“I have a few patients who have game addictions. They talk about a Worlds of War.”
“Warcraft,” Jack corrected. “Similar principle.”
“We found that all three women were participating in a psychological study at one of the local universities,” Abbott added and Noah wanted to protest, but it was too late.
Carleton’s brows shot up. “How did you find this out?”
“Confidential informant,” Noah said.
“Does this informant have a name that you’d care to share with the team?” Carleton asked quietly, but he was angry and Noah supposed he had a right to be.
Abbott nodded. “Yes. If it comes down to it, we’ll tell you.”
“For now,” Noah added, “we don’t want to put you in the spot of having to report it.”
“Pesky ethics,” Carleton said tightly, his smile forced. “Fine. For now. So… obviously somebody besides your CI knows about this study. Do you know who?”
“We’re investigating that today,” Noah said. “Your profile would be a big help.”
“I’m not so sure it’s accurate anymore. Knowing about the computer game could make a difference. Knowing there is a link to a psychological study makes an even bigger difference.” Carleton’s voice was sharper than Noah had ever heard it. “It’s possible I wasted five hours of my night on a profile that is completely meaningless.”
Noah closed his eyes. “I’m sorry, Carleton. I didn’t think about that.”
“I guess not,” Carleton replied. He pressed his fingertips to his temples, then lifted his head. The anger was gone, but the irritation was still there. “Tell me what you can.”
Tuesday, February 23, 8:45 a.m.
“Excuse me. I’m looking for Eve Wilson.”
Dr. Donner’s odious secretary, Jeremy Lyons, pointed. “She sits back there.”
Eve closed her laptop quickly. Dammit. She’d been so close to getting into Martha Brisbane’s Shadowland file, but a man was coming her way. He was clean-cut, well dressed, but there was an arrogant gleam in his eye. Eve instantly did not trust him.
“Miss Wilson.” He held out his hand. “I’m Kurt Buckland, with the Mirror.”
She shook his hand reluctantly. “Mr. Buckland. I’m rather busy at the moment.”
He ignored her. “So tell me how you knew the three murdered women.”
Years of maintaining the secrets of Dana’s shelter had taught her how not to react. But it was hard. She blinked. “Murder? You have the wrong woman, Mr. Buckland.”
“You drive an old Mazda. Blue with a dented fender. Yes?”
“Yes. But I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your car still sits in front of Christy Lewis’s house. You were at Martha Brisbane’s apartment.” He handed her another photo. It was her with Noah and her heart sank.
He knew. Soon everyone would know that her study had lured these women to their deaths. Their killer would know they knew and the police would lose any advantage.
“You spoke with the detective,” he said. “I want to know what he said.”
Even as her heart pounded, she was relieved. The intruder last night was this reporter. Not a killer. “Talk to Detective Webster.” She swiveled in her chair, hoping he would leave.
Instead he leaned against her cubicle wall. “So. What was it like to die? Twice? Did you see bright white lights? God? Angels? Or was it hellfire and brimstone?”
Fury bubbled, but she kept her cool. “Use your imagination. It’s what you’re good at.”
“I’ll pick God and angels. So, when that man strangled you, did it hurt?”
It had. It still did, in her worst nightmares. Worse, it shamed her. No more.
Slowly she stood, damned if she’d be victimized again. “Yes, it hurt very much. I have a scar from where he wound twine around my throat. Would you like to see it?” She unfastened the leather choker she always wore, leaned forward, chin high. “Would you like to touch it? So that you can more accurately describe it to your readers?”
His eyes flashed. “You can’t bluff. I get what I want, or I will print your personal story. Tell me about these three murdered women and your privacy will remain intact.”
She smiled at him, a full smile that accentuated the dead side of her face. It looked creepy, she knew. Phantom of the Opera creepy. She’d perfected her half smile so she wouldn’t see the disgust she saw on Kurt Buckland’s face at this moment.
“You’ve already breached my privacy,” she said loudly. “Everyone in this room is googling me. They’ll be too polite to come and ask about it to my face. But they’ll talk among themselves. Bad move, raising your voice like that. You just lost your leverage.”
“The rest of my readers won’t be so polite,” he snapped. “They’ll point and stare.”
Eve laced her fingers loosely even though her insides were so taut she thought she’d break in two. “If you want a story, talk to Webster. You won’t get shit from me.”
He drew himself up tall and put his smile back on. “I’ll make sure you get a copy of tomorrow’s paper. For your scrapbook. You can paste a clipping next to this one.”
He tossed a photocopy of a murky newspaper photo to her desk and her taut insides shattered. That’s me. The day she’d been released from the hospital, almost six years ago. The face was horrifically scarred, the eyes wide and terrified. Eve felt the pain, all over again. But she’d made it through then. She was stronger now.
“One last chance,” he said quietly. “Nobody else has to see that.”
Eve made herself touch it. Keeping her hands steady, she brushed past Buckland, walked straight to the bulletin board and pinned the picture in the middle with a tack. Then she turned, her half smile in place. “I’m not afraid of you. Leave. Now.”
One of the other students rose from his cubicle. Jose was built like a brick, and now he put one of his beefy hands on Eve’s shoulder. “The lady said leave.”
“And stay away from my apartment,” Eve added, “or I’ll get a restraining order.”
Buckland glared. “I haven’t been near your damn apartment.”
“Save it for the judge. Stay. Away. From me.” With a final glower, Buckland walked away and Eve let out a breath. “Thanks, Jose. I owe you one.”
He took the horrible picture down. “You want me to shred this?”
Eve took it from his hands. “No. I think I’ll keep it.”
He took the choker from her stiff fingers and fastened it around her neck. Eve turned to thank him but something in his eyes gave her pause. “You already knew, didn’t you?”
He shrugged. “I was doing research last year for Abnormal.”
The class she was taking now. “The mind of serial killers,” she murmured.
“I found articles on Rob Winters.” She winced and he grimaced. “I’m sorry, Eve.”
“It’s okay. Really.” She made herself smile. “It’s not like we can go around calling him ‘He who should not be named.’ That’s kind of long.”
His lips twitched. “I think that’s copyrighted, anyway.” He sobered, kindly. “None of us knew what to say, so we decided not to say anything. It’s your business. Your life.”
“Which I think I just took a little more back of this morning.” And it made her proud.
Her elation was short-lived. Donner’s assistant was watching her with ill-disguised curiosity from behind his round spectacles. She’d waited all morning for Jeremy Lyons to take his break so she could download the study files from his PC. She didn’t want access traced to her own laptop and she wouldn’t dig Ethan in any deeper than he was.
But Jeremy had stubbornly stayed and soon Donner would return from the class he was teaching. After Buckland, Eve wasn’t sure she had the energy left to stand up to Donner, too. Donner would demand to know what she’d done, why she’d told the police about Martha when he’d all but commanded her to forget Martha’s name.