Being called “pretty” still startled her. Being accused of hiding, however, could not be borne. “I don’t hide,” she said more sharply than she’d intended. “Not anymore.”
She knew Sal studied her face even though she kept her eyes averted. For years people had stared at her face when they thought she didn’t see, but she’d always been aware of the horrified stares and the whispers. At least people didn’t do that anymore and for that reason alone her plastic surgeon should be a nominee for sainthood.
“I’m sorry,” Sal said. “It’s just that you work so hard here, then you go home and study, then go to school. And any moment you have free you spend in that Fantasy Island computer game of yours, what with its aviators and orgies. It’s not natural.”
That “Fantasy Island” computer game was really called Shadow-land, an online virtual playground. There was no Mr. Roarke in a crisp white suit, but like the old TV show, it was a place where adults could pretend to be anyone they wanted to be, interacting with millions of players all over the world while pursuing virtual fantasies.
Eve discovered Shadowland’s lure after the assault that had taken her life, literally and figuratively. The virtual world had been more than a game. It was a vital link to the outside world from which Eve, scarred and ashamed, had hidden for too many years.
Thankfully those dark years were gone. Like Tom Hunter, she’d reinvented herself. Shadowland was no longer an escape, but a tool for her graduate research.
At least it had started out that way. But the tool of her research had become a glitzy, gaping black hole, sucking her subjects into its virtual world of fantasy faster than she could grab them. The research that started out with such therapeutic potential had somehow become a trap, luring and endangering the very people she’d sought to help.
“It’s not ‘aviators,’ ” she said to Sal, irritated. “It’s ‘avatars.’ The characters are avatars. And where are you getting this orgy stuff?”
Sal’s eyes twinkled and she knew he’d poked at her on purpose. “I imagine that would be a lot of men’s fantasy. But not mine,” he added quickly. “Josie wouldn’t like it.”
“I’m sure,” Eve said dryly. Then she shrugged. “Besides, I’m not wasting my time playing computer games. Shadowland’s for my thesis, and you know it.”
Sal’s eyes stopped twinkling. “Exactly my point. Even when you play a game, you’re working. When was the last time you went on a date?”
Five years, eleven months, and seven days ago. That the amount of time should come back to her so quickly, after all this time, was… terrifying.
“I thought so,” Sal said quietly when she said nothing. “You’ve been under so much stress lately. This project of yours is putting dark circles under your eyes. I want you to take some time off. Take a vacation. Go to Florida and get some sun.”
Eve tossed the ice bag into the sink and started mixing a martini, the usual drink of the next customer in line. “Vacations take money, Sal. I don’t have any.”
“I’ll loan you some,” he said simply. “Tell me what you need.”
Abruptly she put the shaker down, her heart in her throat. “Damn, I hate it when you’re nice. Why can’t you be a mean boss?” Swallowing back what would have been embarrassing tears, she patted his beefy shoulder. “Keep your money. I’m fine.”
He shook his head. “You’re not fine. You’re worried. I see it in your eyes.”
She finished the martini and started with the next order. “I wish everyone would stop looking into my eyes,” she muttered, Callie’s observation about Noah Webster still fresh. She looked for a subject change and found it in the magazine Callie had left behind. “Jack Phelps was in here tonight, but he left before I could ask him to sign the MSP cover.”
“I heard it was more like he got called out,” Sal remarked mildly. “By Webster.”
She turned and stared at his profile. “How did you know that?”
His sideways glance was almost amused. “I know what goes on in my own bar, Eve. I’m surprised it’s taken Webster this long. There was a pool, you know-how long Web would put up with Phelps before he requested a transfer or cleaned Jack’s clock.”
The mental image of such an altercation left Eve disturbingly aroused. “Who won?”
“Nobody. Webster’s outlasted all of our predictions. Man’s either a saint or a fool.” He slanted another glance her way, this one annoyed. “Maybe both.”
Eve thought of the parting words Noah had uttered with grim resignation, more a good-bye than a thank-you. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t think he’s coming back.”
Which was for the best. She didn’t have time for anything more than work, school, and her Fantasy Island computer game. Not true. It wasn’t the time she didn’t have. It was the heart. And various other internal organs that made a huge difference.
Sal sighed. “I’m sorry, honey.”
She made herself smile. “Don’t be.” She poured the martini and reached for an olive, relieved to find the canister empty. She needed a minute to herself. For just a moment or two, she needed to hide. “We’re out of olives. Hold the fort. I’ll get them.”
Sunday, February 21, 9:10 p.m.
Finally. The Hat Squad finally knew they had a homicide. It had taken them long enough. Three homicides, carefully staged. At least they’d seen it with Martha Brisbane.
He hadn’t realized how impatient he’d grow, waiting for them to engage. But as frustrating as the wait had been, the Hat Squad’s ineptitude better furthered his goal-to see them humiliated, degraded, their stature in the community obliterated.
To see stripped away that infuriating self-importance they wore along with their badges and guns. And their hats. He wanted each of those hat-wearing, knuckle-scraping Neanderthals to see themselves for what they really were. Worthless failures.
Which was precisely why he’d staged these murders as suicides.
He’d known they’d miss the first victim, perhaps even the second. That they’d be so eager to close a suicide that they’d miss the clues he’d left behind. He didn’t know what had finally tipped them off, whether it was that they’d finally seen the clues or because they’d finally connected Martha to the other two. Regardless, they would soon know that there had been others, that through their carelessness they had missed two homicides.
Now they were on victim three of his six, halfway through the game already.
Because they had God complexes, they would blame themselves. They would know that if they’d been smarter, quicker, competent, they would have seen victim number one hadn’t killed herself. That they might have prevented the deaths of the others.
They’d begin to second-guess themselves, and each other. And as the body count climbed, all that they believed they were, the mirage of strength they’d built of their own hubris would disappear. Because their strength had never been.
He would move on, stronger through their weakness. And he alone would know the truth, because they’d never find the one who’d brought demise to their public façade.
But enough of that for now. They’d finally discovered Martha Brisbane, aka victim number three of his six, aka Desiree. The game had officially begun.
On to victim four. He opened his laptop and logged in to his new hunting ground. There was a great deal to be said about the supposed anonymity of Shadowland’s virtual “world.” His victims were there to play, their guard down. In the virtual world they could say and do things they’d never dream of doing in the real world. He could earn their trust more easily because they believed he didn’t know who they really were.
But he knew. It was why he’d chosen these particular six out of the millions online.
He knew their names, addresses, occupations, marital status, and-of great personal value-their phobias, their worst fears. He’d tailored each experience to the victim, so although he hadn’t put his hands around their throats or allowed himself release, he’d been able to stoke the first three to more intense terror than he’d ever achieved with his hookers.