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“Ah,” Rusk whispers, leaning down to get a better look at my face. “He got you real good. Who exactly is he, pet?”
Breathing hard, I stumble up out of my chair so fast it tumbles with a crash. “I’m not your pet.”
Matheson gives her partner a narrowed look as she steps into the room and wraps the blanket around my shoulders. “Everything okay here?”
He spreads his fingers, hands at his side, and gives her a look I guess he thinks is innocent. “I only asked her who MacNiall really is.”
“You touched me,” I whisper fiercely, refusing to give him my gaze again. I right the chair and sit down, huddled in the blanket. I catch the faintest whiff of Charlie’s cologne and my eyes tear. “Don’t touch me again.”
“Can you talk with us for a while longer?” Matheson scoots her chair closer to me. “We’re almost finished.”
“Yeah.” I hate the thready weakness in my voice, so I clear my throat and put more oomph in my words. “But nothing you say will make me believe Charlie wants to kill me.”
Matheson takes a deep breath and pushes another stack of photos toward me. “I warn you, these are rather graphic. It’s pictures of the other victims.”
Hands trembling, I make myself look at the pictures one by one. Horror bubbles up my throat like acid, but I refuse to be sick. I refuse to look away. These women were murdered because of their need to be dominated. My need. They trusted someone who betrayed them horribly.
If the agents are right, I could be next. Might have been next. If Charlie hadn’t disappeared.
All of the pictures contain bite marks. Deep, vicious, vibrant bites, some older and others bloodier. One woman is missing a hunk from her throat, as if her killer lost all control in the throes of passion and ripped her throat out.
Light-headed, I push the pictures away and sip my tea. I’m shaking so much I keep sloshing tea everywhere and very little goes into my mouth. “How—” my teeth chatter but I force the words out, “—did they die?”
“Strangled,” Matheson replies. “Different items. Sometimes it was rope, a scarf, possibly a silk tie.”
Or strips of cotton from his own T-shirt?
“We’ve taken bite samples and they’re all from the same man. Do you still have any marks that we could measure that would help eliminate Mr. MacNiall as a suspect?”
Clever. She wants to prove it’s him, but she knows I’ll be less likely to cooperate if I think it might condemn him. I shake my head. “I heal pretty fast. I’ve got a few faded bruises left from that mark.” I incline my head toward my picture. “But the tooth marks are mostly gone.”
“If Rusk turns his back, could you show me a little of that mark? So I can confirm your statement for the record?”
Rusk inclines his head and turns his back like a gentleman. Maybe he has his partner fooled, but having him in the same room with me gives me the creeps.
“Even better, why don’t you step outside?”
He shoots a dark look my way but complies, stepping out the front door, though he leaves it open. Ignoring the chilly air, I tug the neck of my sweatshirt down and drag the cup of my bra with it to bare the upper curve of my breast for her.
“Yes, I see. There’s a few tiny scabs but I doubt there’s anything conclusive we could use one way or the other. When did he give you those marks?”
It feels like a hundred years ago. I pull the cloth back into place and call out “okay” to Rusk. As he returns, he looks at me like he can still see my naked skin. Chills creep down my spine. “Christmas Eve.”
“Your first night with him?” The incredulous pitch of Rusk’s voice makes me flinch. “Damn, bastard works fast.”
Matheson pulls out her phone and types in a few notes. “And he never bit you again?”
“No.”
She looks at her partner, and Rusk shrugs. “Maybe they weren’t together long enough. It’s only been a week or two.”
“Or maybe he’s escalating to something else that we don’t know about yet.” Matheson turns her attention to me. “Let’s walk through your relationship from the beginning. When did you first have intimate relations with Charles MacNiall?”
* * *
My head poundsso hard I want to lie down on the floor in the dark and silence until I can think.
I don’t know how long I’ve been answering their questions. All truth, as he commanded. I’m too tired, too stressed out and upset to make sense of what might hurt or help him. I managed to hold back a few things. Intimate things he shared with me. Those are for me alone.
