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She grabs her laptop from her cubicle as she passes. I don’t glance behind me at anyone who might be looking at us.
“Where are you going?” she whispers.
“To learn the truth.”
Chapter 18
They do not love that do not show their love.
—William Shakespeare
LOGAN
There’s a note on the door when I arrive, and I tear it off, shaking my head as I read it. I pocket the note and walk inside without knocking.
I find the man in the back room with deteriorating health. He’s on a hospital bed, monitors and IV’s hooked into him, probably keeping the pain down just enough to keep him conscious.
His eyes are droopy when he sees me, and I pull up a chair, staring right at him. The tube in his mouth w
ill prevent him from speaking, but there are other ways to get answers. After all, I’m a profiler. Micro-expressions are my specialty.
“It’s funny how even now Lana can surprise me,” I say quietly.
He looks confused, and I smirk, knowing he doesn’t know who Lana is.
“A psychopath with narcissistic tendencies,” I say on a sigh. “That should have been the profile. A psychopath can feign empathy. Can imitate regret, remorse or even emotional pain. Can even become a believable actor in his or her well-adjusted life. It makes them the hardest ones to find, to be honest. You don’t always know your neighbor is a psychopath.”
I gesture around at the seemingly innocent looking house he’s living in.
“It took me a while to figure it out, but when I did, all the pieces clicked into place. Victoria’s mother was beautiful, if the photos have done her any justice,” I say, leaning up as I study his eyes.
The machine that is monitoring his heart beeps just a little faster at the mention of Jasmine Evans.
“She was just as beautiful when she died in that car crash as she was in high school. It’s funny I never even thought to look into her past. After all, all the women who died looked strikingly similar to her when she was in high school, with the exception of Rebecca Cannon. But she died for a different purpose. Someone needed the sheriff to be blinded by rage and ready to take down anyone to punish.”
I lean back, studying his face as his eyes narrow. The monitor beeps a little faster.
“Her high school sweetheart was pictured with her in one of the prom photos. I can’t believe I never knew it. But I was distracted by an entirely different killer at the time. Turns out she happened to be the girl I love and a guy known as Jake Denver.”
His monitor starts beeping a lot faster as his eyes light up with surprise.
“Victoria Evans didn’t die that night. Jake helped save her life.”
Again, that monitor starts going wild, beeping with even more speed.
“She was beautiful, like her mother, and it’s surprising Jake—someone who appreciated both male and female beauty—never saw her as more than a sister. But he loved her brother. He hated anyone involved who lent a hand in creating the cluster fuck that ended the love of his life.”
He continues to study me, unable to speak, and I know it’s killing him. A man who loves power is now confined to a bed, living in agonizing pain and never-ending helplessness. Even now, he can’t form words with that tube down his throat that is keeping him alive, and all he can do is listen.
“You can’t even piss without a catheter right now, can you?” I ask, then notice the sheets are wet.
“I guess Olivia decided to remove it for your final moments.”
My eyes pop back up to his, and I see the fury washing around in his gaze.
“You want to write a note?” I ask him, putting a pen in his dominant hand.
His left hand weakly tries to clamp around it, but can’t, and it topples to the ground. I grin like the sadistic asshole I feel like right now. His suffering actually pleases me.
