But first they had to convince the police Kaitlan was telling the truth.
He didn’t believe Craig had merely used the black and green fabric from his manuscript. To some extent Craig actually saw himself as Leland Hugh.
Darell had been stuck for months on Hugh’s motives. Why did Hugh choose a certain victim?
Craig was going to show him why.
Darell pulled to a halt, overcome. Joy and power welled in his chest. His heart beat with new life, new confidence. He hadn’t felt this like in years. Like he could sit down right now, write page after page, long into the night.
He threw his head back and laughed. Raised his fist in victory.
The King of Suspense was back.
All these years Darell Brooke had guided his protagonists to safety, even when they faced certain death. He was about to do the same for Kaitlan. He would save her from this disaster. And through saving her, he would pen the best novel he’d ever written.
Darell walked to the doorway. Even his gait felt stronger. “Margaret!Kaitlan!”
Pulse tripping, he resettled himself in the leather chair. A tremble in his fingers threatened to betray his excitement. He placed his cane on the floor, leaned back, and folded his arms.
Footsteps. They were coming.
Darell took a deep breath. He couldn’t wait to call his agent, tell the man of his surge in energy. Good old Malcolm. He’d be thrilled to hear from his favorite client, Darell Brooke.
They hadn’t spoken in at least a month.
fifteen
Kaitlan slumped onto the same end of the couch as before. Hopelessness and defeat sat in her chest. She felt old and heavy and dry. The only way to breathe was to put her mind on hold.
Margaret sat down, her nervous gaze on Kaitlan’s grandfather.
Kaitlan looked him over. He sat back, arms folded. Very still. Except for his eyes. They bounced between her and Margaret, glimmering. Weird. His vibes reminded her of eating at his table as a little girl. He’d often be distracted, impatient, his gaze flitting about. Kaitlan knew those signs—he was in his fiction world, wanting to get back to his desk and write.
Hope flickered. Maybe his mind was functioning just fine. Maybe this would work out.
“All right,” he announced. “I’ve looked at all the facts, examined the evidence. I know what happened.”
Margaret threw Kaitlan an encouraging glance.
“Kaitlan.” Her grandfather focused upon her. “Craig is the murderer.”
The words sank through her like boulders.
“Today Craig was driven to kill—again. Why he murders, I don’t know. We must discover the reason. But we’ll get back to that.”
That black hole within Kaitlan spread and gobbled up her insides until she would fall headlong into it.
“He used your apartment because he could. It’s a quiet, out-of-the-way place to commit a murder during the day. Somehow he lured his victim there. It will be interesting to see how far away her car is discovered. He got her inside and a struggle ensued. Not a long one apparently, since only a few items were knocked around in your living room. At some point she fell on the couch, grabbing the blanket. He yanked her off, and it ended up on the floor.”
No, someone else. Not Craig. Kaitlan drew goosebumped arms across her chest.
“He dragged his victim into your room, strangled her on the bed. I imagine it was over quickly. With no sexual assault, no apparent beating, he simply wants to get the job done. Which,” her grandfather raised his eyebrows, “I find quite telling. These are crimes of cold passion rather than hot.”
“What do you mean?” Kaitlan whispered.
“He kills his victims quickly and efficiently. He seems to take no warped joy in the act. Rape, you see, is an act of power and hatred against women. It has little to do with sex. Craig kills not in a rage, wielding such power, but with the quiet calculation that the woman—for some reason only his disturbed mind knows—deserves to die.”
Margaret frowned. “Wouldn’t he know not to rape because of the DNA evidence he’d leave behind? He is the police chief’s son.”
Kaitlan’s grandfather shook his head. “Killers like this are driven by their twisted desires. Even with all they might know about crime-scene evidence, they don’t think in those terms when they give way to passion. Besides, they have the ego to believe they’ll never be caught.”
“But …” Kaitlan swallowed. She still couldn’t grasp this. “He’s been so nice to me, and I just can’t …”
Her grandfather’s expression softened. “Girl, listen to me. Too often there’s a mighty fine line between truth and fiction. In my stories, the murderer is always someone you’d never expect. Those stories are a reflection of the real world. How many times have you heard about a serial killer being apprehended, and everyone who knew him is shocked?”
“I know, but still …”
“Kaitlan. Do you want me to save your life? Because that’s what’s at stake here.”
She clutched her hands, running one thumb over another until it whitened. Deep inside a part of herself was shriveling up and dying.
“But the book he’s writing,” she blurted. “How would he ever expect to publish it? All those scenes in the killer’s head. If he did this, if those scenes are true, readers from around here would know.”
“Vanity, granddaughter. A person like this does not think of getting caught. Besides, don’t believe everything he’s writing is true. Or even fifty percent of it. The scenes could be predicated on his own experience and motivation for killing. But details will be masked, many completely changed. That’s what I’m telling you about fiction—it arises from truth about humanity, the world, but then veers off into imagination. In reading a novel, you may form a picture of the author’s worldview, but don’t forget the characters are fictional.”
“I just thought … I don’t know.” Kaitlan tried to imagine reading Craig’s manuscript. If he was a real killer, would reading his work help her understand him better or only throw her off course, since she wouldn’t know what was true and what wasn’t? Especially if over fifty percent turned out to be made up …
She fisted both hands and pressed them underneath her chin. This whole thing was too awful. She couldn’t grasp it.
The party. Kaitlan checked her watch. Oh, no, it was late. She had no time to wrestle with this.
She took a deep breath. “So what do we do about the body? And I have to call Craig. How do I keep him from coming over and ‘discovering’it?”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“You’re not going to call him.”
“I have—”
“Stop.” Her grandfather raised his hand. “Listen to me. You were right about Craig’s suspicious tone when he called you. He doesn’t think you’re coming home from work soon. He knows you found the body two and a half hours ago.”
“But—”
“He knows, Kaitlan.” Her grandfather leaned forward, his words coming more rapidly. “He was there when you got home. He had just killed the woman. You wonder why he left her in your apartment? The answer—it was never his plan. He heard you coming and slipped out the back. When he phoned you, he was somewhere close to your house.”
“Oh!” Margaret’s hand flew to her mouth.
Kaitlan’s lungs swelled. “Then he’ll kill me too! Why would he let me live?”
Her grandfather ignored her. “The reason he called you? He wanted to see how you’d react. What you were thinking.”
“What I was thinking? Like—congratulations on your latest success?”
“Don’t be stupid,” her grandfather snapped. “He needed to know how pliable you’d be. Were you quick to suspect him, or had you already convinced yourself he could never do such a thing? And you failed his test. Had you screamed about the body in your house, he’d have come to your rescue, played the innocent. But you claimed you were still at work. You acted normal. Which immediately told him you suspected he was
responsible and were too petrified of what he’d do if you let on.”
Kaitlan covered her face. This couldn’t be. Even though everything made so much sense. Even as she realized the sickening truth had screamed at her from the moment she’d answered that call.
Heat radiated down her limbs. One thing she could cling to. Her grandfather had figured this out while she hadn’t. He was thinking clearly. “What am I supposed to do?”
“What time is it?”
“Um.” Her body felt so flushed, so hot. “Five-forty.”
“Then you’ll have to hurry. You need time to fix your makeup.”
“Wh-where am I going?”
“Home. You have a dinner party to attend.”
She stared at him. “There’s a body on my bed!”
“It’ll be gone. Your place will be cleaned up, just like you left it this morning.”
This was insane. “But if he knows I saw it—”
“Craig’s waiting to see what you’ll do. He knows you ran from your place like a scared rabbit. Believe me, the minute you were gone, he took care of all the evidence, so even if you did go to the police there’d be no proof. You failed his first test—your life depends on passing the second. You play your part now, he’ll play his. As long as he believes you’ll keep his secret, you’ll be safe.”
“Safe? Dating a killer?”
“D.,” Margaret sounded aghast, “you can’t possibly—”
“Silence!” His face darkened. He glared from Margaret to Kaitlan. “Your charade won’t have to last long. Wherever he dumped the body, it will soon be found. This time he’ll be caught, no matter whose son he is. Because we”—he pointed from himself to Kaitlan—“are going to flush him out. We’re going to play his game, all the while planning to expose him in a way that leaves no doubt he’s the killer. And no one on the force, including his father, will be able to cover for him.”
“And just how are we going to do that?”
Her grandfather lifted his chin. “I haven’t figured that out yet. It will come.”
“It’ll come.” Kaitlan almost laughed. She shoved off the couch, feeling like an escaped fly told to return to the spider’s web. “So while you sit here and ‘figure it out,’ I’m supposed to play lovebird with a maniac!”
“You got a better idea?”
“Yeah! Forget this. I go to the police right now!”
“And what are you going to say when you take them to your apartment and there’s no body?”
“It’ll be there. It will!”
“No, Kaitlan.” His voice sharpened. “It won’t. And you’ll have lost all chance of credibility with the police. Plus Craig will see the need to silence you.”
Kaitlan’s eyes filled with tears. She swiveled toward Margaret. “Tell him I can’t do this.”
Margaret’s mouth flopped open like a fish out of water. She spread her hands in helplessness.
Kaitlan’s grandfather slid forward in his chair. “Kaitlan, go. If you don’t leave right now it’ll be too late.”
“No, I’m not going.” To even think of being alone with Craig. Letting him touch her. Kiss her …
“Margaret, see her to the door.”
“I’m not going!”
Anger flicked across her grandfather’s face. He snatched his cane from the floor, fumbled to his feet. “Don’t trust me above your boyfriend, do you?” His tone could have cut steel. “Think I’m a doddering old man? One who’d play with his only granddaughter’s life? Fine, then. But you’re not staying here. Run off again—you obviously know how to do that. But if you have an ounce of brain in your head, you’ll at least return to your apartment and see if I’m right. I dare you. Go see if you find a body. If it’s gone—you just might want to believe me and do what I say!”
He turned and stalked from the room.
“Oh, Lord help us,” Margaret whispered.
Kaitlan stared at the floor. Her brain wouldn’t work.
She had no time to think. The clock just ran out. It was either run away to the streets, not knowing the truth, or follow this crazy plan.
Nausea knifed her stomach. The baby.
If she fell back in with her old friends, returned to drugs, what would happen to her baby?
I dare you. See if you find a body …
Maybe she would find it still on her bed. Maybe even now there was hope Craig didn’t do this.
Mind and body numb, Kaitlan walked out of the library.
“No, don’t go!” Margaret cried.
Kaitlan ignored her.
At the front door she picked up her purse.
“Wait, wait.” Margaret hustled to her. “At least listen for a minute …”
Moments later Kaitlan perched stiff-backed behind the wheel of her Corolla, gunning its engine to life.
Part 2
Conspiring
sixteen
Margaret stood on the porch, watching Kaitlan drive away. Her heart beat double-time, making her lightheaded. She couldn’t believe this was happening.
Kaitlan had promised to call as soon as she got home. “If nothing’s changed,” Margaret told her, “drive right back here.”
“And if the body’s gone?” Kaitlan asked.
Margaret had tried to keep her voice even. “Then your grandfather will be right, won’t he.”
Inside the house—a slammed door. D. had walled himself in his office, seething. He hadn’t even waited to see what his granddaughter would do.
Kaitlan’s car disappeared around the driveway’s curve. Margaret listened for the distant gears of the gate opening. Maybe that sound wouldn’t come. Maybe Kaitlan would change her mind and turn around.
But no. Faintly—the metallic whir. Moments later, the clank of the gate’s closing.
On wooden legs Margaret returned to the kitchen. The smell of her casserole filled the room. She idled near the center island trying to think. What to do to fill the time? Before Kaitlan arrived she’d meant to go to the store but now couldn’t even remember what she needed. Soon it would be time for dinner, but she couldn’t imagine eating a bite.
She pulled out a kitchen chair and fell into it. Braced her elbows on the table, her head in her hands.
Imagine if she hadn’t let Kaitlan come in through the gate.
Margaret breathed into her palms, feeling the heat of her cheeks.How had this happened? Why did this family face one trauma after another when she’d prayed so hard for them, and for so many years?
“God, I know You see what’s going on. Why don’t You do something?”
Truth was, there were plenty of times when God hadn’t seemed to answer her prayers. Her own life hadn’t been easy either. She’d never been able to have children, as much as she and her husband, Robert, had tried. Then she lost him at forty-nine to pancreatic cancer. The Brooke family had become her own. After D.’s accident he needed full-time supervision. She gave up her house in Half Moon Bay and moved into the suite at the end of his mansion’s north wing, casting off her administrative assistant role for one of caretaker and nurse. She missed having her own time, her own space. Missed editing D.’s manuscripts, keeping up with his fans. Oh, sure, some still wrote him, but for the most part, they’d fallen away. At least she was able to attend church each Sunday—and those worship times had seen her through.
“Dear Lord,” Margaret whispered, “please protect Kaitlan. Please show D. what to do next. Oh, God, protect us all.”
She checked the stove clock. Five-fifty. In ten minutes Kaitlan would be home. Fear gripped Margaret. She stared at the clock hands, willing them to move. How was she going to stand the waiting?
She pushed back from the table and stood. The casserole would be done in seven minutes. She still needed to make a vegetable, a salad. Set the table.
Oh, for D.’s sake she hoped he was right! What it would do to him to hear he’d figured everything wrong. He’d likely never write again.
But to wish that Kaitlan found a clean apartment, had to go t
o dinner with a killer …
If something happened to Kaitlan, whether right or wrong, D.would never forgive himself.
Margaret forced herself to the refrigerator and pulled out lettuce and tomato, some green beans. She fetched other ingredients by rote and placed them on the counter.
Five minutes.
Chopping lettuce and tomato, Margaret fought back fear. Salad done, she cut ends off the green beans and poured oil into a skillet for stir frying. As the beans sizzled, Margaret’s eyes glued to the clock.
Kaitlan should be home by now.
OBSESSION
seventeen
The description captivated me.
Black silk cloth with green stripes.
I stared at the words, a flush spreading across my skin. Like the warmth of a campfire on a cold night, the way it reaches out, envelops you, and you don’t want to leave, don’t want to move.
Black silk. Green stripes.
I could feel this cloth in my hands.
The smoothness of it. Its delicate strength, one rough fingernail enough to snag a thread, ruin its perfection.
My heart thudded.
I closed my eyes and imagined the exposed neck, its fluttering pulse. My hands rose, fingers spreading, curling. Longing, aching for the black silk.
What was happening to me?
The last couple of months I’d been restless. I did my work, went about my business. Nobody would know. But my insides felt … unsteady. Mushy. Like concrete trying to harden but missing some major ingredient.
My sleep had been affected too. I had vague, dark dreams of childhood, never able to remember the details when I awoke, but filled with foreboding and dread. Of what, I didn’t know.
I sensed a blackness in the world that I hadn’t before. And somehow I understood it wasn’t new, was in fact ancient. But only now had I become aware. I wasn’t sure of my place in it. But I did know I was fully bound to it and helpless to escape on my own.
And now—this. The black silk cloth.
A sudden yearning for it rose in me, lifting me out of my chair. I glanced at the time. Shortly after four. How late did fabric stores stay open?
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