Page 6

The guard unlocks a metal door and pushes it open. When I step in, Gabriel Ashcroft is sitting at the metal table, and he looks harmless. Aside from his prison-issued jumpsuit, he looks normal. His dark brown hair is short, and his beard is full but short and neatly trimmed. He is leaning back in his chair, watching me enter the room, and I suddenly feel like I am prey.

“Black,” he remarks when I sit at the table.

“Pardon?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at him as I set my notebook down.

“Pants. Blouse. Cardigan. Shoes. All black. Minimal makeup,” he says, as if we are discussing the weather.

“I was told to dress neutrally,” I say simply. “I am Nora Bennett. I am a graduate student studying criminal psychology.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Bennett,” he says, offering me his hand. I know I shouldn’t, but I hesitate before extending my hand to him. His grip is firm, but not alarmingly so.

“Just Nora,” I say. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me. It is my understanding that you have refused prior requests for a formal evaluation?”

“Is this your first interview?” he asks.

“Do you always answer questions with questions?” I ask, and he smiles. It’s a kind smile, but I can’t tell if it’s real or not. “I would just like to confirm some of the information I received first, and then we can move on to my questions.”

“You’re running the show,” he says simply. Is he being casual or sarcastic?

“I have you at thirty-five. Born on November 12, 1991. You are charged with nine counts of kidnapping, first-degree murder, abuse of a corpse, and evidence tampering. Is this correct?”

“It is,” he says. “You’re an older sister, aren’t you?”

“My personal life is not relevant to this discussion, Mr. Ashcroft,” I remark, looking at his file.

“Dr,” he corrects.

“Actually,” I say, turning a paper around for him to see. “Mr. Your license is under review pending the outcome of the trial.”

“Just Gabriel, then,” he says. “Definitely an only child. Spoiled, I’m sure.”

I let out the smallest of sighs, but I instantly regret it when he chuckles. “The methodology with the crimes appears to be inconsistent with normal crimes of this nature. Why?”

“You tell me,” he says. “Why would someone be inconsistent?”

“They are experimenting,” I say.

“No,” he says, smirking. “Try again.”

I find myself wanting to guess, but I don’t. He’s playing me, and he’s damn good at it, too. “These murders were presumably violent, considering the abuse of a corpse charge.”

“Have you even seen information about the case?” he asks.

“No, the information I have stated was the only information provided. Why don’t you fill me in?” I suggest.

“Four men. Five women. All murdered,” he says. “Dismembered and reassembled elsewhere.”

“Age range?” I ask.

“Youngest was nineteen. Oldest was eighty-two,” he says simply.

Ah, hell. He got grandma, too? Damn.

“You look shocked,” he says. “Why?”

“You are in the same profession that I am studying. Surely you aren’t this dense, Mr. Ashcroft,” I say.

“Humor me.” He smirks, and it pisses me off.