“What about physical traits?”
“Anatomically, MRIs reveal irregularities in the brain specifically in the amygdala, located in the center of the brain. This portion of the brain should activate when the subject is faced with emotion or empathy. Not surprising, but it’s underactive in psychopaths.”
Bryce held up his hand. “What about characteristics I can see?”
“Psychopaths come in all kinds of shapes and sizes. There’s no way of looking at a person and telling.”
Elijah pulled up to the house Ann was selling and spotted the red pickup truck in the driveway. He thought about the free spirit, Maura, and how good she had smelled. He wondered if her skin was as soft as it looked.
He parked down the block and walked toward the house, knowing folks in this neighborhood normally paid attention to the comings and goings of people. He wagered they were on high alert after last year, and Ann had warned Maura about letting anyone in the house. Perhaps he should stay away. Had not his mother always said that when you go into the house of the dead, you risked stirring their souls?
The last time he had been alone with Ann, it had been in the small two-bedroom she had shared with Joan Mason in college. They’d had sex in her foyer, and when he had left her, she had been panting and satiated, and he had been hopeful they might have something.
Then the college house had caught fire shortly before graduation. Ann’s brother, Gideon, had rescued Ann, and Clarke Mead had barely saved Joan. The cops found the three incendiary devices. One had failed and not burned properly, leaving the torn shreds of a sweatshirt covered in Elijah’s DNA. He was in handcuffs before the embers cooled. The jury’s verdict had been as swift, and at the turn of the new year, he was in prison.
But there’d been a reason that device had not burned fully. It had been meant to be found. The evidence against him had been a plant. He had been set up. And ten years had been stolen from him.
Burying his anger, he got out of the car and strolled up the front walk, taking in the small house that backed up to a bank of woods. As he approached, music echoed from the interior. He tried the door, discovered it was unlocked, and opened it. Dust particles danced in a thick band of sunlight streaming in from the patio window.
“Hello,” he said.
The music grew louder as he walked toward the bedroom. He made his foot strikes louder, hoping to alert her that he was here. The last thing he needed was for her to panic and call the cops. His past record might have been expunged, but if the two speeding tickets he’d had in the last six months were any indication, the cops were looking for an excuse.
He walked to the main bedroom doorway and saw the collection of overstuffed garbage bags. He peered into one and noted more of Ann’s clothing.
“Maura!” he said. When she still didn’t respond, he knocked on the wall.
The music went silent. “Hello?”
“Maura. It’s Elijah.”
She peered out of the bathroom, her expression a mixture of shock and happy surprise. She had changed into a light-blue dress that skimmed below her knees. The neckline scooped along her collarbone, and the sleeves floated above her elbows. She also wore three-inch beige heels and a gold, chunky bracelet.
“You dress up like this to clean?” he asked.
Nervous laughter bubbled. “God no.” Blushing, she leaned slightly forward, and he caught the aroma of lilacs. Ann’s scent. “These are Ann’s,” she said.
The clothes fit her well and showed off the full curve of her breasts. “And she’s okay with this?”
“She doesn’t want anything from the house. I checked with her. And as I was bagging up her closet, I came across a couple of really nice dresses. I thought I’d try a few on.”
“And you decided to help yourself.”
“I know it looks weird. But they’re all going to the thrift store anyway.”
He had never seen Ann wear this dress, but he doubted he had seen her in anything from any closet in this house. She had left Clarke by the time he had been released from prison.
“What do you think of the dress?” Maura asked.
“It looks good,” he said quietly.
She smoothed her hand over her flat belly. “Thanks.”
He was smarter than almost anyone, but he lacked direct experience with women. The women who had reached out to him in prison wrote him sensual, exciting letters, but they were all distant. Even the ones who had visited him while he was behind bars had been separated by a thick glass partition.
Now, all that stood between Maura and him was inches of air. It took control not to run his hand along her cheek. Was her skin as smooth as it looked?
Her brows gathered as she moved a step toward him and then slowly turned with her arms outstretched. “What do you think about me in this dress?”
“It’s hot,” he growled.
She moistened her lips.
How would Ann’s breasts fill out the dress? Would her soft mounds strain against the delicate fabric? And the hem—would it skim above or below her knees? Ann had long legs, so he guessed several inches above.
“How about dinner tonight?” he asked.
“Yeah, sure.”
This was the mating dance, he supposed. He had never had much practice as a teenager, and now fast-forward ten years, and he was as clueless. One thing to read one of his Fireflies’ letters, process their words, and craft his response. Now here, with a woman so close, it wasn’t as easy.
She fingered the soft folds of the dress’s skirt. “I’m working here until at least five. I can meet you. You like Italian?”
“Sure.”
“There’s a place called Tony’s.”
He knew the place. He had been there many times, mostly grabbing takeout, but he had gotten to know the owner, who did not care about his past. “Sounds perfect.”
“Terrific. What about the furniture?”
“I don’t want any of it.” He turned but paused at the door. “Wear the dress.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Missoula, Montana
Friday, August 20
6:15 p.m.
Ann was ready to kick off her shoes and drink maybe a small glass of wine when she pulled into her driveway. It still felt odd not to have Nate, but for tonight, she was glad for the quiet. Time to process was rare these days. She fumbled with a large pizza box, her purse, and her keys.
As she searched the ring for the new key, a car pulled up behind her. Tensing, she located her house key and opened the door before she turned.
“Ann!” a woman shouted.
She recognized Edith Scott as she climbed out of her parked car. Judging by the woman’s tight, defensive body language, this was not a social call. “Edith.”
“I need to talk to you,” Edith said.
“Can it wait until morning, Edith?” Ann asked. “It’s been a long day.”
“It’s about Elijah Weston, and it cannot wait.”
The sound of his name soured her mood. “What about him?”
“Did you know he’s volunteering at the registrar’s office at the university?”
She did not. There was no logical reason for him to take on a role like that. It did not pay anything, and given his recent settlement, the position was not worth his time.