“Hello, Isobel,” he says with a faint smile.

It takes great effort not to grind my molars. “Kyrie.”

“Right. Of course. Kyrie.” The tension in our silence is worsened by the low growl that rumbles from Cornetto’s throat. “Mind if we chat for a few minutes inside?”

“Sure,” I say with a single nod. “Come in.”

I give Hayes a wide berth as Cornetto strains against his leash to keep between me and the agent, nearly losing his shit when he realizes the unknown man is coming into our domain. I give him the command to break in a firm voice once we’re inside, and Cornetto quiets but keeps his eyes on Hayes as I lead us deeper into the house, motioning for Hayes to sit at the dining table while I make a pot of coffee. My phone taunts me on the granite countertop of the island as I pull two mugs out of the cupboard. I’m sure replying to Jack’s pawn and skull emojis with an eye roll and a police officer would send him into a meltdown, but I have a feeling he’d be on my doorstep within minutes. Something about that is both worrisome and exhilarating.

“Nice husky,” Hayes says when I bring the coffees through to the dining room. Cornetto sits within striking distance, his eyes following Hayes’s hand as he reaches for the mug I pass over.

“Elkhound,” I correct with a brittle smile.

“Ah. They’re used for big game hunting, aren’t they?”

His nonchalant tone is too forced. He already knew it was an Elkhound. With the comment about big game, he knows I still hunt. That I have guns in the house.

He’s been keeping tabs on me.

“Yes. And guarding too. But you didn’t come to talk dogs,” I say as I lean back in my chair and drag my mug across the table, raising it to my lips to take a loud sip for no other purpose than to be a little irritating. “What can I do for you, Mr. Hayes?”

“I wanted to get your thoughts on Dr. Brad Thompson.”

“What about him specifically?”

“Well, for one, he stated that he was with you on the night that Mason Dumont was last seen. Is that true?”

I narrow my eyes, keeping careful hold of every micro-expression that indicates truthfulness. “It’s true that I went to his place after the Brentwood Award Gala and fell asleep before midnight. Brad was awake when I woke at seven-thirty, dressed for work and making toaster strudel for breakfast.” I crinkle my nose and then shrug. “What he did between midnight and seven-thirty, and then after I left to my place at eight, I have no idea. I’m a heavy sleeper.”

Hayes takes a cheap pen and his ragged notebook from his jacket, turning it to a fresh page to jot down some notes.

“Did he ever raise concerns to you about the body donation program at the Bass Fields?”

“Yes,” I say, sure that he already knows.

“Did that concern you?”

I huff a derisive laugh and roll my eyes. “No. He had a handful of grad students and Madeleine working on the records. It should come as no surprise that anything she touched would be fucked up. Hasn’t anyone told you about the CRYO freezer incident?”

Hayes just gives a thoughtful ‘hmm’ as he writes a brief line, and though I try to make out the wording, I can’t manage to decipher his scribbled cursive.

“What about Dr. Sorensen?”

So this is the real reason he’s here. With only three questions about Brad, there’s no way that Dr. Thompson is the subject of his interest.

Even though I suspected he would get to Jack, it still takes great effort to keep my expressions neutral, my voice treading a careful line of boredom and helpfulness. “What about him?”

“You don’t seem to think highly of him.”

“You’re mistaken. I do think highly of him. I just don’t like him. Sometimes.”

“Why not?”

I choose my words carefully, trying to see the world through the eyes of someone searching for the signs of a serial murderer. “He can be arrogant. Not an uncommon trait for men in academia, I’m afraid.”

“Do you know anything about Dr. Sorensen’s whereabouts on Thursday night when Dr. Thompson’s house was set ablaze?”

“Yes, actually. He was at the lab, with me,” I say. Hayes darts a skeptical glance my way before returning his attention to his notes, and I have the urge to rip his notebook from his grasp and shove it down his fucking throat. I barely manage to resist folding my hands into fists. “I dropped my Brentwood Award and cut myself. Jack stitched it for me.” I turn my palm to face him, the neat stitches bracketing the jagged red line across the base of my thumb. “I…couldn’t go into the hospital. It’s too…much. Jack took care of it instead, then replaced my award. It was very thoughtful of him, actually. I’m sure if you asked, he would give you proof.”

Hayes’s lips turn down in a frown as he scribbles across the page with more concentration than before, as though his earlier notes were just for show and these are real. My heart turns over a heavy beat as adrenaline floods my veins. I raise my mug to my lips with both hands to hide the deep, slow breaths I take to combat its effects.

“What is this about, Mr. Hayes?”

Hayes regards me for a long moment, his eyes softening with a fatherly kind of affection. Maybe it’s just pity. Maybe even remorse. “You can call me Eric.”

I give him a nod.

“I believe the Silent Slayer is still active,” he says. I try to look alarmed, then confused, then worried, my mouth popping open as I set my mug down with a manufactured tremor in my hand. “It’s very uncommon for serial killers to stop hunting permanently. They may take time between killings, sometimes even years, but the urge doesn’t disappear forever. It’s possible that the Slayer changed his MO after your confrontation. And I think he could be in the area.”

“And what…you think he might recognize me?”

Hayes lays a hand on mine, and I pour all my effort into turning my rage at his touch into a mask of distress.

“I think he might have known you’re here all along.”

OceanofPDF.com

TWELVE

OceanofPDF.com

TWENTY-FIFTH FLOOR

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KYRIE

A cool touch trails down every ridge of my spine, as though the person behind it relishes the quality of bone beneath my skin.

My back tenses. My exposed skin pebbles. Electricity spins in my core, my heart stuttering with the charge surging through its chambers. The music of the club seems to slip beneath the veil of my pulse. I barely resist a shiver as those fingers trace to the bottom of my backless dress before gliding up again with the lightest caress.

The scent of vetiver drifts around me in a cold embrace.

“Blonde is not your color, Dr. Roth,” a voice whispers close to my ear, stirring strands of my wig to tickle my neck.

“But they say we have more fun, and I’m looking for the very best of times tonight,” I reply, my sly smile spreading at the tension I feel in the palm that splays between my shoulder blades. “Besides, my name is not Dr. Roth.”

A familiar hand appears from over my left shoulder to top up my glass of wine from the bottle resting before me. “Well, that I already knew.”

“My name is Bethany,” I say, gesturing toward the empty chair across from me. “Care to sit?”

“Won’t that inhibit your…fun?”

“Isn’t that what you want?”

“Perhaps,” Jack says as he walks around the high-top table and sinks into the chair to level me with a piercing glare as he takes a sip of his whisky. After two glasses of wine and a spilled history between us, it physically pains me to look at Jack, with all his cold, dark beauty and his black suit and those silver eyes that flay me open to hunt down every hidden weakness. I swallow another mouthful of Shiraz, hoping it will drown my feelings into lifeless indifference, though I already know it won’t work. “You said your wellness is in my best interest, and in case you haven’t heard, there appears to be a serial killer on the loose.”