The Match (Wilde, #2)(97)

“You mean do more than send private eyes to his residence and place of business and have your old partner Rola Naser knock on his door yesterday?” He shrugged. “Not sure what more you can do.”

Their eyes met. Wilde felt the tingle in his veins.

“What do you want, Wilde?”

“I want to know my father better.”

“Don’t we all?” Kissell took another deep inhale, held it for a moment, and then let the smoke out with so much joyful release it almost felt like a sex act. “Tell you what. I’m not going to pretend I don’t know who you’re talking about because that’s a waste of time. You already know too much. You also know I’m not going to confirm or deny.”

“I didn’t mean to put him or his family in danger,” Wilde said. “I want you to know—I want him to know—that I get it now. It’s okay. I really did find him via a DNA site. But I won’t pursue it anymore.”

Kissell took the cigarette out of his mouth and stared at it like it held some of the answers. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Did Daniel Carter—or whatever his real name is—lie to me?”

Nothing. Had Wilde expected more?

“Does he really not know who my mother is or why I ended up in the woods?”

Kissell made a production of checking his watch. “I better get going.”

“I do have one request.”

Wilde handed him a note.

Kissell said, “What’s this?”

“It’s for him. I’m going to stop by with sealed notes like this every once in a while. You and I can meet out here, if you want. You’ll say, ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ but you’ll take the notes from me. You’ll deliver them. Maybe sometimes, he’ll give you a sealed note to bring back to me. Or maybe not. Either way, we are going to do this.”

Kissell looked out past him.

“Do we understand each other?” Wilde asked.

Kissell slapped Wilde on the back. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”





Chapter

Forty-One



I park. Just like last time. I just need to kill Jenn. If they catch me immediately after that, so be it. If they have the same car on tape parked in the same remote area, so be it. It’ll be over by then. Any additional murders will be gravy.

I have the gun in my hand.

I keep it low and out of sight. Jenn will be here in approximately ten minutes. I wonder how to play it. Should I kill her fast? Three shots. My modus operandi. I bet the forensic serial-killer profilers will come up with some great theories on why I shot them three times. The truth is, of course, there is no rhyme or reason. Or at least not a very interesting reason. When I shot Henry McAndrews, my first kill, I fired three times. Why? I can’t be sure, but I think that’s when I eventually paused or wondered whether that was enough. Anyway, it was random. I could have shot him two times or four times. But it was three. So now I’m stuck with that number.

No great insight there, profilers. Sorry.

I close my eyes for a few seconds. I think about the gun in my hand.

I want to ease this pain.

That’s how it started, isn’t it? With pain. Pain is all-consuming. It robs you of reason. You just want it to end. I thought that killing those who had done such harm would ease the pain.

And, surprise alert, it did. Correction: It does.

But only for a little while.

That was the problem. Murder for me is a salve—but the salve works only for a little while. Its healing power starts to fade. So you throw more and more salve on the wound.

It is right then, while I’m thinking about salving a wound, that I see Jenn turn the corner.

I look down at the gun, then back up at Jenn, at those famed golden-blond locks framing the heartbreakingly gorgeous face.

Do I shoot her right away? Do I let her get in the car and see it is me and then, boom, boom, boom, end it immediately? I think that’s the play. I want her to suffer. That’s new. I only wanted the others dead. What they did was awful and hurtful. But what Jenn had done, the planning, the betrayal…

Jenn is only a few yards away.

I knew she’d come. Like her sister, she couldn’t help but try to grab this life preserver.

She squints now, trying to see who is driving the car. But she can’t make me out yet.

When Jenn is only a few yards away, I lift the gun.

I sit in the driver’s seat and watch her reach out to the passenger side door. I hit the unlock switch so she can join me.

But that’s not what happens.

The moment I hit the switch—as soon as I hear that little click indicating the car doors are unlocked—my car door swings open. I turn toward it, raising my gun, but a hand darts in and snatches the gun away from me.

I look up into Wilde’s big blue eyes.

“It’s over, Vicky.”

*



Wilde moved into the passenger seat, Vicky stayed on the driver’s side.

She stared straight ahead out the window. “You set me up. You told me about Jenn to see if I’d act.”

Wilde saw no reason to reply.

“How did you know it was me?”

“I didn’t for certain.”