I want to be the predator. Her own secret. She had so many secrets. Some days, they threatened to choke her.
But Atlas was nodding approvingly at her. “See? That’s what we say when we are mistreated by individuals who should know better. We aren’t guilty. We’re victims, and victims walk out of sheriff stations. They don’t get cuffed in them.” He glowered at Debra. “You will be hearing from my attorney. Let’s see how massive the lawsuit will be.”
Debra flinched but stood her ground. “A man was kidnapped and buried alive. She confessed to stalking him.”
Atlas sent Sloane a what-in-the-hell-possessed-you-to-do-that glance.
“Researching,” she mumbled. How many times would she need to clarify this particular point? “I was researching Preston and getting ready to approach him formally. I was not preparing to attack the man.”
“Say less,” Atlas advised her.
But Debra slapped the open cuffs on the tabletop. “She promised to cooperate if she had her five minutes alone with Preston Byron.”
Again. Atlas fired Sloane the same glance. The what-in-the-hell-possessed-you-to-do-that glance.
She swallowed. “I’m really tired. Not thinking too clearly. I had nightmares when I tried to get any sleep.” Except for when she’d been in Preston’s arms. She’d slept fine then.
Something she should probably not analyze too much at the moment.
“Why were you stalking Preston Byron?” Debra demanded.
“I was researching him. Because I research serial killers.” Tread carefully. Carefully. “You and I both know that Preston was the victim of a serial killer’s attack when he was fourteen.” Again, she’d done her research. Preston’s adoptive family had brought him to the mountains after the attack. They’d moved him from California all the way to North Carolina.
Sometimes, you needed a fresh start. One that was on the opposite side of the country.
Then again, sometimes, demons just chased you wherever you went. Demons could be tenacious like that.
“I wanted to talk with him.” Meeting Preston had been a priority for her. “It’s important to understand survivors.”
Debra notched up her chin. “Because you’re a survivor, too? That the story you’re selling? You survived your boyfriend’s attack and now you like to go all deep and dark into the minds of killers?”
“I—”
“What did I tell you before?” Atlas’s sigh filled the room. “Say less. Perhaps I stuttered when I gave those previous instructions. So let me repeat, say less.” Atlas took Sloane’s hand. “We’re leaving.”
“She’s not leaving town—” Debra began, voice heated.
“I’m not leaving town,” Sloane declared, her own voice flat.
Yep, shocking no one, Atlas gave her that same look for a third time.
“He’s still here,” Sloane said.
“Preston? Yeah, the dumbass is outside the station right now.” Atlas tugged her toward the door. “So?”
“Not Preston. The killer. He’s still here. We can’t let him get away.” No, more than that. “I can’t let him get away.” The bastard had buried her alive. Then just left her to die beneath the dirt. Did he think she was going to let that go?
Not happening.
“Sloane… Hell.”
She ignored Atlas, for the moment, and shifted her focus to Debra. “I can help you.”
Debra’s brows rose. “How?”
“I can profile better than anyone working at the Bureau.” She knew one particular jerk who was far too high in rank at the FBI’s BAU. Talk about someone who was overhyped. “I can help you hunt this killer. Stop trying to pin the crime on me. Work with me instead.”
“Huh.” Not a yes. Not a no. Debra tapped her chin. “What is it that you think you know?’
