“Why would she copy all these articles?”
“Don’t know. Whatever the reason, she had to be pretty dedicated. It takes a lot of time to go through microfilm.”
A piece of paper stuck out from behind the stack of articles: an envelope addressed to Diana Gale, complete with canceled stamp and postmarked last month.
Bryce’s heart pounded so hard he could feel each beat in his throat. “Is that a letter?”