by Melinda Colt
He set the phone down and brushed his damp palms against his thighs. That had been the easy part. Looking around, he searched for a way to start the rest of the conversation. As his eyes landed on Chelsea’s laptop sitting on the coffee table, he realized he was too late. On the screen there were three photos side by side: Shannon with Kieran—a photo taken when her hair had been dyed blonde, Jenny and her cat—which his brother had promised to take care of, and a photo of a young smiling Chelsea holding a black cat up to her cheek. Evan’s blood chilled all over again as he stared at those images. He should have realized she was smart enough to put the pieces together.
“You know.” He said it as a quiet statement.
Chelsea fixed him with her tired, lavender eyes. She looked absurdly young and achingly helpless, her face devoid of makeup and any trace of color.
“You knew?” she accused. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“I just figured it out, not an hour ago,” he countered, fighting to sound calm instead of defensive. “I was rearranging my murder board and… I saw a resemblance. I thought I was imagining it. I suppose it could be a coincidence,” he said, reaching out to take her hands. “But Jack Dunhill being your patient is no coincidence. He is the link between the three of you. Maybe he developed an obsession for you during your hours of therapy, and…”
“Because he couldn’t have me, he decided to hunt women who looked like me?” she finished, her voice barely a whisper.
“It makes sense—as much as it makes sense in any sick mind. You’re a beautiful woman. Any man would be attracted to you. A healthy guy would check if you reciprocated his interest and move on if the answer were no. A sick individual would take it as a rejection and become fixated on you.”
“And he would seek revenge for being rejected.”
“Most likely. How did you piece it together?”
She shrugged slightly. “I was looking at Shannon and Jenny’s social media profiles to make a list of the things they had in common. As we had already established, they were of a similar physical type, they were both artistic, they didn’t have many friends… And they both owned black cats. That’s when it hit me, I guess. I wasn’t sure, but…” She hesitated, lifting her troubled gaze toward him. “Now that you told me about Jack Dunhill, I am. There couldn’t be that many coincidences. For some reason, it seems that I’m an intended victim, too.”
“Or the killer’s inspiration, the model he uses to choose his victims.”
“I don’t know… It doesn’t make sense. Jack Dunhill hardly knows me. We spent exactly two hours together. Statistically, it’s too short a time for him to develop some sort of obsession over me.”
“This isn’t about statistics, Chelsea. Probably the guy is much sicker than you could have asserted during those two sessions. You know better than I do how well sociopaths dissimulate sanity. He could have been stalking you ever since he first met you. Or maybe he’s simply focusing on a type of woman, and in his mind, you, Shannon and Jenny are that type.” He cleared his throat, trying to sound matter of fact. “Have you ever used that dating website?”
She shook her head, her gaze direct and clear. “I’ve never used a dating website. I, of all people, know what sickos can lurk around there.”
“This proves my theory. You were the first one, the one he actually met in person and became fixated on. Since you brushed him off, he sought out women who looked like you, who had things in common with you. I’m sure he chose them from that dating website.”
Chelsea’s knuckles were bone-white. Evan squeezed her hands tighter, fighting to convey reassurance.
“Listen, Chelsea, I’ll find this guy even if I have to move mountains. We’re on to him now, and he doesn’t know it. Until I lock him up, I need you under police protection. I’m placing a patrol car in front of your house 24/7 until we close these cases.”
She shook her head vehemently. “Don’t be silly. What will my neighbors think? The last thing I need is crazy speculation about me and why I have guards lurking outside my house.”
Evan wanted to bang his head against a wall. He’d been so sure she would understand his point of view.
“For Christ’s sake, do you prefer ending up dead? I’d hoped a woman with your insight would realize the need for this.”
“I can take care of myself,” she snapped, snatching her hands from his.
“I’m sure Shannon and Jenny believed the same thing! I won’t let you stay here alone, period. If I didn’t have feelings for you I would just force you into a safe house. But since I do, I’ll give you a choice: it’s either the Gardaí protecting you, or you’ll come and stay with me until all of this is over.”
She gaped at him, her mouth opening and closing several times before she could speak. When she did, her gaze softened. “What sort of feelings?”
Evan, at wits’ end, stared back at her. “Do you want to analyze them, Doc?”
Her mouth twisted wryly. “When you’re ready, it might be interesting.”
“Yeah, well, I have a serial killer on the loose. You know, I have to catch him before he kills someone else.”
She sobered up instantly. “What can I do to help?”
He looked her in the eyes. “I don’t have a warrant yet, but I’ll get one that will overrule your doctor-patient confidentiality agreement. In the meantime, I need all the details you can give me about Jack Dunhill. Time is of the essence.”
Chelsea watched him intently for a few moments, a deep frown drawing her eyebrows together. At last, she bit her lip.
“I don’t know that much about him. I’ve already told you the basics. He’s forty, comes from a wealthy family, has two failed marriages, no children. In my professional opinion, he’s an immature, spoiled, self-centered misogynist who thinks he’s entitled to whatever he wants. But I took the fact that he made this concession to his current girlfriend and came to therapy as a sign of emotional maturity. A change in his behavior.”
“He would have been better off staying immature,” Evan mumbled, leaning his head back against the sofa. He was so tired and tense the muscles in his neck and shoulders trembled slightly. “What else? Do you know anything about this girlfriend of his?”
Chelsea let out a breath, fighting to recall everything Dunhill had said during their meetings.
“I got the impression that she’s considerably younger than he is. He called her Helen. From what I understand she’s very close to her parents. That’s why she insisted they meet Jack.” Suddenly, she snapped her fingers, eyes glinting. “He mentioned they were religious people and lived next to the church. I remember he said he was going to hit the church for some sacramental wine if they proved to be too boring.”
Evan looked at her, his heart starting to beat faster. “How many churches do you figure are in Malahide?”
Chelsea grinned, reaching for her laptop. “I don’t know, but I’m sure Google does.”
After searching for a few minutes, Chelsea read the information aloud.
“Malahide has two Catholic parishes, St. Sylvester’s and Yellow Walls, and one Church of Ireland parish (St. Andrews), and also a Presbyterian community with a church built in 1956.”
“So there are four. You don’t happen to know which is the one we’re looking for?”
She shook her head.
Evan scratched his thin thoughtfully. “You said ‘sacramental wine’. Is that the expression Dunhill used?”
“Yes, I’m sure of that.”
“Isn’t that an expression Catholics use?”
Chelsea raised one shoulder. “I don’t know. I’m not Catholic.”
“I am—at least officially.” It had been ages since he’d thought about religion on a personal level. He stood abruptly. “I’ll start with the Catholic churches and check out if there are houses in those vicinities. Come on, get your stuff, and I’ll drop you off at my place.”
Chelsea’s lips parted and color rushed into her cheeks as she got to her feet, planting her han
ds on her hips. Evan tried not to gawk at her breasts, outlined under the robe.
“Didn’t you hear me when I told you I’m not going anywhere? I’ve lived alone all my adult life, and I can take care of myself. I’m not some bloody helpless female who needs a big strong man to defend her—”
“I know you’re not.” Conjuring up reserves of patience he had no idea he owned, Evan squeezed her shoulders gently. “Understand that I worry about you, and that won’t allow me to focus on this case. Please, Chelsea. I can’t afford any distractions. I need to know you’re safe. I need to know that I am keeping you safe.”
He gazed intensely into her eyes, putting all of his power of persuasion into that plea. He’d never thought he would beg a woman to come and stay with him. Oddly enough, he didn’t feel like an idiot.
After holding his stare for several long moments, Chelsea relented and looked away. Her long lashes cast shadows over her face, enhancing the traces of fatigue.
“Okay. Thank you. I’m sorry, I was being ungracious and ungrateful,” she said, leaning into him for the first time tonight. “It’s very kind of you to do this, to take on the responsibility of protecting me.”
He wrapped his arms around her, and rested his chin on the top of her head. Her hair smelled citrusy and fresh, as though it had been recently washed.
“It’s my privilege, Doc. Now go pack your essentials.”
“I will. But after that I’m going with you to Malahide. Take it or leave it, that’s the deal,” she said loudly before turning around and disappearing out the door.
Evan watched the empty doorway long after she was gone. Secretly, he was grateful for her help, her company, her insight. She wasn’t a cop, but she could think like one when she had to. Her skills were valuable to him. Hell, she was valuable to him, when he’d least wanted any emotional entanglements. For better or worse, he cared about this woman. He would keep her safe no matter what.
As he waited for her, he did a search on his police tablet and outlined the route to Malahide. With a bit of luck, he and Chelsea might track down the bastard themselves without the help of any warrant. He had no idea whether or not Dunhill was indeed in Malahide, but he had to check. He couldn’t think of a next best step.
Chelsea returned in less than ten minutes, wearing jeans and a black sweater. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she carried a medium-sized bag. Moving swiftly and efficiently, she closed the lid on her laptop and set it in its bag, then walked to the foyer. She pulled on boots and a black wool coat.
“I’m ready.”
“I’m impressed,” Evan said, meaning it. “Most women I know take ages to get ready for… anything.”
She laughed lightly. “I can do that too, but I can also be practical when I need to be. I didn’t think putting on makeup or folding all my clothes so all the edges matched to perfection mattered now.”
He reached out and took the bags from her, while she turned off the lights and locked the front door.
“I thought women like you existed only in fantasies.”
Although his tone was joking, he was serious and sensed that Chelsea knew it.
They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Evan put her bags in the trunk and indicated she should get into the car. As he climbed in, he programmed the GPS to guide them to Malahide. Chelsea fastened her seatbelt, then curled her hands together in her lap.
“It will get warm in a minute,” Evan said, turning up the heat.
“Thanks.”
He drove silently, grateful the traffic was light. It was the thing he loved most about holidays here; people stayed inside instead of crowding the streets. He still found it challenging to drive on some of the old Dublin streets where it seemed impossible for two vehicles to fit side by side. When he’d first arrived in the city, he had been nervous and couldn’t understand how drivers navigated these narrow streets, which should have been one-ways in his opinion. Somehow, most drivers had an innate sense of discipline, and if there wasn’t enough room, then one vehicle would pull aside, closer to the cars parked there, letting the other driver pass by. It was an unspoken rule.
Just like the streets, most houses in the city were close together, without a patch of yard. Some were large buildings, converted mansions where several families lived, others were singles, charmingly mismatched. Evan knew this was prime real estate, but couldn’t understand why, since one had very little privacy here.
As he had expected, a fine rain started, tiny drops covering the windshield in seconds. Turning on the wipers, he continued to drive carefully and stare at the gloomy landscape. The Halloween decorations did nothing to lift his mood. He wondered what had possessed him to go on this crazy quest, to search for a house next to a church, probably among dozens of other houses? It would have been easier to find a needle in a haystack.
Chapter Fourteen
Chelsea fought to keep her eyes open. She’d lost count of the hours or days she’d been awake, getting no more than a couple of stolen hours of sleep. This evening’s revelations were overwhelming, yet at the same time she was too tired to be afraid. She just wanted rest, craving it like an addict craves his drug of choice.
She found it hard to believe Jack Dunhill was a murderer. What kind of psychologist did that make her, if she had talked to the man, been in the same room with him, and not realize what he was? Perhaps she was judging herself too harshly, but in the back of her mind she still wasn’t convinced Dunhill was the killer. It was absurd because all evidence pointed toward him, so why wasn’t she convinced of his guilt? Was she flattering herself thinking she would have known if he were a stone cold killer? Even Evan seemed convinced he was guilty.
The road to Malahide appeared interminable, the rain pattering against the car, scraping at her raw nerves. She didn’t know how they were going to find Dunhill. This whole mission felt like a witch hunt, but she understood Evan’s desperation to do something, to act instead of wait. She shared the same mentality. Maybe that was why they understood each other so well. What would things have been like between them if it hadn’t been for this whole mess? No point in thinking about it. If not for this case, they wouldn’t have started working together and getting to know each other. Everything happened for a reason, although she didn’t understand why two women had to die. Would she be the third?
“Okay, we’re here,” Evan said, startling her out of her menacing musings. “What church should we start with?”
She leaned forward to look at the screen of the navigation system, then reached out to zoom in on the image with the tip of her finger.
“Let’s follow your instinct and start with the Catholic churches. They’re only streets away from each other, so it isn’t a large area to cover. Let’s go to Saint Sylvester first.”
They drove around the cozy streets bordered by evergreens and Halloween decorations. The trees were naked, but the festive lights and jack o’ lanterns made the village look like a place out of a fairytale. It was quite late and there was little activity on the streets. The idea that a killer might be hiding in this sleepy little town was improbable—which made it even more sinister in Chelsea’s mind.
“The bad news is that both of these churches are surrounded by houses,” Evan said, driving slowly through one of the quiet neighborhoods, his window lowered, his gaze sharp. “The good part is that most people here park in front of the houses or on the street.” He took out his phone, searched for a photo and handed it to Chelsea. “Be on the lookout for this car. I’ve lightened and enhanced the image from the security cameras as best as I could. It’s a black Tesla. The plate number is clearer in the next image.”
Chelsea swiped to check, making sure she had the make, model, and plate number of the car imprinted in her memory. Then, as much as she hated the cold night air, she lowered her window to get a better look. She racked her brain for more information, something that perhaps Dunhill had told her about this place and she’d forgotten, yet nothing came to mind. As they drove
by the first church, she spotted several black cars, but none of them was the one they were looking for.
The Presbyterian church was nearby, so they did the same routine around it, with no luck. Evan pulled over and leaned forward to check the GPS.
“Next we have The Catholic Church of the Sacred Heart in Yellow Walls Parish.”
“Is it far from here?” Chelsea asked.
“Not very. Are you still up for this?”
“Sure. Let’s go.” Chelsea tried to put some enthusiasm behind her words, but she sounded as tired as she felt.
Evan looked over at her, hesitating. After a few moments, he reached out and stroked her cheek.
“Listen, lie back and close your eyes for a few minutes while I drive us there. If this is a bust too, we’ll go back to Dublin and get some sleep. I’ll wait until John gets that warrant and go through the channels. I should never have dragged you into this foolish chase—”
“Shh! Stop it, okay? We’re both in this, by no fault of our own. Let me know when we get there.”
She leaned her head back on the headrest and closed her eyes. They felt as if they were full of sand. Taking deep breaths, she focused on relaxing her muscles, on drawing energy from the weak reserves she hoped she had left deep inside of herself. It was a technique she taught her patients, one she had mastered in order to deal with PTSD or sometimes just everyday stress. Emptying her mind of all negative thoughts, she just breathed and let the oxygen fill her, heal her, awaken her.
As she felt the car slow down, she opened her eyes.
“This is it,” Evan said. “Let’s give it one more shot before we call it a night.”
“All right.”
It was a new neighborhood, with short wide streets and good asphalt. They followed the Sat-Nav instructions and turned left. The parish center was on one side of the street, and the other was lined up with about a dozen modern-looking duplexes. Some of them had garages, but most had cars in front of their main entrances. Both Chelsea and Evan strained their eyes as they drove by very slowly, checking out logos, reading plate numbers. Somewhere in the middle, Evan stepped hard on the brakes.
