Shaking his head, he unlocked the briefcase. He couldn’t afford to notice the way she smelled, the way she looked. He couldn’t risk her becoming even a minor distraction. Forcing his attention where it belonged, he dropped the folder on the desk and flipped open the cover.
Ed Dryden stared at them from the five-by-seven photograph.
Sylvie flipped it face down. “I don’t know how Diana could have stood being in the same room with him.”
As someone who had been in Dryden’s presence, Bryce couldn’t help but wonder the same thing. But there were women who were drawn to serial killers. Why not Diana Gale? Dryden had certainly attracted more than his share of female fascination in the past.
Hell, years ago he’d convinced a woman to marry him in prison.
“No return address,” Sylvie said, plucking the envelope from the pile of photocopies and clippings. She slipped the letter out and unfolded it. Reaching to the lamp, she canted the shade to shed more light.
The lamplight slanted toward Bryce and glared off the white paper, making it impossible to decipher the handwriting. But judging from the abrupt shape of the letters, it appeared to be written by a male hand. He waited for her to read it out loud.
“‘You have no idea of the horror I’ve been through. My life is over. Ruined. And he will never pay. Not enough. So, you will pay for him.’” Sylvie looked up from the page, eyes stricken.
A din of questions swirled in Bryce’s head. “Is it signed?”
“No. Do you think it’s from Dryden?”
“Hard to say.”
“Why would she keep it in this folder if it wasn’t?”
“Why would Dryden threaten to make Diana pay? And who was she paying for?” He blew out a frustrated breath. “May I see it?”
Sylvie handed it to him.
It was just a single sheet of typing paper with the words she’d read scrawled across the white surface. He read it over again to himself. “He will never pay. Who is he?”
She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Who does Edward Dryden hate?”
“A lot of people.” Including Bryce. He picked up the envelope and looked at the postmark again just to make sure. Almost exactly a month ago. After his brother Tanner’s death.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” He handed the paper back to her. Was he wrong about Diana Gale? Was she another victim of Dryden’s charm and brutality? Or had she merely outlived her usefulness? “Did your sister give any indication she was being threatened?”
Sylvie frowned, her eyebrow ring dipping low. “She’s been worried the last several months. Anxious. I asked her about it, but she blamed it on problems with wedding plans. Do you think she reported this?”
“Maybe.”
“Perreth didn’t say anything.”
“Maybe she didn’t report it to the police.”
“The university?”
“Maybe.”
Sylvie pushed her chair back and shot to her feet. “What was the name of that professor? The one who arranged for her to visit Dryden?”
“Vincent Bertram.”
She pulled out her phone and started a web search.
“What are you looking for?”
“A residential listing for Bertram. Maybe he knows why Diana got involved with Ed Dryden in the first place. And why he might have threatened her.”
Bryce paged through the photocopies chronicling Dryden’s sordid history. His murder of blond college coeds. His capture twenty years ago at the hands of the FBI. At that point, other than an article here and there, the news coverage skipped some years to a flurry of stories about Dryden’s prison marriage and subsequent escape. The stories highlighted the way Dryden had focused on his new intended victim, Risa Madsen, a mentor of Vincent Bertram’s. The stories continued with the trail of death Dryden had left until Professor Madsen and the FBI profiler who’d originally caught Dryden had joined forces to subdue him again.
“Maybe he is the FBI agent who caught Dryden.”
Sylvie looked up from her phone. “Could be.”
The next articles were more recent, clipped from their original newsprint. The headlines Bryce knew all too well. Headlines he’d thought he’d wanted. They blared from the clippings, stinging his eyes.
He’d been so stupid, so wrong, so naive. And he’d paid with more than his life.
He’d paid with his brother’s.
Bryce sucked in a breath, trying to control the rush of grief, of rage, as he paged through the articles. The stories outlined Dryden’s lawsuit against the Supermax prison, how attorney Bryce Walker had taken the killer’s case, how he’d alleged mistreatment, how he’d won a transfer to another facility. Bryce flipped to the last article. A black-and-white picture stared from the newsprint, his brother Tanner in the black suit that made him look like an innocent milk-fed farm boy planning to hunt aliens with Tommy Lee Jones.
Bryce’s throat closed.
He’d been willing to sell his soul to get good press for the law firm, for himself. He’d never guessed Tanner’s life was part of the deal.
It seemed to Bryce that he’d paid enough. But maybe not to Dryden.
Bryce glanced up at Sylvie. She sat with her back to him, still scrolling through her phone. Hunching forward, she copied something on a scrap of paper.
What if her sister didn’t have anything to do with Tanner’s murder?
What if Diana was merely a misguided woman? A woman who never would have been able to worm her way into visiting Dryden if he was still housed in the ultra-security of the Supermax where he belonged?
What if Bryce’s representation of Dryden had not only led to Tanner’s death, but indirectly to Diana Gale’s abduction as well?
Weight bore down on Bryce’s shoulders like a yoke of stone. If he really wanted to set things right, maybe he shouldn’t be asking himself if he could afford to help Sylvie Hayes. Maybe he should be asking if he could afford not to.
Diana
By the time the vehicle had stopped, Diana had been more coherent. By then, she’d figured out her wrists were bound in front of her with some kind of rope. Ankles too. A blindfold covered her eyes. And when large hands had hauled her into a building, deposited her on a bed, and secured her wrists to the frame, she’d been so afraid, she could barely breathe.
That had been hours ago.
Since, she’d just been lying here blind. Helpless. Whatever drug had incapacitated her at first had worn off, and there was no longer anything masking her terror.
This was no nightmare. Not in the dreaming sense. She’d been kidnapped.
Kidnapped.
Her mind still couldn’t wrap around that.
She rubbed the back of her head against the mattress, slowly working the blindfold higher. Higher, until she could see a sliver of the room that was her prison. Cheap wood paneling covered the walls. Ruffled curtains framed a window in dingy white. The dimming light of evening filtered through dingy glass, leaving shadows hanging in corners. The room’s door stood open, nothing but darkness visible beyond.
No, wait.