Lizzy paled. “Jared was at a hotel the night before our wedding. I talked to him for only a few minutes the next day.” She drew in a steadying breath. “He didn’t mention anything about receiving a call from a killer.”
Jessica put a hand on Lizzy’s shoulder. She looked at Jimmy and said, “Are we done here?”
Mitchell kept his gaze on Lizzy. “We would appreciate it if you could take a look through Jared’s things . . . a calendar with an unfamiliar number scribbled in the margins, a notebook, anything that might stand out or stir a memory.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Lizzy said as Jessica stood.
They all came to their feet. Jimmy walked them to the door. Lizzy realized then that her hands were shaking and her knees felt weak. She needed to get out of there.
Box after box of Jared and Lizzy’s life together were brought into the house. Tommy had borrowed a friend’s truck, driven to storage, and picked up every box with Jared’s name on it.
“Unless you need anything else,” Tommy said to the group, “I’m going to take off.”
“Thanks for your help,” Lizzy said.
“No problem.” He pointed a finger at Hayley. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, five o’clock.”
“Why so early?” Hayley asked.
“It’ll take us a couple of hours to get to San Francisco, and I want to beat the crowds. I’ll see you then.” Before Hayley could protest, he gave a backhanded wave and made a quick exit.
“Where are you two going?” Kitally asked.
“Some sort of concert.”
“Wow,” Kitally said. “A real official date.”
“It’s not a date.”
Lizzy took a box cutter and sliced through the tape on the biggest box. “He’s picking you up. Taking you to a concert. Definitely a date.” Without opening the box, she went to the next and cut that one open, too, and then the next, and so on.
Hayley must have noted Lizzy’s reluctance to look inside. The girl knew her well. Hayley opened the first box and began sorting through Jared’s things, carefully, methodically, without making a big deal about whatever was inside.
Lizzy knew she wasn’t emotionally prepared to do this, but there was a serial killer on the loose and he needed to be stopped. She tried to look at it like any other investigation.
“What exactly are we looking for?” Kitally asked.
“Anything that stands out,” Lizzy said. “Any object that might make you wonder ‘Why is this here?’ or ‘What does this mean?’ ”
“Got it. Where’s Jessica?”
“She had to return to Virginia for a few days. She’ll be going back and forth for a while.”
“What’s this?” Kitally asked, pulling a tiny collar out of the box. “It says Rumpelstiltskin on it.”
Hayley looked at Lizzy. “Isn’t that the name he first gave Hannah when he brought you the kitten?”
Lizzy nodded and looked away. “I didn’t know he had a collar made.”
“And he kept it, too.”
“Look at this,” Hayley said, pulling out a T-shirt that said, “Don’t forget to smile.”
Lizzy smiled. “Jessica gave him that for his birthday. She always teased him about being too serious.”
It went on like that. Kitally or Hayley would pull out something that would make them all remember a particular moment in time. By the end of the day, they had laughed and cried and laughed some more. It was a powerful, emotionally exhausting exercise. However cathartic it might’ve been for Lizzy, they’d unearthed nothing of use for the Strangler investigation.
After Hayley and Kitally disappeared, Lizzy closed each box and stacked them against the wall away from the high windows. The last box she picked up was filled with clothes. Lizzy’s sister, Cathy, had ended up packing Jared’s things for her. Jared’s favorite suit was on top of the pile, zipped up tightly in a garment bag. Lizzy pulled the suit out and brushed her fingers over the lapels before putting the luxurious fabric against her cheek, breathing him in. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she recalled the last time she’d seen him wearing it at a dinner party. They had snuck out early and then stopped at some dive that ended up serving the best hot pastrami sandwich she’d ever tasted.
As she put the suit back into the bag, she felt something crinkle beneath her fingers. She reached into the inside front pocket of the jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. It was a note, folded twice. She set the suit aside for a moment and opened it up.
Three words: We must talk.
There was a telephone number scribbled below the message. It was a 916 area code. She glanced at the clock. It was too late to call the number now. She would wait until tomorrow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
After he finished setting up his easel, he readied his palette and then selected a few basic colors to start: titanium white, ivory black, cadmium red, permanent alizarin crimson, ultramarine blue, phthalo blue, cadmium yellow light, and cadmium yellow. He would be using oils and a preprimed canvas.
He peeked through the metal slot in the door.
“What are you looking at now, you disgusting pig? Are you going to drug me again so that you can have your way with me? I know what you do when I’m out cold, you sicko.”
“My little Claire. You have not the tiniest clue of what I do to you when you’re unconscious. Trust me when I tell you that whatever your imagination conjures up is nothing compared to the cold hard truth. I like to experiment and play. Your flesh is as soft and smooth as a newborn baby’s. I like to take my time with you, Claire.”
“Shut up!” She squeezed her eyes shut—all there was for her to do, since her hands and feet were bound with tape.
“I like to take my time with you,” he repeated, louder this time. “I know every curve of your body. I know the scent of you . . . every bit of you.” He breathed in, sucking air through his nostrils as if reliving the moment.
“I hate you!” she shouted, trying to spit at him, but only making a mess of her little bed. “You make me sick.”
“I’ve tasted you, too.” He smacked his lips. “Your every secret has been exposed, Claire.”
“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! You’re the most grotesque and disgusting monster on earth.” She shook her head wildly back and forth.
If she kept that up, she was going to pass out all on her own.
He let the flap clank shut.
Little Claire was getting on his nerves with all her name-calling over the past few days.
Even so, the excitement was building. He took in a deep, cleansing breath.
It was time to get her image on canvas.
This would be the first time he would paint a portrait of one of his victims while she was alive, right here in the flesh. His insides hummed at the prospect. Everything he’d done to her over the past few days was nothing compared to this.
His magnum opus.
As he pondered which brushes he would use, his phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out. The name that flashed across the screen squashed every bit of thrill humming through his body.
Gillian.
The only woman he knew who could kill a buzz in the blink of an eye. Why did she have to call today? She’d always had excruciatingly bad timing. It often seemed as if she had a sixth sense. And yet he knew he must answer the call. To do otherwise would only prove pointless—she would not stop calling until he answered.
“Hello,” he said, failing miserably at hiding his disappointment.
“Thank goodness you answered. I’ve been worried about you.”
“And why is that?”
The poor, nervous female always sounded as if she were standing on a cliff, ready to jump. “Oh, you know me,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to?”