Pretend You're Safe
Page 35
Carmen shuddered. She was three feet away from the table, but she felt as if the unknown women were staring at her. Pleading for something she couldn’t give them.
Justice.
“I’m saying I’ve never seen them. And you know the research I did,” Carmen said. “I think it’s possible that I’m the only one besides Scott to know they exist.”
There was a sudden clatter through the phone, as if Lucy had dropped her coffee cup.
“God almighty, this is fantastic!” the woman said, not bothering to hide her burst of glee. “Do you know what will happen to your book sales if you can add in pictures from new victims?” There was a pause, and Carmen imagined she could hear the calculator in Lucy’s mind clicking away, adding up each new sale. “Hell, you could write a whole new book.”
Carmen grimaced. She would be a hypocrite to act shocked by Lucy’s response. The reason Carmen had hired her was because the woman was a ruthless master at taking advantage of any situation.
Even a situation that included dead women.
“These need to go to the authorities,” she said in firm tones.
“Fine, but first we need to make copies,” Lucy insisted. “It could be months or years before the cops will give back the originals.”
“Let’s worry about figuring out who these poor women are before we start cashing in, okay?” she said dryly.
As if sensing that Carmen wasn’t in the mood to discuss business, Lucy did her best to squash her excitement.
“What do you want from me?”
Carmen took a minute. She was still rattled and it was unnervingly difficult to think. Like her brain cells were wading through syrup.
“I want you to call the lawyers and find out everything you can about the envelope,” she eventually demanded.
Might as well start at the beginning.
“You got it,” Lucy said, the crisp determination easing a portion of Carmen’s unease. “I’ll get back to you.”
Carmen hung up the phone and forced herself to turn and head to the back of the cabin. She felt in dire need of a hot shower. It couldn’t erase the images from her mind, but it might wash away the feeling that she’d been contaminated.
Entering the small bathroom, she dropped her robe and stepped beneath the spray of water. She shivered as she waited for the hot water to kick in, not for the first time wondering if she’d made a mistake in writing THE HEART OF A PREDATOR.
It wasn’t like she’d started off her journalism career with the dream of spending her days in dank prisons interviewing monsters. And they were monsters—each of the five men she’d profiled had killed at least ten women, and most of them much more than that. But when her college professor had warned her that the articles she was writing for the school paper were too mundane to earn her any notice by any reputable newspaper or magazine, she’d forced herself to examine what she could offer that was different from every other wannabe journalist.
What truly made her unique?
The answer was simple.
Murder.
She was intimately acquainted with death. And the sort of man who could kill an innocent woman without mercy.
She’d reached out to Neal Scott, not believing for a minute that he’d respond to her request for an interview.
He’d been on death row for seventeen years and had never once spoken about his crimes. But her letter had been answered by Scott’s lawyers within the week.
“Yes, Mr. Scott would be pleased to meet with Ms. Jacobs at a time of your convenience.”
And that had been the start of her twisted journey through the minds of serial killers. A trail she thought would be over once the paperback book was released.
With a grimace she stepped out of the shower and dried off. Then, heading into the bedroom across the hall, she slipped on a pair of jeans and a heavy cable-knit sweater. Her blond hair was already curling around her face, making her look about twelve. She clicked her tongue as she pulled her hair into a tight ponytail.
Her grandmother might have thought that it was cute that Carmen looked like a perpetual child, but it was a pain in the patootie.
She’d just tugged on a pair of warm socks and returned to the kitchen when her phone rang.
Carmen hit the speaker button. “What did you find out?”
Lucy’s voice floated through the air. “Nothing.”
Her tension returned. Dammit. Had the older woman just pretended she was going to help in an effort to get Carmen to use the pictures in her book?
“Lucy, I’m not in the mood for games,” Carmen snapped.
“I wasn’t trying to annoy you, Carmen,” Lucy said. “I meant the word literally.”
There was no missing the edge in Lucy’s voice.
This wasn’t about making money. The woman was truly worried.
“Explain,” Carmen said, dropping into a kitchen chair and rubbing her aching head.
Lucy cleared her throat. “I called the law office that represented Neal Scott only to be told that they didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.”
Carmen frowned. “They don’t remember sending the package?”
“They don’t remember, because they never sent it,” Lucy clarified. “In fact, they had direct orders from Neal Scott that all his possessions were to be destroyed after he was executed. He didn’t want some prison guard selling his toothbrush on eBay after he died.”
Carmen’s gaze moved to the pictures that were still spread across the kitchen table.
There was no reason for the law firm to lie. At least none that made sense.
“You’re sure the package wasn’t from a different law firm?” Carmen asked.
“I’m sure. I even double-checked with the receptionist who keeps a log of packages we receive. Each one is labeled with who the package is for, and what company it’s from.”
Carmen felt an odd sense of dread lodge in the pit of her stomach.
“What was the name of the messenger company?”
“Dullus Express,” Lucy said without hesitation. No doubt she’d anticipated Carmen’s question.
“Do you have their number?”
“I already tried to contact them.”
“Tried?”
Lucy released an aggravated sigh. “The telephone number that was left on the sign-in sheet actually belongs to a Chinese restaurant,” she admitted. “And when I googled the name of the company I couldn’t find it listed anywhere.”
“So who sent the envelope?”
“I don’t have any idea.”
Carmen shivered. “Shit.”
“Yeah,” Lucy agreed. “Shit.”
Carmen disconnected the phone. Right now she needed to think. Something that would be impossible when she had Lucy chattering in her ear.
Wrapping her arms around her waist, she glanced at the envelope before shifting her gaze toward the note.
Was it possible that the Polaroids had been taken by Neal Scott and never found by the cops? But who could have uncovered them? And why go to the trouble to make her believe that they were from the serial killer, including a note signed The Trucker?
Was this some sick joke? Her book had made her the target of all kinds of whackos. Could one of them have staged the pictures to attract her attention?
It was a plausible theory. There were all sorts of crackpots in the world.
But as much as she wanted to dismiss the Polaroids as a prank, there was something deep inside her that warned this was no joke.
She paced the floor, a terrible fear beginning to form.
If they hadn’t been taken by Scott, and they weren’t a prank, there was only one explanation for them.
A copycat killer.
She paced the floor, the horrifying suspicion churning through her mind. Was it possible? Was there some maniac out there who’d decided to follow in the footsteps of Neal Scott?
Was he even now bashing in some innocent girl’s head?
Halting near the table, she reached t
o touch the picture that was lying on top, her dread hardening to determination.
There was nothing she could do to save them. Not if they were already dead.
But maybe, just maybe, she could give them justice.
FIND YOUR HEART’S DESIRE . . .
VISIT OUR WEBSITE: www.headlineeternal.com
FIND US ON FACEBOOK: facebook.com/eternalromance
CONNECT WITH US ON TWITTER: @eternal_books
FOLLOW US ON INSTAGRAM: @headlineeternal
EMAIL US: eternalromance@headline.co.uk