“Doesn’t she have a kid?” Dylan asked.
“Nate. He’s ten.”
“How’s he faring?”
“He’s camping with his uncle now.”
“That’s not what I mean.” He threw the rings several more times.
“According to his uncle, he’s smart enough to audit classes at the university. He’s edgy by nature and worries. But given what he’s been through, I’d say he’s doing well.”
“Any signs of his old man in him?”
Bryce frowned. “He’s a kid.”
“Jury is still out on the nature-versus-nurture match.”
“Are we talking about Nate or us?” Bryce asked.
His brother regarded him with the open honesty of blood. “You sound a little defensive.”
“Let’s face it. We both worried that we’d end up like our old man.”
“But we didn’t.”
His brother had always keyed into genetics. Their father had been a drunk and a wife beater, and witnessing violence in their home had left them both wary. Since his return to Montana, Dylan had shifted his obsession with genetics to the dogs. He knew better than anyone there were traits to encourage and ones to avoid.
“And neither will Nate. The kid has spirit, he wants to learn, and he’s willing to work,” Bryce said.
Dylan’s grin was sheepish. “And the mother? What do you think about her?”
“She’s smart. Determined. Unafraid.”
“And attractive, from what I remember.”
“Can’t fault the woman for that.”
Dylan laughed. “And you like her.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yes, you did.” Dylan held up his hands, laughing at Bryce’s frown. “Hey, if you like her, ask her out.”
“She’s gun shy.”
Venus ran up to Dylan and dropped her ring at his feet. He flung it and watched her lean, sleek body race across the tall grass. “The best take time and patience.”
“Maybe.”
“Flowers don’t hurt, either, or so I’ve heard.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
Growling drew Dylan’s gaze to the field. A snarling Venus now had all the rings and was facing the males. Dylan broke away immediately and, speaking German, ordered them all to stand down as he put himself between the dogs. His voice raised, he commanded all to sit.
“Some take more patience than others?” Bryce goaded.
Dylan kept his gaze on Venus, who looked ready to spring into the air. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”
It was after midnight when Ann pinned a long white piece of paper on her wall and, with a black marker, wrote out the dates of the three murders: June, July, and now August. Under each she wrote the city and then jotted down Sarah Cameron’s name under June, Dana Riley’s under July, and, beneath August, Jane Doe. She printed off pictures of the two identified victims as well as the Polaroid, then taped each under the corresponding month. Next came a collection of sticky notes with scribbled notations. Stabbing. Facial mutilation. Polaroid images. Social media posts on Sarah Cameron’s and D. Riley’s pages that appeared days after either their disappearance or death.
She stood back, knowing the killer had linked these murders for a reason. Based on these images, he preferred young women with light-colored hair. He did not sexually abuse his victims, took untraceable pictures of their faces, which he mutilated postmortem. The sections of skin, along with the pictures, were souvenirs.
“Why these women?” she asked.
Her doorbell rang. Stiffening, Ann rose and moved to her front window. Carefully, she drew back the curtain and searched her porch. No one was there.
Strain crept up her back, banding around her scalp. She hesitated and then unhooked the security chain and opened the door. She looked left, right, around the curb, and then toward her mat. But there was nothing. No Elijah. No Paul. Not even Clarke’s ghost.
She rubbed her arms and closed the door, hooking the chain and throwing the dead bolt.
As she stepped away from the door, her phone chimed with a text. Startled, she was relieved to see Bryce’s name.
Bryce: I have financials for Sarah Cameron and Dana Riley.
Ann: What did he buy?
Bryce: Gasoline. Fast food. Rang up tabs at grocery stores. Reaching out to stores now for surveillance footage.
Ann: Any leads on Jane Doe’s identity?
Bryce: Searched surrounding towns and counties for missing-person reports. No hits.
But there was a missing woman. Her family might not realize it yet, but Jane Doe was never coming home.
Ann: What about women who were supposed to be on vacation or a business trip? Departure expected, but they are late returning.
Bryce: Will alert surrounding jurisdictions.
There was a pause, and then the text bubbles rolled: Go to bed.
Ann: Back at you.
Bryce: What are you doing tomorrow?
Ann: Looking over financials with you?
Bryce: See you in Missoula at 11:00 a.m.
Theoretically, they both could get enough shut-eye during what remained of the night. He might be able to function on little to no sleep, but she could not. At this rate, she was going to develop double vision and start bumping into walls.
Ann: My house. Will have coffee.
Bryce: Roger.
Under Jane Doe she wrote: Killer still in Missoula?
I do not like to hurt people, but I really do enjoy screwing around with them. Amazing how the little things freak people out. A note on a windshield. A planter that has been moved. The ring of a doorbell.
If I ever get caught, which I never will, I will call it harmless fun. A joke. A prank. No harm, no foul.
But I know what these little tricks really mean. They are a warm-up for the main event that is coming soon.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Missoula, Montana
Sunday, August 22
6:15 a.m.
Ann woke early, rising before the sun. She rolled onto her side, noted the time, and groaned. She pulled the covers up, willing herself to sleep a couple more hours, but her brain quickly revved to fifth gear.
Frustrated, she stepped into the bathroom and turned on the shower’s hot spray. When she stepped under the water, she moaned as heat beaded against her chest. She tipped her face toward the nozzle.
Out of the shower, she dressed, properly dried her hair, and put on makeup. The simple routine was followed by a good cup of coffee. She started to put away her books, but found herself reading or thumbing through each, as if reacquainting herself with old friends.
When her doorbell rang, she had barely put a dent in the first box of books. Bryce was early. Rising, she pursed her lips and ran her fingers through her hair before she reached for the doorknob.
Smiling, she yanked it open and found Paul Thompson on her front porch. Her smile vanished. “What do you want, Mr. Thompson?”
He raised two smooth hands more suited for a keyboard than manual work. “I should have called first, but I wanted to give you another chance.”
“For what?”
“To talk to me. I felt like we got off on the wrong foot. It’s important that my story has your perspective.”
“We didn’t get off on any foot, Mr. Thompson. I’m not going to sit for an interview or have any kind of discussion with you.”