A Killer's Mind (Zoe Bentley Mystery #1)(66)

“Sure.”

“You’ll be happy to learn there’s no anthrax inside them. I’m not sure what anthrax looks like, frankly, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t look like that.”

“Thank you,” she said, feeling sick.

“I should probably let the cops here take my fingerprints,” he said. “For when they dust these, right?”

She didn’t say anything. She stood there frozen, dizzy.

“You should have them take your fingerprints as well.”

“They won’t find any fingerprints,” she said, her voice a thousand miles away.

“You’ve received envelopes like these before?”

“What?”

“You seem to know what’s inside, and you already know they won’t find any fingerprints. I take it you’ve received envelopes like these before.”

She tried to focus. “Who are you, exactly?”

“I’m Harry.” He smiled, two lines of bright-white teeth showing.

“Harry, you just happened to find these three envelopes?”

“No,” he said. “I just happened to find one of them. But then I went and looked for the other two.”

The reality sank in. “You’re a reporter,” she said.

“That’s right.” He beamed. “So . . . what can you tell me about these envelopes?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Okay. I guess my story won’t have your response. It’ll just mention the three envelopes containing—”

“You can’t go public with this. It would hurt the investigation.”

“Dr. Bentley, it’s not your job or my job to decide. I publish what captures the interest of the public. Well, frankly, I publish what captures the interest of my editor and me, and then—”

She turned toward the front desk. “Get some officers in here, and detain this man for questioning.”

“If I don’t call my editor in ten minutes,” Harry said calmly, “he’ll publish what I gave him so far.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Dr. Bentley, you’re the forensic psychologist here. Look at my face, and tell me that again.”

There was silence, the officer in the front desk watching them both, phone in hand.

“What do you want?” she finally asked.

“I want a story,” he said.

“You can’t write about these envelopes.”

“Give me something I can write about. Something that no one else knows.”

She bit her lip. “I need some time.”

“Absolutely,” the man said. “I trust you, Zoe—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Okay, then.” He offered her his hand. “I trust you, Dr. Bentley. You have twenty-four hours.”

He turned around and left.

Knees buckling, she got herself to the elevator, not entirely sure she could manage the stairs at that moment. It seemed to take her years to get to her desk, the envelopes dragging her hand down.

Could it be?

It felt impossible. But so many things suddenly aligned. The strangling. The bodies’ proximity to water. The posing, different but somehow the same.

She sat down by her table and upturned the three envelopes.

Three gray ties landed on the table in a twisting pile.





CHAPTER 48

Maynard, Massachusetts, Monday, December 15, 1997

Time trickled slowly, a rushing noise in Zoe’s ears. Behind her, Andrea called out again. “Mommy?” Glover’s eyes held hers. Not the childish, funny neighbor, the goofy man who enthusiastically talked with her about Buffy and Angel. Cold, hard eyes, capable of anything. He tensed. She could see him bracing as the world around her transformed into one long tunnel, Glover on the edge, only darkness between them. He started toward her, a sharp movement that jolted her out of her dreamlike freeze.

She screamed, slammed the door shut, turned the key in the door’s lock.

There was a loud thumping noise, the door shuddering. Glover had run into the door. Zoe looked around frantically. Her desk was large and wooden. She dashed to it and began dragging it, inch by inch, Andrea watching her from the bed, her eyes wide.

“Zoe,” Glover said from the other side. “I just want to talk. I think you may have misunderstood something.”

She pulled the desk, whimpering, until she could wedge her body between it and the wall. Then she began leaning against it, pushing herself and the desk away from the wall. She breathed hurriedly, short, fearful gulps of air, her body trembling as she strained against the desk.

“Were you in my bedroom this morning, Zoe? I’m not angry; I just think we should chat about this.” He knocked on the door, politely at first, then thumped it angrily, the loud noise making Andrea burst into frightened tears. The doorknob twisted over and over.

She remembered that a few months ago, her mother had taken her room key, telling her she didn’t want locked doors in the house. It had taken a lot of begging to get the key back, with Zoe claiming she didn’t want Andrea to barge into her room while she undressed. Now, with the door shuddering as Glover thumped on it, she thanked God her mom had returned the key.

“Just open the door, Zoe. I’d hate for this to ruin our friendship.”