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“I have to call my uncle,” Casey murmured, talking more to herself than to anyone else. “I have to let him and his wife know. What in God’s name am I going to say? That a psychopath who’s after me raped and killed their twenty-one-year-old daughter for practice?” Tears welled up in her eyes. “This is my fault. I never thought of Trish or Maggie when I wrote up that list. They weren’t even on my radar. I don’t care if we were estranged, I should have thought of my own family members. We should’ve had Patrick’s security friends assigned to them. If we had, Trish might still be alive.”
“Stop it, Casey.” Hutch hooked his finger under her chin and raised it, forcing her to meet his gaze. “There’s nothing to be gained by blaming yourself. Even if you’d thought of her as a possible target, Trish was a college kid. She couldn’t have been shadowed 24/7. Glen Fisher, Jack Fisher, whoever the hell is the offender, would have found a way. Now let’s go home. You’ll call your aunt and uncle in the car. And then you’ll call your team. It’s time to close ranks. The killer made it clear that he’s coming after you now.”
* * *
The entire Forensic Instincts team was already at the brownstone when Casey and Hutch arrived, thanks to the phone chain Marc had initiated. Hero went straight to Casey as she walked in, greeting her with that loving instinct animals possess when they know something is wrong.
“Hey, boy.” Casey crouched down to scratch Hero’s ears and stroke his silky head.
“Are you okay?” Claire was the first one out in the hall, anxiously searching Casey’s face for signs of strain.
It wasn’t hard to find them. Casey was a basket case.
“I’ll never forget the sound of my uncle’s voice when I told him,” Casey replied, rising to her feet. “He was shattered. So was his wife. Part of their lives was taken away. And what could I say? There were no words to ease the pain.”
Claire walked over to Casey and gave her a tight hug. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t pick up on any of this. I should have.”
There was something odd in Claire’s tone—a deep sense of personal guilt. Casey was about to ask her about it, when Ryan stepped into the hall behind her. The expression on his face, the protective way he hovered near Claire—both of those answered Casey’s question. They’d been together last night. Claire’s intuitive instincts had been directed elsewhere. And now she was beating herself up over it.
“Don’t do this,” Casey told her quietly. “I have enough guilt for all of us. But Hutch is right. Guilt won’t flush out Glen Fisher or the other offender. That’s going to require skill.”
“Yeah,” Ryan said. “Especially since they’re clearly on their way to you.”
Patrick joined them in the foyer. “This place is like a fortress. I doubled the number of security guards stationed outside the building. And if you have to go out—and I repeat, have to—it will be with two men, not one.”
“Thank you,” Casey said gratefully. “But we can’t keep taking a defensive stance. It’s time to be proactive.”
“You’re not baiting the guy.” Hutch’s words were a flat-out command.
“I wasn’t going to. I’m not suicidal. There’s got to be another way. Fisher is going to make me sweat. Let’s use that time to come up with something.”
* * *
Jack pedaled his bicycle past the Forensic Instincts building for the third time that morning. He’d pulled his Yankees cap down low and his jacket collar up high. So his face was pretty much concealed.
Glen had told him to do surveillance, to see what the deal was at Casey Woods’s office. The fucking building was like a prison, with two guards standing outside the door and who the hell knew how many more inside. Plus there was her tough, cop-looking boyfriend and that navy SEAL who’d pounded the shit out of his uncle. Neither one of them was going anywhere.
Getting to her was going to be like getting inside Fort Knox.
Jack rounded the corner and took a break. He swung off his bicycle and bought a pretzel and a soda from a local hot dog vendor. Pedaling around was a pain in the ass, but he was in too good a mood after last night to let it bother him.
Taking care of that girl with his uncle had really gotten his juices going. He’d forgotten how awesome Glen was at this. Not just the sex or even the strangling, but the head games, the taunting threats. Casey Woods’s cousin had been scared out of her mind even before they’d laid a hand on her. And then, taking turns, prolonging the end—it had been great. Dumping the body near that navy SEAL’s place had completed the ritual.
Now it was time for the real deal.
He took a bite of his pretzel, thinking that, while he hated to admit it, he was glad his uncle was with him on this one. Glen was creatively brilliant. He’d work out how to get past the barricade surrounding Casey Woods. He was probably planning it right now.
And then they’d be on their way.
* * *
Glen stared at himself in the bathroom mirror at Jack’s apartment. He’d automatically gone in there to shave, before remembering that he now sported a mustache and the beginnings of a beard—both dyed the same deep red as his hair. He could have picked any color other than his own dark brown. But red seemed like the most ironically pleasing choice. So he was now a bearded redhead with brass-rimmed glasses and a limp—thanks to the two-inch lift he’d placed in his right shoe.
The new and unrecognizable Glen Fisher.
Exiting the bathroom, he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the second carefully folded scrap of paper he’d brought from Auburn. Like the previous scrap, it had a name and phone number on it. This one read Henry Rand. Rand was a pawnshop owner with a useful side gig: identity forging. He was supposedly the best, at least according to the Auburn inmate who owed Glen.
Glen was about to find out just how good he was.
