“I always like to check my facts with the original source,” she said, and even though it killed her, she let a corner of her mouth quirk up a bit, a fleeting hint of a smile that would fuel him. “You know, there’s a theory that you left surgery and became a coroner because you were trying to resist your urge to kill.”
He chuckled, a grating sound that was all egotistical pleasure. “Is that what you think?”
“I don’t think you’ve ever resisted an urge in your life,” Abby said. “I think you like power, in any form. I think you really like cutting people up, but you prefer they’re sweet little brunettes and you prefer them dead by your hands. I think there’s probably dozens of cardio patients you treated who fit that type who never got off your operating table and at least a half a dozen dead girls’ names and locations you’ve never turned over to the FBI.”
“I see we’re finally expressing ourselves,” he said. “I like this side of you, Abigail. This isn’t just a story for you, is it? You’re not just a journalist chasing down a lead. You’re dogged. Unhealthily obsessed, some might say. I was right before: This is personal. You knew Cassandra Martin.” His head tilted as he took her in for a second time, armed with this information. “That means you must be from around Castella Rock,” he said. “I thought I smelled the barn on you. Oh, farm girls.” He shook his head. “So stubborn. They need to be broken like horses. I never saw the point of exerting that much effort. I like my girls sweet and easy. That’s why I chose Cassie.”
Abby gritted her teeth against the retort she wanted to throw at him. She hated that he called her Cassie—God, no one ever called her that—and talked about her like he knew her. Like he was entitled to a nickname. Screw him. He wasn’t entitled to any part of her.
“Do you want to know what did it for me?” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Those curls. Ringlets like a porcelain doll. The second I saw them, I just knew I had to get my hands wrapped around them.”
And there it was. Triumph soared through her as that horrible, gnawing gut feeling she’d had since she started this was finally confirmed.
Cass hadn’t worn her hair in curls since their freshman year of high school. She started straightening it every morning, a rebellious move against her mother, who had used to put her in those child beauty pageants and had loved her curls. And her hair certainly hadn’t been curly that night she was taken. Abby knew that personally.
No, the only time her hair had been curly that year was for her yearbook photos. She’d done it on the condition that her mother would pay for a professional photographer. Sometimes I’ve got to throw her a bone, Abby, she remembered Cass telling her.
“What are you doing?” Howard demanded, his eyes fixed on the now-closed notebook.
“We’re done here,” Abby said.
His gray eyebrows drew together. “You spent all this time trying to see me, and you’re leaving after two questions.”
“I don’t need you to answer any more questions,” Abby said. “You’ve told me everything I need to know.”
His frown deepened, his lips curling in distaste. This wasn’t going how he pictured it. He wasn’t in control anymore.
He didn’t understand he’d just made the mistake she’d been waiting for.
“You asked me what my angle was,” Abby said, staring him down, her eyes hard and piercing. “You really want to know?” She got to her feet, stepping forward, until she was just inches from the Plexiglas. She was so close she could see his quick, excited intake of breath at her proximity and the flutter of his nostrils as he breathed her in.
“You didn’t kill her,” Abby said. “You weren’t even there that night. I don’t think you even knew Cassandra Martin’s name until the sheriff busted down the door of your RV and brought you in for questioning.”
Howard Wells was a lot of things—a sociopath, a sadist, an unrepentant, gleeful murderer—but even he couldn’t control his body’s reactions. Abby watched with satisfaction as the blood drained out of the man’s face.
“I figured it out, Howard,” she said, her voice lowering. “You were playing a game. But you can’t play a game with just one person. You had a friend. Or as close to a friend as someone like you two can get. Someone who was like you. A kindred twisted spirit. What happened? Did you think you had a teammate when he was really an opponent?”
“Quiet,” he ground out. Sweat popped along his forehead, a bead trickling down his temple.
“He got the better of you,” Abby said. “Your little friend set you up. He was smarter than you and you were stupid enough to walk into his trap. Is that why you claimed Cass? Because he humiliated you by being more clever than you?”
He lunged for her, slamming his shoulder against the window.
Instead of flinching or shrinking away, Abby slapped her palm on the glass herself, standing tall and strong, lip curling. He didn’t startle, but his eyes widened at her reaction.
“I’m coming for your playmate, Wells,” she snarled. “Both of you are just predators, circling the flock. And you know what farm girls like me have been taught to do to predators?” She tilted her chin up, ever her father’s stubborn, solid girl, facing down a man who’d killed more people than she had fingers. “We shoot ’em dead.”
His eyes nearly bugged out of his head at her words and he slammed his torso against the window, screaming, spittle and blood flying from his mouth, babbling threat after threat as the guard came racing inside.
“Ms. Winthrop!” he said, tugging at her arm. “You need to get out of here.”
But Abby stood where she was, just for one more moment, standing tall.
She had been right. Her knees felt shaky with relief as she let Stan steer her away.
This was far from over.
She was just getting started.
Chapter 4
By the time Harry was processed and in police custody, it was late. Paul loosened his tie, tugging it off as he sat down in his leather chair. His office was quiet—most of the floor had gone home by this time. A relatively silent night—if there really ever was one when you worked for the FBI.
His eyes felt gritty—he couldn’t remember the last time he slept. They’d gotten the call about Brandon two . . . was it three days ago? Haley Ellis was a senator’s chief of staff, and their team had been called in as a special favor.
He was just glad it had worked out as seamlessly as it did. Usually kidnapping cases—even in the cases of one parent kidnapping the child—ended badly. Especially after a certain amount of time had passed.
There was a light knock on the door, and a woman with long, dark hair peeked her head in.
He waved her in. “Hey, Grace.”
She set a cup of espresso on his desk with a smile.
He shot her a look. “I’m still not clearing you without a doctor’s note,” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not trying to bribe you. I’m trying to be nice. You did a really good job out there today.”
He took a gulp of the bracing drink, feeling better with each swallow. “I’m really relieved it worked out the way it did.”
“It worked out that way because of you,” Grace said. “I couldn’t have done any better.”
This time, he was rolling his eyes. He had the privilege of working with some incredibly gifted and strong women—something his childhood growing up with four sisters had certainly prepared him for.
Grace was the definition of brilliant: an accomplished psychologist and profiler—and a bestselling author on top of that. Her insight and intellect were extraordinary.
He wasn’t egotistical enough—or delusional enough—to think he was even close to her level when it came to brains. He was a damn good FBI agent—and he hoped an even better team leader. He strived to be a good man—in his life and his work. But he was straightforward; someone who looked at situations from as many angles as he could before making his decisions. He liked rules and the methodology of solving crimes, finding each piece and examining it with careful precision and putting each piece together to see the greater picture. It was often the slower way of catching criminals, but it served him—and the country he loved—well.