The Inquisitor. Gayle Wilson
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for him. And for her.
A gift, he thought again, brushing a stray tendril of hair off her cheek.
When it was dry, her hair had demonstrated an unexpected tendency to curl. Something he would never have guessed from the way it had appeared that afternoon.
He smiled at the memory. She had looked like a bedraggled puppy, lost in the storm. Her face had lit up when he’d stopped the car, opened the passenger-side window, and leaned across the seat.
Do you need any help?
There had been no hesitation on her part. No fear. She had immediately stuck her head and shoulders inside the vehicle in response.
Only directions.
By then, despite what his intellect screamed at him, it had been far too late to provide those and drive away. He’d seen her smile. He’d seen those big, brown eyes and under them the mascara she’d applied to her lower lashes smudged from the rain.
He’d taken care of that imperfection, of course. As soon as he’d gotten her to a safe place, he had painstakingly cleaned off her makeup, leaving her skin smooth and bare as a baby’s.
Innocent.
Except she wasn’t. None of them were. No matter what they said, none of them were free from the stain. None were pure. Especially not the ones who pretended to be once they understood.
She hadn’t pretended. She’d been defiant. Angry. Profane.
He had found he liked her that way. It had broken the monotony of fear and pleading.
In contrast to the others she’d been…Sassy, as his grandmother would have said.
Sassy. He liked the word, too, now that he’d remembered it. He tasted the syllables in his mouth as he whispered them against her ear.
The perfect word. Perfect for her. And she, in turn, was perfect for him. His lovely, defiant unexpected gift.
“Time to wake up.”
Although he hated it, he had to keep her drugged on the chance that she might, by some miracle, free herself and get away. That had never happened before—and it never would. Not as careful as he was.
That was his nightmare, however. That one of them might escape and tell everyone about the things he’d done.
Those were only for the two of them. For them to share. As they would share this.
Her lashes fluttered, telling him she was almost awake. He had timed it to the minute. All he had to do was to wait while the drug wore off. And when it had…
Although he had not been conscious of his needs when he’d taken her, he knew them now. They surged through his body with an inexorable force, driving the ebb and flow of his emotions.
He touched her face, again relishing its smoothness. Devoid of the foundation she’d been wearing, her skin was that of a child. Even to the faint sweep of color that now overlay those perfect cheekbones. Another sign, if he had needed one, that she was conscious.
“I know you’re awake,” he said, bending close again to whisper the words into her ear.
Her hair moved against his lips, its softness stirred by his breath. Without raising his head, he turned, so that her face was in profile, as he watched the slow, sleepy lift of her lashes.
With the drug, she would be confused. They always were, no matter how many times he’d come to them.
He had watched the sequence of that confusion perhaps a hundred times and never tired of it. First, she would try to think where she was. To separate dream from reality. Nightmare from truth.
Then, in one fell swoop, it would happen. She would remember. She would remember everything.
And she would know.
The knowledge would suddenly be there in those wide, dark eyes. If he weren’t careful, he would miss it.
He straightened to smile down on her. Her eyes, slightly glazed, appeared to be focused on the ceiling above her head. She had probably memorized its every crack and imperfection. They, too, would help clear her disorientation. And in a few seconds—
She turned, her head rolling on the hard mattress until she was at last looking at him. Although he was smiling, it didn’t reassure her. But of course, they were too far along for her to have any delusions left.
Not his sweet, sassy drowning puppy.
She knew. She knew exactly what he was. And she knew what was going to happen to her. It was all there in the beautiful dark orbs locked on his face.
Her eyes widened, even as they stared up into his. They were no longer defiant, however. He had seen to that.
The only thing in them now were the questions neither of them yet had answers for.
When will this be over?
When will you let me go?
When, dear God, will you finally let me die?
One
“One more question, Dr. Kincaid. If you don’t mind.”
The damp December air had seeped through the multiple layers of clothing Jenna had donned in preparation for this interview. The station had insisted the clip be filmed in front of the mall, so that its steady stream of Christmas shoppers would be visible behind them. Although Jenna acknowledged it was an appropriate backdrop for a segment on holiday depression, that didn’t mean she was enjoying the setting.
As the largest mental health practice in the greater Birmingham area, Carlisle, Levitt and Connor was called on throughout the year to furnish speakers for a variety of informational workshops as well as for interviews on local news programs and talk shows. Those requests were unusually heavy this time of year, so the psychologists and psychiatrists on staff rotated the responsibility. Tonight had been her turn to be the public face of the practice.
Normally Jenna didn’t mind her thirty seconds in the spotlight. The visibility brought in new clients, which was beneficial to everyone. Sometimes they asked for an appointment with whichever of the group they’d seen on television or heard on the radio. And at this particular time of the year, it was never a bad thing to have increased billing.
“Of course,” she said, smiling at the young man who looked all of eighteen. She suspected he might be one of the station’s interns. Either that or the passage of another year had made her more aware of her own age in comparison.
At thirty-four she’d accomplished most of the goals she’d set for herself. At least, she amended, the professional ones.
There was plenty of time for the rest. Something she’d been telling herself for the last five years.
“This afternoon the police department conceded that the murders of Sandra Reynolds, Margaret DeSpain and Callie Morgan were the work of one killer,” the reporter said. “What can you tell us about the person who might have perpetrated those crimes?”
Jenna hadn’t yet heard that the police had issued that statement. Of course, she’d been seeing patients up until she’d left the office. Even if she had known, she wouldn’t have been prepared to comment publicly on those murders. This was outside the scope of the subject matter she’d agreed to, as well as outside any area of expertise she might claim.
She allowed the smile she’d been holding for the camera to fade, considering the topic that had just been introduced. She took a breath as she tried to decide the best way to handle the kid’s question before settling on simply telling the truth.
“I’m really not in any position to answer that. Not only have the details of those crimes not been made public, I’m not a profiler. Forensic psychology is a very specialized field, one I have little training for.”
The reporter’s mouth had tightened