What Are You Afraid Of? (The Agency #2)(5)

Carmen grimaced. She would be a hypocrite to act shocked by Lucy’s response. The reason Carmen had hired her was because the woman was a ruthless master at taking advantage of any situation.

Even a situation that included dead women.

“These need to go to the authorities,” she said in firm tones.

“Fine, but first we need to make copies,” Lucy insisted. “It could be months or years before the cops will give back the originals.”

“Let’s worry about figuring out who these poor women are before we start cashing in, okay?” she said dryly.

As if sensing that Carmen wasn’t in the mood to discuss business, Lucy did her best to squash her excitement.

“What do you want from me?”

Carmen took a minute. She was still rattled and it was unnervingly difficult to think. Like her brain cells were wading through syrup.

“I want you to call the lawyers and find out everything you can about the envelope,” she eventually demanded.

Might as well start at the beginning.

“You got it,” Lucy said, the crisp determination easing a portion of Carmen’s unease. “I’ll get back to you.”

Carmen hung up the phone and forced herself to turn and head to the back of the cabin. She felt in dire need of a hot shower. It couldn’t erase the images from her mind, but it might wash away the feeling that she’d been contaminated.

Entering the small bathroom, she dropped her robe and stepped beneath the spray of water. She shivered as she waited for the hot water to kick in, not for the first time wondering if she’d made a mistake in writing The Heart of a Predator.

It wasn’t like she’d started off her journalism career with the dream of spending her days in dank prisons interviewing monsters. And they were monsters—each of the five men she’d profiled had killed at least ten women, and most of them much more than that. But when her college professor had warned her that the articles she was writing for the school paper were too mundane to earn her any notice by any reputable newspaper or magazine, she’d forced herself to examine what she could offer that was different from every other wannabe journalist.

What truly made her unique?

The answer was simple.

Murder.

She was intimately acquainted with death. And the sort of man who could kill an innocent woman without mercy.

She’d reached out to Neal Scott, not believing for a minute that he’d respond to her request for an interview. He’d been on death-row for seventeen years and had never once spoken about his crimes. But her letter had been answered by Scott’s lawyers within the week.

“Yes, Mr. Scott would be pleased to meet with Ms. Jacobs at a time of your convenience.”

And that had been the start of her twisted journey through the minds of serial killers. A trail she thought would be over once the paperback book was released.

With a grimace she stepped out of the shower and dried off. Then, heading into the bedroom across the hall, she slipped on a pair of jeans and a heavy cable-knit sweater. Her blond hair was already curling around her face, making her look about twelve. She clicked her tongue as she pulled her hair into a tight ponytail.

Her grandmother might have thought that it was cute that Carmen looked like a perpetual child, but it was a pain in the patootie.

She’d just tugged on a pair of warm socks and returned to the kitchen when her phone rang.

Carmen hit the speaker button. “What did you find out?”

Lucy’s voice floated through the air. “Nothing.”

Her tension returned. Dammit. Had the older woman just pretended she was going to help in an effort to get Carmen to use the pictures in her book?

“Lucy, I’m not in the mood for games,” Carmen snapped.

“I wasn’t trying to annoy you, Carmen,” Lucy said. “I meant the word literally.”

There was no missing the edge in Lucy’s voice.

This wasn’t about making money. The woman was truly worried.

“Explain,” Carmen said, dropping into a kitchen chair and rubbing her aching head.

Lucy cleared her throat. “I called the law office that represented Neal Scott, only to be told that they didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.”

Carmen frowned. “They don’t remember sending the package?”

“They don’t remember, because they never sent it,” Lucy clarified. “In fact, they had direct orders from Neal Scott that all his possessions were to be destroyed after he was executed. He didn’t want some prison guard selling his toothbrush on eBay after he died.”

Carmen’s gaze moved to the pictures that were still spread across the kitchen table.

There was no reason for the law firm to lie. At least none that made sense.

“You’re sure the package wasn’t from a different law firm?” Carmen asked.

“I’m sure. I even double-checked with the receptionist who keeps a log of packages we receive. Each one is labeled with who the package is for, and what company it’s from.”

Carmen felt an odd sense of dread lodge in the pit of her stomach.

“What was the name of the messenger company?”

“Dullus Express,” Lucy said without hesitation. No doubt she’d anticipated Carmen’s question.

“Do you have their number?”