“Someone less experienced,” Tatum said. “Maybe easily manipulated.”
“Subject to certain fantasies that Glover could accommodate,” Zoe said. “This guy probably already fantasized about Catherine. That’s why they targeted her specifically. It’s someone who knows her.”
“And he probably got her to open the door,” Tatum said.
“He acts first—they agreed about it beforehand. Maybe he didn’t even know Glover would kill her, but Glover knew.”
“Then Glover kills her. His partner in crime feels guilty about it. He covers her. Finds her necklace and puts it on her.”
“And Glover keeps his trophy.”
O’Donnell watched them, caught in their own private dynamic, and felt a spark of jealousy. She’d been there before, with her first partner. She and Jim had been paired when she’d become a homicide detective. They’d been partners for fourteen months. She hadn’t known how lucky she was. She assumed the relationship they had—this seamlessness—was something that always happened, a part of the job. But then Jim was promoted and transferred, and she was paired with Manny Shea. And what a mess that was. With Manny, she either had to become dirty or turn a blind eye. And when Manny’s shady dealings finally collapsed, she paid the price. And of course, now she had no one.
Watching Tatum and Zoe complete each other’s sentences, exchanging looks that held messages she couldn’t read, was like being a child again, seeing the other kids playing in the schoolyard while she stood alone.
“I don’t want to rain on your parade,” O’Donnell said, though she did. “But there’s no evidence your guy Glover is involved in this. And I don’t want you getting any preconceived notions about the case and messing it up.”
“You’re right,” Tatum said quickly. “But we would be glad to help.”
“I don’t need you to profile this murderer and tell me it definitely sounds like your guy,” O’Donnell said skeptically. She’d wanted their help, but their agenda was glaringly obvious.
“We can start by profiling the second one,” Zoe said. “The man who consumed the victim’s blood. He’s probably the same one who covered her.”
“You can’t be sure of that,” O’Donnell said.
Zoe caught O’Donnell’s gaze, the profiler’s eyes reminding O’Donnell of a cat’s stare just before it pounced. “We can help.”
And frankly, O’Donnell was happy for all the help she could get.
CHAPTER 7
The man in control didn’t like to sleep. Not lately, anyway, not ever since he’d stopped taking his medication.
Before that, it wasn’t even a question he could contemplate. The various pills he took would knock him out for ten, twelve, sometimes fourteen hours a day, easy. A deep sleep that felt like he was submerged in wet cement. Dreamless, as far as he was concerned. He knew everyone dreamed, but what did it matter, if he couldn’t remember it?
But now, off his medication for almost a week, he slept less and less.
He could remember his dreams now. It was like standing in a tempest of fear, anger, and lust. He’d wake up, his blankets twisted into strange shapes, sometimes crushed between his fists as if he’d throttled the bedsheet in his sleep.
When he slept, he lost control. And he knew it was the most important thing right now. Control. He’d lost control before in his life, and it had always ended terribly. Never again.
Control, he knew, wasn’t an actual thing that you had. It was more like an outfit, something you put on. A disguise for other people to see. As long as you acted as if you were in control, you were in control. They said a wolf in sheep’s clothing as if it was a bad thing. But wasn’t it what everyone wanted? For you to be one of the sheep?
He got out of bed—short naps during the day were mostly dreamless and helped him stay awake at night. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror. There was a stain on his shirt. People in control didn’t wear dirty clothes. He changed shirts, combed his hair. Smiled at the reflection politely, and the reflection smiled back.
Less teeth next time. A man in control didn’t bare his teeth like that. He smiled with his lips.
He imagined himself buttoning the buttons of his control suit, took a deep breath, and got out of the bedroom. The guest room’s door was shut. He hesitated, almost knocked, then decided to go to the kitchen instead.
He made himself a cup of coffee—coffee was his new friend, now that he’d left sleep behind. Maybe he should make himself a sandwich. He opened the fridge and scanned the shelves for the cream cheese he’d bought last Friday.
The five vials, full of crimson blood, immediately caught his eye. He’d managed to collect them from her before Daniel took her. His mouth watered, just seeing the vials. He remembered the metallic salty taste, so invigorating, so different from animal blood, so full of life. Couldn’t he afford to drink just one? Not even the entire vial. Just a small sip to feel better.
Control. Those vials weren’t for him.
He found the cream cheese and shut the fridge. A good sandwich and some more coffee could make him feel just fine. It wasn’t like he even needed the blood. He was much better now.
It had been different just three days ago. He was sick as a dog back then. Headaches, sore throat, nausea, rapid heartbeats. The doctor said he was fine, but Google had told him different. Sepsis or a heart disease, he was almost certain. Not that the doctors cared. Like Daniel said, in this country, if you didn’t have a million-dollar health insurance plan, no one gave a shit about you.
It was fine. He’d found out the truth long before. They didn’t want anyone to know, of course. But it made total sense when you thought about it. Just a bit of blood from someone else could help almost any malady. It was a way to enrich your own white blood cells, bolster the immunity system. And if the blood was pure, really pure, it was even better.
If only it could have been someone else. But like Daniel had said, you wanted the purest blood possible, right?
Besides, it wasn’t just himself he had to worry about.
And it had worked. Ever since that night he’d been feeling fine. Better than fine, really. He was Healthy with a capital H. He had to sleep a bit less, the dreams became worse, but that was to be expected. And it wasn’t like he had a choice.
He realized he was standing by the open fridge, one of the small vials already in his hand. Funny, he was so lost in thought he’d done it without thinking. He uncorked it, just to smell the contents. Nothing more.
It smelled like Life.
He tipped it gently between his lips. It tasted different cold. Not necessarily worse, but different. And it was fine; he still had four more.
He washed the vial and then went over to the guest room’s door, knocking on it.
“Yeah?” Daniel’s voice was distracted.
He opened the door. The room was dark, the blinds pulled down. Daniel sat by the desk, the laptop in front of him. The monitor’s white ethereal light reflected on Daniel’s face, making his sunken features and pale skin look even sicklier than usual.
“I wondered if you wanted anything to eat or drink.”
“Nah, thanks, man.” Daniel glanced at him and smiled, tired. “You’re looking much better.”