Such a Pretty Girl

by Tess Diamond

  She’d lost control already. He’d pushed the right buttons and now he knew it.

  “I’m not a rapist, Grace,” he scoffed. “What do you take me for? We’re just having a little fun with knives, Dorothy and I.”

  If you leave one mark on her . . . Grace thought, wanting nothing more than to reach through the phone and strangle the life out of him.

  “I want proof of life,” she said, unable to keep her voice from shaking.

  “And I want the years you stole from me back,” Carthage said. “Unfortunately, pretty girl, we can’t always have what we want. I’ve given you all the clues you need. You have forty-eight hours to find us. Then Dorothy goes into the Potomac.”

  “Wait—” Grace said.

  But the line was dead.

  “Dammit!” she yelled, grabbing the phone and chucking it across the room.

  She paced around the room, running her hands through her hair, clutching the base of her neck as she tried to clear her mind. She needed to think.

  Everyone in the room was silent, watching, waiting for her to speak.

  But she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know where he was.

  She didn’t know what to do.

  What was he expecting? For her to try to puzzle out whatever clues he was talking about. For her to come out swinging. That’s what he wanted, and that’s what she’d been giving him. Her acknowledgment of him as an adversary bolstered him—she was playing the game he’d devised.

  A thought struck her, stopping her in her tracks. She looked up, meeting Gavin’s eyes.

  “What?” he asked.

  “We need to change the dynamic,” she told him. “I’m not chasing after him anymore. I’m bringing him to me.”

  “Okay,” he said. “But how?”

  “We’re going to do what Paul wants,” she said, looking over to her boss, who frowned, not understanding. “Paul, you’re going to fire me.”

  Chapter 28

  “Are you sure it’s a good idea for me to be doing this?” Gavin asked, adjusting his tie nervously and running a hand through his hair. The movement caused the thick locks to dip across his forehead. He let out a frustrated sigh. He needed a haircut.

  “Stop that,” Grace said, reaching out and smoothing his hair back absently. She froze when she realized what she was doing and snatched her hand away, but not before Gavin shot her an amused smile. “He’s made a connection with you,” she said, folding her arms across her chest like she was trying to keep herself from touching him more. He couldn’t help but get a masculine sort of thrill at the thought.

  “You’re the only team member who’s been face-to-face with him,” she explained. “He thinks you’re lesser than him. He thinks he won your last encounter.”

  Gavin’s chest ached as he thought of how close he’d been to Dorothy. If he’d been able to reach out a few more inches, maybe . . .

  He’d been so focused on her—on getting her out, on keeping her safe—that he hadn’t been looking close enough at the knife before it slashed toward him.

  He hadn’t just failed the girl—he’d failed Grace.

  “He did win,” Gavin said. “If I’d just been a little quicker—”

  “Stop,” Grace said softly, grabbing his hand. She looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was in the hallway with them before reaching out and gently tracing the skin above the arc of stitches on his forehead. “You fought like hell for her. You risked yourself. You did everything you could.”

  “But it wasn’t enough,” Gavin said, the anger and self-blame audible in his voice.

  “Sometimes it isn’t,” she said.

  That was the hard truth of this work. They couldn’t win them all.

  But the sick game Carthage had embroiled her in? She would win. He knew it, even if he sensed that she was unsure herself.

  Dorothy’s kidnapping had hit her hard, made her doubt herself. But she was better than Carthage. Smarter. She would outwit him.

  More than most people, Gavin could see how this was wearing on her. Grace was good with her masks, with acting the way people wanted her to instead of how she actually felt. She’d done a fantastic job at keeping it together, but he’d caught a glimpse of her stress during the last phone call with Carthage. Her eyes had gotten that hopeless look that he remembered from the night she’d figured out Carthage was their unsub. She was starting to crack at the seams—and he couldn’t blame her. Frankly, he was amazed at how well she’d dealt with all of this so far.

  “I’ve never given a press conference before,” he admitted, the nervousness mounting inside him. This had to go exactly as planned, or they wouldn’t be able to draw him out. He could tell Agent Kincaid was concerned about Carthage’s lack of experience when it came to kidnapping, and he had the same worries. Even if Carthage gave them forty-eight hours, that did not mean they actually had that much time.

  Drawing him out was the only way to resolve this swiftly and safely for everyone.

  “You’ll be fine,” she assured him. “Just follow the script Maggie and I came up with. Make sure you come off as dismissive of my contributions to the case. We want him confident, even a little cocky. Praise him. Talk about his skill as a killer. He’ll be so puffed up he’ll take the bait.”

  “Agent Walker, the team’s assembled,” the press liaison told him. Gavin fiddled with his tie again, glancing into the press room that had been set up for the occasion. Zooey and the rest of the team, along with Paul, were already up on the small platform. Chairs were spread across the front of the room, some journalists choosing to sit, others standing, their microphones and notebooks at the ready. The camera crew members were already focused like laser beams on his team.

  Just like Grace wanted.

  “They’re ready for you,” his press liaison reminded him.

  Gavin nodded, making sure his tie was straight one final time.

  “Wish me luck,” he said, trying for a cavalier smile but failing, and then headed up to the podium. “Good afternoon,” he said. “I am Special Agent Gavin Walker. I’m here today to discuss the recent murders in the area, as well as the kidnapping of a minor, one Dorothy O’Brian. The FBI’s investigation has led us to this man . . .” He pressed a button, Carthage’s face appearing on the screen behind him. “Dr. Henry Carthage, age forty-eight, is a criminology professor at the University of Maryland. He is considered armed and very dangerous.”

  A murmur broke out among the journalists.

  “Is this our serial killer?” called out a reporter from the Post.

  “Yes,” Gavin said, looking directly in the camera, remembering Grace’s gentle instructions. “Dr. Carthage is the man responsible for the recent serial murders in the greater DC area, as well as the kidnapping of Dorothy O’Brian. We have evidence Dr. Carthage has embarked on this killing spree as a personal vendetta against one of our profilers, Special Agent Grace Sinclair. He targeted Ms. O’Brian because of her connection to Agent Sinclair, who is a friend of her family.”

  “Grace Sinclair, the bestselling author?” one of the journalists shouted.

  “That is correct,” Gavin said.

  The buzz in the room grew louder. Gavin kept his face impassive. Call him Doctor, Grace had directed. Show respect. He needs to feel good.

  “Why is Carthage going after Sinclair?” asked a blonde reporter from the Times.

  Gavin took a deep breath. He knew he had to do it, but the words were like sand in his mouth. He hated putting Grace’s business out for the world to consume like this, but he had to. She’d told him to.

  “When Special Agent Sinclair was in her first year of undergrad, Dr. Carthage was her mentor,” he said. “The two of them had an intimate relationship.”

  The room went wild. Questions flew from all sides.

  “Are you saying he’s killing people to get back at an old girlfriend?”

  “It’s well-known that Agent Sinclair finished school in record time. Was she of legal age when this relationship t
ook place?”

  “What about Dr. Carthage’s wife? According to my sources, he was married during that time.”

  Gavin raised his hands, silencing the room. “I am not going to speculate on the personal life of Agent Sinclair,” he said. “Dr. Carthage is the immediate concern here. He is a highly intelligent and very dangerous man, and the public is warned to not engage if they see him. Instead, get to a safe place and call our hotline or 911 as soon as possible. As far as we know, Dorothy O’Brian is still alive. Her picture is being circulated, and we encourage anyone to call our hotline if they think they see her. And I want to assure you that even though Dr. Carthage has eluded capture so far, the FBI and local law enforcement are using every resource to bring him in. My team and I”—he gestured behind him—“are working tirelessly to get justice for Dr. Carthage’s victims.”

  “What about Agent Sinclair?” asked the blonde from the Times . . . Stella something. Gavin remembered her from when she was on the police beats. She was sharp, and he knew for a fact she could knock back whiskey like a cowboy, but she was the worst kind of dogged.

  “Agent Sinclair has been taken off this case and put on temporary leave,” Gavin said. “It was a clear conflict of interest, and she will not be involved any further. I will be taking the lead on this case.”

  “But what about—”

  “Is Agent Sinclair going to write a memoir about how her ex-lover became a serial killer?”

  “If Dr. Carthage has eluded you so far, what makes you think you can find him now?”

  Gavin glanced over at Paul, who nodded his head firmly. It was time to cut this short.

  Paul moved forward to the podium, smiling in a practiced manner. “We won’t be taking any more questions at this time,” Paul said. “Again, the public is warned to not engage if they see Henry Carthage. Get to a safe place and call the police immediately. Thank you, everyone.”

  Taking his cue, the team marched off the platform, and Gavin and Paul brought up the rear.

  “Good job, guys,” Paul said as they headed out of the press room and back to the building’s private areas, where Grace was waiting for them.

  “How was that?” Gavin asked.

  “It was great,” she said. “Time to start phase two. Zooey, you ready?”

  Zooey smiled nervously. “As I’ll ever be,” she said.

  Chapter 29

  My pretty girl,

  You fucking bitch.

  Who the hell do you think you are? Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. You can’t just quit. It’s not allowed.

  It’s against my rules.

  This is our game to play. I created it for us. A deadly jaunt of cat and mouse, where you never truly had a chance, even though I let you think you did.

  You’re mine. You’re the only one remotely in my league. Those idiots you work for can’t hold a candle to my brilliance. Those buffoons won’t be able to find me. Only you will be able to figure it out. You have to know that.

  You have to know this is for you and you alone.

  Do those bumbling doughnut chasers think they can get to me? A manhunt? What a joke. They have no idea who they’re up against. Morons. They think they’ll get me on something easy. Some uniform will pull me over for speeding or on a parking ticket, and they’ll crow in delight, revel in their success.

  I think not. I’d rather go down in a spray of bullets than debase myself that way.

  This will end with just the two of us, pretty girl. I can see it so clearly. I can feel the softness of your skin against mine, a sense memory that haunts me, day and night.

  This isn’t about the cops. And it’s not about the people I’ve killed—they served their purpose.

  To bring me closer to you.

  This has always been about just the two of us. No one can compete. No one is on my level—not even you. But it’s so sweet, so good, so satisfying, to see you try. To see you struggle to climb to meet me, to catch me, to enact the kind of biblical justice I know you want. An eye for an eye—that’s my pretty girl, deep down.

  And now you just want to throw that away? Throw me away? Again?

  Never.

  What kind of woman have you devolved into, that she’d throw this away? That isn’t the girl I knew.

  It’s so much better when they’re girls. Young. Fresh. Untainted.

  They listen when they’re girls, they admire, they follow a man’s lead.

  But then womanhood ruins them. Every time. They start thinking, they start demanding, getting independent.

  Disgusting. Heartbreaking.

  How could you do this? You are stronger than this. Walking away wasn’t in you. It wasn’t how I taught you.

  Unless . . .

  Oh. Oh.

  Are you playing a game of your own?

  Putting on a lovely little show? Look over here, while you creep up behind me.

  Oh, my pretty girl. Trying to distract me. Trying to beat me at my own game.

  Trying to piss me off enough to make me fumble.

  It won’t work, of course. But for a second, you almost had me. And now . . .

  Now you’ve given me more hope than I could ever dream of. You’ve given me the kind of strength you should fear—for good reason.

  You’re finally playing the game. Fully engaged, no holds barred. You’ve embraced it, the idea of me as your adversary. As your competitor. Finally, finally, we are on the same page. Playing the same game.

  Just like I wanted. Just like I need.

  You’ll never top me—that’s just foolish thinking—but you’re trying. Oh, how you’re trying.

  I love to watch you try. To struggle. To sink under the weight of your responsibility.

  Taking the girl hurt you much more than I’d estimated. I should’ve known; you’ve always been drawn to strays, motivated to help, to share those gifts of yours.

  Instead of giving credit where credit was due.

  I read it, you know. The dedication in your new book.

  The second I saw it, I knew what I had to do. I couldn’t ignore such a grave insult. You were rewriting history—yours and ours—and I couldn’t stand for it. I couldn’t let you tell the world I was nothing to you. I had to remind you. To make you see you would be nothing without me.

  You’ve always been so beautiful. The courtly, pure kind of beauty from the days of old. It has taken you further than your limited intelligence alone ever could, even though you would never acknowledge the part your looks played in your success.

  But I know men better than you do. I know what they think when they hire someone like you. The kind of doors that open when a woman like that spreads her legs.

  Whore.

  Still, I wanted you, despite being damaged goods. Despite everything you’ve done to me.

  I would kill a hundred people to get you. A thousand.

  But maybe it won’t take a thousand deaths for you to finally break.

  Maybe it’ll take just a few. A special few.

  A targeted few.

  The best way to break someone is to destroy everything she loves.

  Or everyone.

  —C

  Chapter 30

  Every muscle in Grace’s body was tense. Sitting in the van parked across the street from the movie theater, she stared, riveted, at the camera feed. They couldn’t move in until Zooey gave the word.

  She knew he was inside. She’d given him something he couldn’t resist, even with the added pressure of taking Dorothy hostage.

  Killing Zooey, a slip of a girl who looked so fragile, would entrance him just as much as Grace quitting the case enraged him. It was a heady combination, designed to spin his head, cloud his mind. She knew he’d latch on to Zooey. She had practically focused a spotlight on the girl, and he was too angry to realize it . . . too wrapped up in his obsession to destroy Grace.

  In just a few minutes, she would prove to him exactly how wrong he was.

  Grace had had Zooey seed her social media with mentions of the movie, a
nd as much as she hated to, she ordered all agents to hang back as she made her way to the theater. Gavin had wanted to be in there with her, but they couldn’t risk Carthage recognizing him.

  Zooey shrugged nonchalantly when Grace proposed the plan, stressing that the forensic tech didn’t have to do this.

  “You’ll be unguarded, unprotected. I’m almost positive he’ll follow you to the theater; it’ll appeal to his sense of the dramatic. But if he grabs you before—”

  Zooey grinned, pulling out a palm-sized flashlight, flicking a button at the base of the handle. It sparked violently. “A girl’s best friend is her Taser,” she said. “Don’t worry, Grace. I’m happy to play bait. We need to find Dorothy.”

  She’d been so confident, and Grace had hidden her concern, pushing it down to the place where her dark worries lived. But Dorothy’s time was running out.

  “You okay?” Gavin asked.

  Grace nodded, her eyes glued on the feed.

  Her radio clicked on. “Alpha, we’re in position. Theater is surrounded. Omega Team is ready to enter the lobby.”

  “Omega Team, copy that,” Paul said. “Wait for my go. Remember, suspect must be captured alive. We’ve got a girl’s life on the line here, guys. We can’t screw this up.”

  Minutes ticked by, but as the silence on Zooey’s end grew longer and longer, fear began to build inside Grace’s stomach.

  Had she been wrong? Had Carthage not shown up?

  Or was he lying in wait?

  Or, she thought, as her chest went hollow with fear, had he gotten Zooey before she could radio them?

  “Something’s wrong,” Gavin said, his voice tight.

  “We should go in,” Grace told Paul.

  He looked at her, then at the feed, then nodded. “Omega Team, entry is a go. I repeat, entry is a go.”

  As soon as Paul gave the word, Grace burst out of the van and ran across the street, Gavin close at her heels.

  “FBI,” she said, flashing her badge at the bewildered ticket taker as she rushed by. They banged through the theater doors and into the lobby, where the Omega Team was positioned. “Carter!” Gavin shouted. “Where?”