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And then Jess realizes. She goes to the table and scrabbles through the crime scene photos until she finds it. She looks at the photo that was pinned on the board, then back to the snapshot in her hand.
She stops, her hands shaking. No wonder it’s personal for Griffin. No wonder he’s a man on a mission.
The woman that was raped and murdered—this is her. And the husband left for dead? It was Griffin.
CHAPTER
23
THE BAR IS packed; Cara can’t believe how busy it is at this time on a Wednesday night. She hovers in the doorway, looking through the throng. She can’t spot Libby. She should be going home—she’s so exhausted even her eyelids ache—but just as she is about to text her excuses and leave, she sees Libby push her way toward her.
“Come on,” Libby says, seeing her expression. “Let’s get you a drink.”
* * *
Two glasses of wine down, and Cara has spilled her guts about the Kemper postmortems, the Manson murders, all the details about Griffin’s theory. Cara knows her expression echoes Libby’s: lowered brow, downturned mouth. There is nothing good here.
“But I can’t help thinking,” Cara adds, downing the last dregs in her glass, “why do it? Why go to all the effort of copying serial killers?”
“Adoration? Infamy? Recognition?” Libby replies. With one hand she signals the barman, who replenishes their glasses. “Why does any multiple murderer kill? You can’t apply normal logic. Have you thought about getting a profiler in?”
“Marsh would never approve the budget.”
“Worth an ask?” Libby stops, thinking for a minute. “And what does Noah say?”
Cara pauses, a smile creeping onto her face. “Why is it, with you, Libs, the conversation always finds its way around to Deakin?”
Libby pushes her long pink hair out of her face. “Just interested, that’s all. And anyway, I don’t need Noah,” she says with a grin. “I have a date on Friday night.” Libby opens up her phone and shows Cara the profile on the dating app. Cara nods in approval.
“But why did you two split up?” Cara asks.
Libby sighs. She puts her phone back in her pocket. “Ask Noah. Not my choice. He didn’t tell you?” Cara shakes her head. “I thought you two talked about everything.”
“We talk about murders and rapes and bad guys. We don’t talk about his love life, and mine’s too dull to mention.”
Libby looks at her, then tilts her head to one side.
“What?” Cara asks.
“You know, I always thought there was something going on between the two of you.”
“Between me and Noah?” Cara laughs. “Why?”
“You spend all day, every day together. You’re always whispering in dark corners, laughing. Like a little impenetrable club.” Cara snorts and Libby takes a swig from her glass. “You’re saying you’ve never thought about it?”
“No!”
“Not even once?”
“No!” Cara repeats. “Well, maybe. Once.”
“Ha!” Libby throws her head back, gleeful. “I knew it. You should, you know.” She raises an immaculately arched eyebrow. “You’d like it.”
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah.” Libby stretches the word out into one long syllable. “Man’s dirtier than an ex-nun at a Fleabag convention.” She waves over Cara’s shoulder. “In a good way,” she adds, then stands up to say goodbye as one of her friends goes to leave.
Cara watches her, chatting and laughing on the other side of the bar. They were well suited, Cara had always thought, Libby and Noah. Both unconventional, but both unmistakably attractive. They’d looked good together. But he’d called an end to their relationship, and Cara wonders why.
