A Killer's Mind (Zoe Bentley Mystery #1)(107)
“What book deal?” She took the wok off the stove, imagining how it would feel to bash Harry’s face with it.
“I’ve received a book deal to write about Zoe Bentley. Now, I have a few good stories about you, but I’d really be interested in some more.”
“Go to hell.”
“I’d like to point out that I didn’t mention some things you probably preferred were left in the dark.”
“Like what?”
“Like your theory that the serial killer in Chicago was the Maynard serial killer. Or like the fact that for some reason you were wearing nothing but your underwear when Jeffrey Alston was shot.”
Zoe gritted her teeth.
“You can cowrite this book with me. You’ll have final say on everything we put in. Or I can write a book about a profiler who shows her boobs to distract killers. It’s really your—”
She hung up, seething. Trying to calm down, she transferred the rice from the wok to her plate. She poured herself a glass of red wine. Then she walked to the living room and sat down on the couch with the plate and the wine. She turned on the stereo. Beyoncé’s album I Am . . . Sasha Fierce was in it. She skipped “If I Were a Boy,” going straight to “Halo.” As the claps began to accompany the music, she rocked her body in pleasure, taking a sip from the red wine. Beyoncé got her; that was for sure. She scooped some rice and put it in her mouth, closing her eyes. The leftover wine colored the taste of the ginger and rice as Beyoncé sang only for her.
Someone rang the doorbell. Annoyed, she put down the plate and the glass on the table and walked to the door.
She glanced through the peephole. A man in a courier uniform.
“Yeah?”
“Letter for you, ma’am.”
She opened the door and glanced at the brown envelope in his hand, her heart sinking. She signed for it.
“Do you know who sent it?”
“No. I just got it from the central—”
“Yeah.” She had tried to follow this path before, always ending in a dead end.
She closed the door and looked at the envelope. Maybe this time, she’d show it to Tatum. Maybe they could investigate it together. The thought made her smile, the envelope suddenly a lot less threatening. She tore it open. A gray tie, of course.
There was something else inside. A square laminated piece of paper. She pulled it out in trepidation.
Dread and horror crawled up her spine as she stared at the picture.
A guy stopped me on the street today and wanted to know if you were my sister. Asked to take my picture.
Andrea’s face smiled at her from the printed selfie, her upper arm hugged by a grinning Rod Glover.