Till Death(82)


“If there’s no evidence then it doesn’t matter what the mayor thinks or says.”

“That would be true if the power of public opinion didn’t outweigh the power of common sense, but if the people knew that we most likely have a copycat serial killer on our hands, they’ll be prepared and therefore safe.”

I almost laughed. “Oh, so your motives are altruistic then?”

“Not really,” he admitted with another smile.

“This—all of this—makes you happy, doesn’t it?” Disgust rose.

He rolled his eyes. “Not happy. Eager? Yes. It’s my job. I love digging things up and pulling back the veil. My job is to report the truth and sometimes expose it.”

“You know I’m not going to give you information about the Groom. So why are you here?” I asked.

Striker was quiet for a moment. “Aren’t you frightened?” he asked quietly. “You know what kind of horror a person is capable of, and you received a severed finger in the mail. Whoever is behind this knows you’re here. That finger is a message of some sort.”

My eyes narrowed. “Yes. I am frightened. Who wouldn’t be? But again, that has nothing to do with you.”

“Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot, but I’m not here to do a story on what happened to you. That’s not why I came here in the first place. I’m hoping you can answer one question for me.”

I said nothing, partly because I didn’t believe him and I was also curious what his one question could be.

“Can we sit?” He gestured at the chairs in the lounge area.

My eyes narrowed but I nodded. Walking over to them, I sat and he did the same. He shifted to the side and reached into his pocket, pulling out a tiny recorder. I stiffened.

“It’s not on. I wanted to show you that.” He also pulled out his cellphone and showed the home screen. “I don’t have this recording either. This conversation is off the record.”

I smirked. “Am I really supposed to believe that?”

“I can’t make you believe that, and while I do think people want to hear your story of survival, I’m not here to report on it.” Striker bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I was just out of journalism school when the Groom hit this town. I didn’t cover the story. It went to one of the more veteran reporters, but I followed it closely. Even after you escaped and he was dead, I read everything I could on it. You can say I became a couch expert on him and other serial killers.”

My upper lip curled. “That must be something to be proud of.”

He smiled. “There’s something . . . fascinating about a person who understands right and wrong, but does not operate on any social norm and has their own moral compass.”

“More like terrifying,” I corrected.

“That too.” His head tilted to the left. “Anyway, I’ve read everything there is on Vernon Joan. I know what he did to the other victims. I know what he was planning to do to you when he led you out of the house. I know everything except one thing. That’s why I’m here.”

I took a deep, even breath as an idea formed. “I’ll consider answering your question if you answer one of mine.”

Striker tensed. “What do you want to know?”

“You seem to know a little bit about everyone,” I said, choosing my words wisely. “How well do you know the mayor?”

Interest piqued in his eyes. “Probably more than the average citizen. Why?”

This could be a huge mistake. Tomorrow morning he could write up a story where I pin suspicion on the mayor, but I was willing to take that risk. “The mayor has been really worried about me . . . talking to someone like you and dragging up everything that has happened.”

“And you’re wondering why he would be so adverse to something like that?” he asked.

I nodded. “Obviously, he’s not the kind of person who believes any press is good press.”

“Oh, he is that kind of person. Except when the bad press might have to do with him.”

My brows snapped together. “What does that mean exactly?”

He studied me a moment. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Huh. Well, I guess a lot of people didn’t hear about it. After all, people with money have a way of making sure things aren’t widely known.”

“I’m going to need a little more detail,” I said.

One side of his lips tipped up. “Mayor Mark Hughes is the grandson of Bobby Hughes, who sold a whole lot of acreages to developers back in the eighties. Made their family very, very wealthy. Now, Bobby’s boy, Robert Jr., is Mark’s father. Junior owned a lot of the businesses downtown. The rest of the businesses were sold off before Junior passed away. Mark took over ownership of one of them—a hardware shop.”

“I know about the hardware shop.”

“But I bet you didn’t know that Bobby had a sister named Cora, who had a baby out of wedlock. That was a big no-no in the day. Cora had a daughter who married a man who used to work at the corning plant. His name was Victor Joan.”

I stilled.

“And I can tell by the look on your face you just connected the dots. Victor Joan was the father of only one son. Vernon Joan.”

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