I feel every slippery pass of the lemon over my heated flesh, and I know he feels the tremble in my body.

“Lemon has amazing cleansing properties,” he says, “making it a natural disinfectant.”

My throat tightens. I swallow past the ache lodged at the base, trying to control my breathing. My rapid heartbeat pulses in my veins, fighting against the press of his fingers.

“Those same cleansing agents hide aroma,” he continues, “masking most scents for at least a while.” He reaches my pinky finger and pauses, forcing my gaze up to lock with his. “Your guy masked the scene to hide the scent. He covered the perimeter. Maybe before, or even after the first scene was discovered.”

I find my voice. “That doesn’t make sense. Why hide one scene and leave the other out in the open?”

He turns my hand over, commencing to apply the lemon to the underside of my fingers. The sensual feel sends a shiver up my forearm, and I struggle to keep my eyes open. The rush of blood sears my veins.

“Psychology isn’t my department,” he says, setting the wedge on the table.

As I try to pull away, Kallum maintains his firm hold on my wrist. He draws my hand toward his face and, for an alarming moment, I fear he’s going to lick my fingers…and what havoc that will wreak on my composure, until he brings my hand to his nostrils and inhales.

“No more traces of Halen.” A sly smile crooks his lips. “If I bathe you in lemon, we can solve at least one of our dilemmas.”

He lifts his fingers one-by-one, letting me slip free. As my agitation ebbs, I rub my hands together to remove the excess lemon juice, effectively removing the tingling, lingering sensory of his touch.

“It’s not that he’s worried about being caught,” I say, making an effort to sort the offender’s logic. I retrace our conversation at the killing fields, about the perpetrator having a site he used for practice. “He just doesn’t want to be caught before he’s done.”

“But done with what is the question.” Kallum eases back against the bench, a defiant gleam behind his shadowed eyes. “I’d also wager uncovering his practice site will make him desperate.”

“Don’t ever do that again.”

“What? Answer your questions? Help tease the answers from your mind?”

“Touch me.”

In response, Kallum’s teeth clench, feathering a muscle along his sculpted jawline.

The waitress arrives with his order and places the plate in front of him, severing the tense connection. She leaves without inquiring if we need anything, turning away before I can get a read on her expression.

I shake my head, further clearing my thoughts. “These people are victims themselves,” I say, wondering if she’s related to one of the missing locals. “Questioning them directly won’t work. We need a different approach.”

Kallum unrolls a cloth napkin and lines up the silverware, then selects the steak knife. Placing the tip of his finger to the knife point, he inspects the serrated edge. “Don’t you think it’s strange she’s not questioning us?” he says. “Wouldn’t she be curious about the victims? Who they are, their names?”

I twirl the tea bag string around my finger and glance at the waitress taking an order from the agents. She’s maybe twenty-four. Heavily lined eyes, wearing a thick, trendy headband. “People are untrusting,” I say in answer. “Especially after the way this town was spotlighted in the media years ago. The judgement, the rumors. Their guards are up.”

I turn my attention to Kallum, who’s staring at the steak knife with too much interest. And I realize how easy it would be for him to pocket such a weapon—to lose control of his barely contained urges, as he so clearly demonstrated earlier, and use it on Dr. Verlice, or on me…

He chuckles and wipes a hand over his mouth. “Halen, if I had something diabolical planned, I wouldn’t make it so obvious.” He picks up the fork. “At the institution, I wasn’t even allowed to have thumbtacks. I’m acclimating to my new surroundings.”

His gaze darts to my arm and the long-sleeved thermal before he cuts into the steak. “Besides, you can’t make good on what you owe me if you’re dead,” he says, and way too casually for my comfort.

I push my arms under the table. “As long as you cleared that up, I feel much more at ease,” I say, my tone heavy with sarcasm.

He chews the bite of steak, then: “Even if you can’t trust the person, trust their intent.”

“And what is your intent for me?”

He waves the fork. “My intent involves you very much alive.”

“All right, since we’ve thoroughly beat around the vagueness of that bush, I know you have some theory about the hemlock.”

“Nice punning segue. But can I enjoy my dinner first?” he asks. Then, as he looks at the overcooked meal: “Enjoy might be too generous.”

“Talk while you eat.”

“Savage.” But the dark twist of his mouth implies how much he embraces being just that.

I watch as he uses a butterknife to slice the baked potato with dexterous movements, as if he relishes the way the tight skin splits on meeting the steel.

“The hemlock is more mysterious,” he says. “I need more time to work it out.” He takes a bite of potato and pins me with an amused look, suggesting he’s not talking about the hemlock at all.

“As I’ve said, we don’t have time.”

He sets the silverware on the plate. “You want conjecture?”

“I want conjecture, theories. I want everything rattling around that demented brain of yours. That’s why you’re here. An expert to give an expert interpretation. It’s not up to you to solve the case, to be a hero.” I stress; there will be no renegotiating his deal. “You explain the philosophy and theology to me. Then I explain it to the FBI in a workable profile so they can find a suspect.”

He regards me with tapered eyes. “I have another request.”

I expel a slow breath and push back against the bench seat. “Fine.” I relent. “But then I get a request.”

“Tit for tat. This game could get interesting.” He cuts a bite-sized section of steak. “While we’re together, dissecting this town and spinning theories, I’d like it if you didn’t refer to me as delusional. Demented. Deranged. Or any other demeaning terminology, but especially those that begin with the letter D.” He pops the steak into his mouth, watching me expectantly.

I nod slowly, running the tip of my finger around the rim of the cup. “I can accommodate that request.”

“See how easily we’re acclimating,” he says, pushing his plate aside. “Now, what can I do for you?”

My gaze drops to his fingers interlinked on the table. “What are the meanings of the sigils?”

He holds my stare a beat too long before he looks down at his hands, flexes his fingers. “Unfortunately, I can’t say.”

“That’s not how this works.” I push my cup aside and raise my hand to flag the waitress.

“You don’t understand,” he says, and I lower my hand. “I can explain the concept of sigils, the theology, the history. But every sigil is unique and, once charged, should never be thought of again. I’ve purged the meanings from my mind.”

I watch as he flattens his palms on the table, then I glance up to gauge the candor of his expression. I believe him. I believe he believes himself. Dr. Torres made a comment about the mind being the most powerful force, and how Kallum’s belief system, his obsessions, rule him.

I wet my lips and fold my arms on the table. “If you need to forget them, then why tattoo the marks on your skin? Wouldn’t that be a constant reminder?”

His face breaks into an easy smile. “Such a logical mind,” he says.

“Is that an insult?”

He shakes his head. “Not at all.” He turns the silver ring around his thumb. “The sigils are neither names of demons nor angels. They’re neither good nor evil. The psyche is more powerful than any manmade deity, and the subconscious can be invoked to obtain our most coveted desires.”