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Faith glanced at Turk, who sat next to her staring impassively at Kevin, where he had sat the entire time. Her doubts increased as they left the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
His wrist flexed and relaxed over and over as he squeezed the exercise clamp in his hand. It didn’t exactly reduce his stress, but it made it manageable.
He shouldn’t have worn the ring. That was inexcusable. He put himself in danger, put his work in danger, all because he needed the ring with him. He should have left it at home. If that FBI agent and her dog had caught up to him and found the ring, then the game would have been over.
That dog could be a problem. The FBI agent had quickly realized her mistake and pursued him, missing him by less than a minute. He had seen her run into the parking lot just as his van pulled out.
His only hope was that they mistook him for Kevin. He didn’t look exactly like Kevin, but they were close enough in appearance that if she got only a brief glance of him, she might believe it was Kevin she was after. Kevin was a convicted murderer anyway with a history of mental illness. He fit the profile.
Henry Levinson didn’t fit anyone’s profile of a killer. Henry Levinson was a stand-up guy. He kept to himself; he was kind, upbeat, and agreeable. He lived alone and showed no interest in anyone else after losing his wife. He wasn’t the kind of person to lie in wait and stab people in cold blood.
He had fought very long and very hard to make sure that wholesome image remained the only image in anyone’s mind when they thought of him. He had fought hard and then he had fucked it up by wearing that damn ring.
He tossed the hand clamp onto the bed and lifted his hand to look at the ring. He still wore it, and he knew when it came time to go after Gina and take the ring off, he would be devastated by its absence.
Well, sacrifices had to be made. Besides, they didn’t know where he lived, and it was almost certain that Kevin would say or do something to make himself seem like their guy. He could leave the ring at home. It was safe.
For now, he focused his attention on his latest stray, this Gina Norris.
He was angry with her now. He’d gone online and researched her a little, at the library, of course, and not with his personal computer. He thought about seeing her social media, his eyes blazing with rage as he learned she was married still, not even separated. She had been flaunting her freedom, wearing no wedding ring on her finger, and sending out signals that she was available. It was evil enough to do that because of a divorce but sickening and enraging when a woman did such a thing while pretending the vows mattered.
His own wife had never worn her wedding ring, the whore. It had been a sign of disrespect to him, a reminder that he wasn't worth honoring in such a way. He’d believed that for some time before he finally understood she’d been adulterous. He’d never caught her carrying on affairs with other men behind his back, notin flagrante delicto. He knew, though. He knew, and the betrayal and humiliation burned deeply inside of him to this day.
In flagrante delicto.Caught in the act. Most people didn’t finish the phrase but simply saidin flagranteor caughtin flagrante.That was the problem. People never focused on the importance of doing things right. Worse, if he corrected someone, they would certainly react as though he were wrong for expecting someone to do things properly.
He was wrong with his wife.
Every time.
Why couldn’t she see that he only wanted to help her? Didn’t she want to do things right? He only tried to help her, but every time he offered advice, she punished him for it—crying, shouting, deriding him, calling him names—all because he thought she might want to know if she was making a mistake.
And he endured all of it. Because he loved her, and when you love someone, you make sacrifices. Like allowing them to disrespect you because of their own insecurities.
But when she cheated? That was the final straw. That was the line. He couldn’t brook an insult like that. She had cheated, and he knew in his heart of hearts that she was no longer the woman he married. No, she never was.
When he confronted her, she had laughed. Amused derision. He confronted her and asked her if it was true, and the whore had laughed at him.
“That’s right, little man,” she said sarcastically. “I’ve just been out sleeping with every man I can find. Anyone will do as long as it’s not you.”
She’d been remarkably easy to kill. He had anticipated a struggle, but she snapped in his arms like a twig. The elation he felt as his arm encircled her neck and he twisted to break it was unexpected. He’d expected to feel a measure of guilt or, at the least, some sort of unhappy resignation. He’d not expected to feel so good about killing her.
He might have killed her faster had she not begged, the sound of her begging thrilled him enough that he wanted it to last. What might have been twenty or thirty seconds of effort, he extended into a few minutes, allowing her to believe she was getting through to him. He actually slightly relieved the pressure on her right before the end, savoring her body’s reaction of relief and then savoring the way she stiffened when he whispered, “Whore,” and snapped her neck.
He heard another snap and jumped. He blinked, then looked at his hand and realized he had picked up the wrist clamp again and squeezed it so hard the spring had snapped. He tossed the broken pieces into the wastebasket next to his desk and began to dress. It was time to go to work.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Faith sat and …
Those old books would say she stewed. She sat, and shestewed, that was it. She sat and stewed; her mind clouded with questions. She had been certain that the suspect was the killer and forced herself to believe it regardless of Turk’s reaction. She’d forced herself to believe it regardless of the man’s vehement and ultimately believable denial.
“He’s innocent,” she said.
“Yeah. Sucks,” Michael replied.
“I wonder if he’s innocent of his wife’s murder too.”
