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She kissed him spontaneously, surprising herself. “Thanks again.” Her insides were light and airy, a far cry from the way she’d felt only a few hours ago. She should be freezing standing on the small covered stoop, but she was anything but cold.
“My pleasure, ma’am,” he said with a warm grin, his dimples showing.
She smiled and closed the door behind him. She waited, listening for his car, until it had started and driven off.
Lucy couldn’t remember a time when she’d felt so comfortable with someone. When she’d felt so attracted. Maybe because tonight hadn’t been a date, there hadn’t been any pressure on her to act normal. Everything they said and did was almost spontaneous. For the first time in a long, long time, she felt like a typical woman.
He’d asked her out on a date. An official date. When was the last time she’d dated anyone? Cody? That wasn’t right. She considered, and realized that while she’d gone out with one or two men since breaking it off with Cody, she’d eased herself away from any potential commitment after the second date. She’d been with Cody for nearly two years—it had been comfortable and normal, until he proposed and she realized she didn’t love him. She couldn’t imagine being married to him—or to anyone. The thought of marriage left her cold and panicky. Odd, considering her parents had an incredible, forty-five-year marriage—and counting.
But Lucy wasn’t normal, and she knew that. Her past would always be part of her. While she’d learned not to let her past control her, it colored all her decisions, leading her down this path in front of her. The FBI. Fighting predators.
Why shouldn’t she enjoy the company of Sean Rogan? Didn’t she deserve a little happiness?
She vowed to have fun tomorrow, no matter what. She probably wouldn’t have a choice—Sean had a knack of getting to the heart of whatever was bothering her and turning it around without making her feel foolish.
Lucy’s romantic thrill ended when she glanced at her computer and remembered what Cody had said earlier.
“Did you change the location?”
He’d been so positive, which meant the bartender had been convincing, which meant that the bartender was simply repeating what Prenter said. That he was meeting a hot blonde.
It wasn’t “Tanya” who’d talked dirty to him. Prenter was obviously embellishing—he was a convicted rapist who had an inflated sense of ego.
But Prenter was at another bar at the same time he’d told her online identity to meet him at the Firehouse in Fairfax. The more she thought about it, the more she convinced herself that he’d been working a couple of women online, and the “hot blonde” who talked dirty had given him a better offer than the more reticent “Tanya.”
She sat down at the computer and logged into her “Tanya” account. With a little work, she could find every person with whom Prenter had chatted. It might not be completely legal—it would require hacking in as an administrator, but that wasn’t difficult since she knew all the protocols that this particular site used.
Most likely Prenter had ditched “Tanya” for a better prospect; it was the only thing that made sense. Maybe it had been that girl from the alley, the one he may have drugged.
She frowned as her computer query yielded no results. In fact, she couldn’t find Prenter on the site at all. His profile was gone. Deleted. Had the police secured it? If so, there should be something that showed that his account was here, but locked. There should be a record of his chats in the admin area, even if they didn’t have any data. It was common for users to lock their profiles when they didn’t want strangers contacting them. His screen name should be here—but it wasn’t.
Lucy logged out and tried to create an account using his log-in. It was available to use, which meant that no other registered user in the chat community had it, locked or unlocked.
Why would the police delete his account? It made no sense. Not for what on the surface appeared to be a routine homicide. And so quickly? He was killed only forty-eight hours ago.
Lucy shut down her computer, but it took her a long time to fall into a troubled sleep.
I watch her bedroom light turn off. Her room is dark. She is alone.
Except for the woman in the house, who I know to be a cop. A federal cop.
The house is owned by Dillon Kincaid and Katherine Donovan. They are married. Married—that pussy-whipped bastard let the bitch keep her maiden name. Now I do not wonder how Ms. Lucy Kincaid turned out to be a lying, whoring killer, with role models like that.
It is war. Us against them. Most men are pleased to give in to the demands of females. Let them work. Let them play. Let them do whatever fucking damn thing they want! Let them cheat, let them lie, let them leave.
I close my eyes and the rage flows through my veins, my sustenance, nurturing my needs as I remember.
Rosemarie.
I love you, Rosemarie.
I loved you through your lies and tricks. Did you always know you would disobey? I gave you the world because I wanted you to stay with me, and still you left!
You pretended to love me, but you loved your friends more. You pretended to be with me, but when you cried out you called his name.
I miss you, Rosemarie.
Father knew best, and I should have listened. He lived through the same thing, but I thought you would stay if all you depended on came from me! If your dreams and hopes and needs were fulfilled by me, you would never leave. I worked day and night for you! You lying, cheating whore, you used me like every woman uses man. Like Eve used Adam, like Delilah used Samson, like every other woman in the world used man.
