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PROLOGUE
“When they said an FBI agent was here to see me…well, let’s just say I didn’t expect this to be my lucky day.”
Prison has stolen pounds from Wayne Killington’s physique. Hollow, gaunt cheeks give him a haunted appearance, and his once robust middle is unnoticeable. His blond hair has thinned substantially and receded. The man who once sported a perma-tan now has a pasty white complexion.
The glare on the glass separating us masks a diagonal slither of his pallid face. The air conditioning blasts and chills my skin beneath the blazer, yet my armpits are damp.
There’s an inch of space between the handset and his ear. His brow creases high along his forehead. “What brings you here, Sophia?”
Curiosity? A need to face the monster? He won’t tell me anything he hasn’t already told the feds. No, a man like Wayne Killington won’t share anything unless there’s something in it for him.
“Sophia, I can sit here all day and look at you. We don’t get much beauty in this place. But unfortunately, we have a time limit.”
The guard standing by the door folds his hands over his belt and leans against the back wall. Out in the hall, voices carry and footsteps fall.
Wayne rubs his fingers through his remnant hair. He’s not handcuffed. I wish he were. In moments of reflection, I like to think his cellmate rapes him daily.
“Stand for a minute. You’re like a ray of sunshine. Let me take you in.”
I sit in the plastic chair and breathe. In the academy, they teach you about your body’s reaction to stressful situations. We dunk our hands in ice water and shoot targets to learn how to squeeze a trigger and aim when our hands are frozen with fear. Adrenaline has undesired physical side effects.
My eyelids close. I swallow. Inhale and exhale. When his face reappears, my control has returned.
“Mr. Killington—”
“Sophia, sweetie, there’s no need for formality. Call me Wayne. You’ve always called me Wayne.”
“There are other words I’ve called you.” He chuckles, and his hand rubs over his stomach. It’s a familiar movement, but it feels out of place on his thinner profile.
I shift, eliminating the glare from the overhead light. “Why did you do it?”
“Is that why you’re here? You want an apology?”
“No.” I slowly shake my head. This isn’t going to work. There’s no sign of remorse. There’s no emotion. Given the opportunity, this man would kill me if it suited his purpose. If he doesn’t have a conscience, this is a waste of time.
Those cold, dark eyes watch me with a cocky intensity. His lips are relaxed, and the corners of his eyes wrinkle in amusement.
“Did you love my mother?”
His lips tighten then relax. I wish I could send a video of his reaction to my Aunt Alex. She’s a behavioral analyst. She might see more than I do.
“I loved your mother until she didn’t love me.” There are no inflections in his flat tone.
I narrow my eyes and tilt my head. “Love doesn’t work like that.”
“You an expert on love now that you’re all grown up? Have you got yourself a boy?”
“Have you ever thought about what my mother would say if she knew what you did?”
For a flash of a second, his facial features stiffen. Remorse?
“Do you want me to tell you about my relationship with your mother?”
“You were both married. It couldn’t have been much of a relationship.”
“We were both miserable in our marriages.” His chin juts out. He shifts closer and rests his elbows on the ledge. Jagged black ink protrudes below the hem of the short sleeve of his shirt.That’s new. “When we were together, I loved your mother very much. More than she comprehended.”
So much you engineered her daughter’s abduction after her death.Bastard.
