by Torre, A. R.
I rose. “Sure. And I appreciate the flowers. They’re beautiful.” Two polite people, circling a dead teenager.
“Thanks for not slamming the door in my face.” He paused in the foyer, then leaned over and kissed me gently on the cheek. The stubble of his cheek brushed against my skin, and he smelled like the night we met, minus the cigarette smoke from the bar. Good. Really good.
“Night.” He stepped away and moved through the door, tripping on the first step and catching himself.
“Careful. Good night.” I held the door open until he was halfway down my stepping-stones, heading toward a glistening black Mercedes parked in my drive. I pushed the door shut and flipped the lock, then reached up and engaged the dead bolt.
Returning to the dining room, I collected our glasses and the empty wine bottle, then flipped off the light, leaving the rest of the puzzle for another night. Standing at the sink, I squirted lavender dish soap onto a fresh sponge and washed his plate.
He was an interesting man. Very high emotional intelligence. He could read me as well as or better than I could read him. Behind the charm, he hid his emotions well. My father would have said he played his cards flush against his chest, and he would have been right. He was a man with grief and history, but also . . . there was something deeper there. I couldn’t put my finger on it, and it was driving me crazy.
Maybe it was just raw attraction. My body responded to his presence in unsettling ways, and I had struggled, when we parted, to not lean in for a kiss.
I picked up a fluffy white dish towel and ran it around the surface of the red ceramic plate. I also had to face the possibility that my attraction to Robert Kavin had increased when I’d realized his connection to the BH Killer. And now, with him hiring me for a psychological profile, my skin was practically humming with excitement.
Careers were made from opportunities like this. If Randall Thompson was the killer—and all reports seemed to indicate he was—then these events would be studied by psychology professionals for decades. Motives. History. The transition of thought into action in cyclical fashion. Randall Thompson would be compared with Lonnie Franklin Jr. and Joseph James DeAngelo, and I would have an inside look at every single detail. For Robert to give me that access . . . screw the flowers and the orgasms. This was huge, and as unbelievable as it seemed—all six case files?—I believed his confidence when he said he could get them.
That arrogance, the opportunity, the memories of our night together—sheets twisting, mouths hot and frantic—all of it had Robert Kavin stuck in my mind. A fixation, and not an entirely healthy one.
The man was grieving. Damaged. Gabe Kavin had died, along with five other innocent boys. A monster was responsible, and I shouldn’t be salivating at the thought of studying him. I opened the cabinet and stacked the plate on top of the others.
Six boys had died, and soon, I would be given the keys to figuring out why.
CHAPTER 11
The next day, I walked my four thirty appointment to the lobby and paused at the sight of Robert Kavin. The tall attorney was standing at Jacob’s desk, and I zeroed in on the thick file in his hand. I glanced back to my client, a Peeping Tom with unresolved mother issues. “I’ll see you next week, Jeff.”
Jeff Maven nodded, then beelined for the stairwell.
“Dr. Moore?” Robert ambled toward me with the confidence of an alpha male. “Do you have a moment?”
“Of course.” I held the heavy office door open and nodded to Jacob. “Please hold my calls.”
Robert passed into my office, and I caught the faint whiff of an expensive cologne. Inside the office, he paused, surveying the room. “Nice digs.”
“We got lucky with our lease. If we signed on today, we’d be paying triple net rent.” I took a seat in one of the low-slung leather chairs beside the love seat.
He noticed the breakfast bar in the corner of the room. “Mind if I get a cup of coffee?” He set the file folder on my desk.
“Not at all. In fact . . .” I leaned over and plucked my almost empty mug off the side table. “Can you top me off?”
“Sure.” He reached for the cup, and his fingers brushed mine. Our eyes met, and I let go of the ceramic handle.
He turned away and stopped in front of the coffeepot. “You’re a doctor, so I’m assuming our conversations are protected by doctor-patient confidentiality?”
An interesting question. “You’re hiring me, so yes. But, as I’m sure you’re well aware, that confidentiality is limited.”
“Oh yes, I’m aware.” He turned toward me, two cups in hand. “If a patient is an imminent danger to himself or others, you’re obligated to tell the authorities. Right?”
It was interesting, the way he delivered questions, as if every one was accusatory. A by-product of thousands of hours on the stand or—and just as likely—a deep-rooted inclination to suspect the worst in people. I skipped the urge to point out the psychological tic and nodded. “Yes. If a patient is likely to cause himself or someone else harm, we’re required to report it.”
“I have a feeling, given your clients, that you’ve bent that rule before.” He settled into the seat in front of me and lifted his cup to his lips.
Where was he going with this? I crossed my legs, but his gaze stayed on my face. Impressive focus, especially given the length of this skirt. It was one I rarely wore, and one that tiptoed on the edge of unprofessional, but it was a good card to pull out when I needed to test a man. Robert Kavin had passed. I ignored the comment and glanced at the file he’d placed on my desk. It was fat and red and had a rubber band around its midsection, pinning it closed.
“What’s with the confidentiality question?” I placed my notebook down on the table between us and relaxed in the seat, hoping the new body language would ease the tension from his shoulders.
It didn’t. If anything, his brow furrow deepened. “Just wondering if you’re trustworthy.”
I picked up the cup of coffee Robert had set before me. “It’s a necessity in my line of work. If clients couldn’t trust me, they wouldn’t talk about their problems.”
“They confess things they’ve done?”
I made a face, annoyed with the question, one I received frequently. “Their actions come out sometimes when we talk about guilt.” I cupped my hands around the mug, comforted by the warmth of the ceramic. “Each client is different. For some, it’s healing to talk.”
His jaw tightened, and I studied him closely, trying to read between his questions. Some evasiveness was to be expected in his line of work. But there was more than just curiosity in his tone. And more than distrust. There was also a tight edge of . . . anger. That was interesting.
I poked the emotion. “Why all the questions?”
In response, he gestured to the folder. “That’s Gabe’s file. Let me know if you have any questions.” He straightened the line of his tie but didn’t meet my eyes. With another client, I’d consider it a deceptive tell, but this I read as pain.
This was important to him. Important enough for him to drive through rush-hour traffic and be here in person, a stiff new copy of Gabe’s file in hand. I rose and went to it. Pulling the rubber band free, I opened the folder and ran my fingernail along the row of color-coded tabs that organized the contents. “How many psychologists have you given this to?”
“Shrinks? None.”
“We don’t really like that term,” I said mildly, flipping open the tab marked “Evidence.” There was a neat line of items, and my blood hummed with excitement.
“Sorry.”
“There are better ways to heal than obsessing over the killer.” I was dying to study the file, to read each page in detail, to find the hidden clues. I always loved clues, which was why I set down the file and turned my attention back to Robert. He was giving me clues—I just couldn’t seem to follow them.
“Healing isn’t my main objective.”
“Maybe it should be. Whether you want to acknowledge it or not, this week’s arrest
of your son’s killer is a major emotional event.”
“Don’t psychoanalyze me. Just read his file and tell me what you think.”
I let out a half laugh. “Psychoanalyzing people is part of my job.”
His gaze hardened. “Not this job.”
“For a proper profile, I’d need more than just his file.” I settled back onto the couch, ignoring the silent scream of the folder. “You said you could get all the other victim files?”
“Yes. But look at his first and see if you have the stomach for it.”
I glanced at my watch, conscious of the fact that I had another appointment in fifteen minutes. “My stomach won’t be a problem, but my time is tight. I’ll need a few days to go through everything.”
“You told me the night we met that you specialize in clients with violent inclinations.”
“That’s right.”
His knee jiggled, a quick staccato beat that stilled when I looked at it. It was a tell, and I cataloged it beside the evasive eye contact and the bite of hostility in his tone. Frustration. Angst?
He leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees, delivering the direct eye contact I wanted. It was invasive, a cross-examination level of confrontation, and I welcomed it. “Why spend your days with society’s most vile individuals?”
“I don’t see them as vile,” I answered truthfully. “I see them as human. We all battle demons. If they’re in my office, it’s because they’re trying to fix that part of them. I can relate to that. Can you?” I arched a brow at him in question.
He held my stare for a long moment, then rose, buttoning his suit jacket closed with a finality that came from years of practice. “I don’t need you to analyze me. Just read Gabe’s file and send me your initial thoughts, Gwen.”
“You know . . . I think I’ll pass.” I stayed in place. “You can take the file with you.”
It was a bitchy move and a gamble, given that I wanted the job as badly as anything in recent memory. Still, the risk was necessary. I had to see how much he really needed me. Because there were a lot of experts out there, but he was in my office, the file on my desk. Why?
He paused, and when he turned to face me, the frustration was evident. “I’m hiring you for a job. You’re refusing the work?”
“There’s a potential conflict of interest.”
“And that—” He cleared his throat and began again. “That is what?”
“We slept together,” I pointed out. “I’m not exactly an unbiased third party. You may put too much weight into my opinion, or it may be skewed on my end, based on our history.”
It was a valid and excellent point, one my conscience had raised as soon as I started to get excited about the potential project.
“It was one night.” He shrugged. “Not exactly history.”
My ego wilted a little, and I smiled to hide the hurt. “You’re also grieving.”
“So?”
“The death of a loved one can eat at you,” I said quietly. “Looking at crime scene photos . . . obsessing over his murderer . . . I just want to make sure it doesn’t devour you.”
A sardonic smile twisted across his lips. “Too late for that.” He strode forward and picked up the file. “But if you don’t want to do it, don’t. I’ll find another expert. The country’s full of them.”
He waited, and there was a long moment where we played a silent game of reverse psychology, and I lost.
I held out my hand. “Give me a few days, and any of the other case files you can get.”
He handed it over, and then, like a lion sauntering away from a carcass, he strolled out of the room.
I looked down at the folder, then glanced again at my watch. Eight minutes before my next appointment. Just enough time for a peek.
CHAPTER 12
Los Angeles welcomed Scott back with open arms, and everyone wanted a piece. With Nita beside him, Scott appeared on the local news, then sat down with People magazine. His mother followed him through hair and makeup, sound checks, and on-camera interviews. With each performance, Scott’s story grew smoother, and his confidence bloomed. Then the camera would turn off, and he’d retreat back to his bedroom, to his phone, uninterested in life.
Now, Nita sat in a green room, watching him on a bank of monitors, a cold diet soda in hand. Beside her, a production assistant with a diamond nose ring and a goofy headset loudly gushed over Scott.
“Your son is a hero,” she mused. “To escape like that? And to be brave enough to tell his story?”
“Yes, he is.” Nita watched her son on-screen, his dimple appearing as he turned his head to face the cohost. What Scott had done was so brave. Then again, Scott had always been brave. When he was six and there had been a giant snake in their yard, he had grabbed its tail and yanked without even thinking twice.
The camera cut to the interviewer’s face. “I know it’s painful to recount, but can you tell our viewers how you escaped?”
Scott looked down, as he always did when faced with a difficult question. The camera scanned across a crowd filled with concerned audience members paying rapt attention. Nita thought of the first time she’d heard his answer, in their large dining room, the silver still out on the buffet, where the housekeeper had been polishing it. The room had been dim, the curtains pulled tight, covering the impressive views of the gardens. Once it had been her dream home. Now it would always be the place where she had lost and then refound her son.
“He used to chain me up.” Scott rubbed at the underside of his wrist as if remembering the restraints. “By my wrists and ankles.”
Nita had heard the story a dozen times but forced herself to stay in place. If he could live through it, she could listen to it.
Naked. That was how the monster tied up her son. It was a fact Scott left out of the media interviews, and she felt guilty for appreciating the omission. The sexual torture the BH victims had experienced was something the police had kept out of the news. In awareness of that, and of the other victims’ families, they had made a decision—among their family and with the police—to keep the information private.
“I had hidden a fork he had given me to eat dinner with. Normally, he watched me eat, but this time he didn’t. He had a phone call or a meeting. Something.”
Scott always faltered a little bit on this part of the story. Nita’s sister, who was a school counselor, said some memory loss, especially in moments of high stress and trauma, was normal. Nita had asked Scott if he had any gaps in his memory, but he’d shaken his head. She’d asked him if he wanted to speak to her sister, and again, he’d shaken his head.
The only things he hadn’t refused were the television interviews. There were too many of them. It wasn’t healthy for him to do so much. He needed to rest, to heal, to spend time with his family and friends. But he seemed to enjoy this. The crowds of people outside each filming. The emails and letters that poured in. The social media followers. In the two weeks since his escape, Scott had grown obsessed with his follower count, checking it hourly, and seemed to find joy in each new peak his numbers hit. With the swell of followers had come offers. Scott was an influencer now, whatever that meant. He was getting packages of products, dozens of different boxes arriving each day, everything from coconut oil to protein shakes to teeth-whitening kits. And earning money, too. He’d gotten ten thousand dollars just to do a video interview at a shoe factory.
All the people and all the attention seemed to make him happy. Maybe if she’d been tied up in a basement for seven weeks, she’d crave big crowds and screaming fans, too. Maybe she’d shy away from her mother’s hugs, too.
“I bent the tines of the fork and worked it into the clasp of the handcuffs. I can show you if you’d like.”
This was his exhibition time. The host, like all of them, jumped on the idea, and a crew member produced a cheap set of cuffs that could probably be pulled apart by hand. Still, Scott went through the motions, his grin widening as he successfully popped open the clasp to the del
ights and cheers of the live audience.
“So, a fork. A fork is what took down the BH Killer,” the interviewer gushed. “What happened next?”
Then, according to Scott’s story, he waited behind the door until BH came in to give him his breakfast. It was then that Scott shoved him to the floor and rushed through the house and out the front door, then ran the five miles home. By the time he’d staggered through their gates, he’d been dehydrated and exhausted.
He was different now than he had been before. She wouldn’t say that to anyone outside their family, but that was the truth of the matter. And who wouldn’t be, after that ordeal? Underneath his new clothes, he would always carry the scars of what had been done to him. Physical abuse. Mental. Sexual.
“It’s just amazing,” the woman beside her said. “Unbelievable.”
Nita studied Scott’s wide grin, the wave he gave the crowd as he stood and exited the stage.
The stranger was right. It was amazing, but also . . . unbelievable. Scott was lying about something, and she still couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe Scott was saying whatever he needed to in order to mentally block out the truth. The pit in her stomach grew sharper, and she pressed a hand to the pain, willing it to fade.
“Mrs. Harden?” Their handler appeared in the doorway of the room. “I can take you to Scott now.”
Nita rose dutifully and waved a goodbye to the woman, moving through the rows of chairs and swallowing the mounting dread that this nightmare wasn’t over yet.
CHAPTER 13
I sat at my desk and took my time with the first few pages of Gabe’s file, examining the photos and screenshots taken from his social media accounts. From the looks of things, he seemed to be a nice guy. No rude responses or asshole posts. According to the file, he had no known enemies, though I was curious how hard the detectives looked at motives, given that his disappearance was casebook BH. Attractive senior. Rich family. Everything going right in his life until one day, when Robert’s son was . . .