What Are You Afraid Of? (The Agency #2)(15)

“Did they catch the thief?”

“No. The truck was found abandoned a few miles away. On the shoulder of I-70.”

I-70. The hunting ground for the Trucker. Plus, a missing freezer trailer . . .

The dread intensified.

“There had to be video footage from the hotel,” she said.

He used the mouse to skim to the bottom of the report. “There was a camera mounted in the parking lot, but according to the manager it was just for show.” He shrugged. “It looks like the cops talked to a few customers staying at the hotel, but no one wanted to get involved.”

Of course not. An eyewitness would have made this too easy.

“Predictable,” she muttered.

He reached the bottom of the screen. “And since the truck was found with nothing missing, the report was closed and the driver finished his delivery.”

She abruptly straightened. “If the case was closed, then I assume that means there wasn’t a body found in the trailer,” she said, speaking more to herself than her companion.

“Doubtful,” he agreed with a grimace.

“A difference.”

He turned his chair to study her with a searching gaze. “A difference from what?”

She hesitated before sharing the thoughts racing through her mind.

“Scott always left his latest victim frozen in his trailer until he could choose a new one,” she explained.

He studied her for a long minute. “Why do you assume this has anything to do with Scott?”

“The M.O. is very close. Scott held his victims in the back of a freezer trailer before he smashed in the sides of their heads with a crowbar,” she said. “And all of the victims had been prostitutes known to work in the parking lots of truck stops along I-70.” She reached past him to pluck the envelope off the desk. Then, pushing her hand inside, she pulled out the sheet of notepaper. “And this came with the envelope.”

Taking the note, Griff read the brief message. His brows snapped together, his stern features becoming downright grim. Almost as if he was personally bothered by the words.

At last he lifted his gaze to study her face, his dark eyes smoldering with an odd intensity.

“Whoever sent these wanted you to believe they were from a dead serial killer,” he said, an edge in his voice.

She chewed her bottom lip. “That was my first assumption, too.”

He blinked, as if surprised by her words. “And now?”

Her gaze moved to stare out the French doors at the sunlit patio. It looked so bright and cheery. The complete opposite of the darkness that seemed to spread through her as she forced herself to consider the purpose of the envelope.

If it was another serial killer trying to gain her attention, then there was no reason to imitate Neal Scott. Usually each monster had their specific method of murder. It was always a ritual that had meaning to them. An intimate connection to their victim.

But by replicating the deaths from her book, and sending the proof to her, it seemed to indicate that this was as much about her as the victims.

A shudder raced through her.

“No, I think it was to taunt me,” she said in a low voice.

“Why?”

She struggled to put her fear into words. “I don’t know, but it feels . . .” Another shudder shook her body. “Personal.”

She thought she heard him suck in a sharp breath. “You suspect it’s someone you know?”

She gave a quick shake of her head, refusing to even contemplate the idea. Wasn’t it bad enough to receive pictures of dead women without the horrifying fear that the killer might be a personal acquaintance?

“No,” she said. “But I think they read my book and it touched a nerve.”

“Or inspired them,” he pointed out.

Her lips pressed together. She wasn’t going to apologize for her work. Why should she? She’d told the story of American predators and the women who were left vulnerable in a society that should protect them.

If it offended people, then tough luck.

She jutted her chin, holding his searing gaze. “Can you tell anything about the victims?”

He tapped the tip of his finger on the desk, his expression impossible to read.

“Young. White. Blond hair,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. She didn’t need a computer genius to figure that out.

“Are they really dead?”

“They look dead, but I’m not a doctor.”

“Your computer can’t tell?”

“No.”

She hissed in exasperation. She now knew that the pictures had been taken within the past few weeks, which ruled out that they were victims of Scott. And she knew that the truck with at least one victim had been in the area of I-70.

But she’d been hoping for more.

She still didn’t know if the women were truly dead, or if it was some elaborate hoax meant to freak her out.

She needed more.

“Then is there anything we can use to identify the women?” she abruptly demanded.

There was more tapping with his finger on the desk. Tap, tap, tap.

“What is it you think that I do?” he demanded.

She frowned. She didn’t know exactly what he was asking.

“You create software that helps law enforcement catch the bad guys,” she at last said, referring to the astonishing program he’d created that had allowed the FBI to predict where Dr. Franklin Hammel would attempt to snatch his next victim. They’d managed to catch him in the act.