“I remember,” I say absently, flipping through the pages of Nicholas’s file. “The thing about the cancer treatment claim.”

“That’s right. When we followed up around Bowery, the staff were adamant that the wrong files had somehow been placed in the ads, and that true files contained no efficacy claims about Lamb Health’s supplements. But Lamb fired Bowery regardless, and moved to a competitor agency in Boston.” Espinoza points to a paragraph in the middle of the page I’ve just started skimming. “The circumstances of the disappearances are very similar. No signs of forced entry at Hutchinson's home. Left his office on a Wednesday evening and just…ceased to exist. Our profilers think Caron is finding the trash and taking it out. Maybe we got him wrong. He might be more dangerous than we thought.”

I stare down at the papers in my hands. Nothing that we worked through about Caron Berger and his motivations or the nature of his criminality with his cult add up to murder. Caron Berger believes his role is to save people. Save them from ill-health with his snake oil potions and crystal-infused herbal remedies for sale to a mass market, all the while funding his extravagant yet secretive, godlike existence. He offers a remedy from loneliness with his support groups and members-only communities. And most of all, he believes he saves a very particular kind of woman, offering a sanctuary to those who are most in need of a place in the world.

What they don’t know, of course, is that he takes everything from them in the process, isolating them from society and thriving on their servitude and devotion.

But one thing that’s never fit with Caron Berger is murder. In his mind, he is the shepherd, not the wolf.

“We’re going to accelerate the project as much as possible once we have those interviews done next month,” Agent Espinoza says.

My cheeks heat as Bria’s face swirls to the surface of my thoughts. I take a deep breath. “About those… I have a doctoral student who is specializing in memory recall, and she’s building a database of physiological responses of eyewitnesses during interviews. I would like permission to bring her along.”

Espinoza eyes me but her expression remains unreadable. “I’ll make the request to Robert and let you know. She will need to sign an NDA and submit to a background check.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you.”

“I know I don’t need to say this, Dr. Kaplan, but there are lives on the line now. I’m not opposed to bringing in additional experts to assist, but we need to be sure we can trust them. Cynthia Nordstrom is endangering her life to help us, and this could also expose your student to risk.”

A sense of dread catches in my throat. It’s Bria’s decision if she wants this life.

“I understand.”

OceanofPDF.com

7 BRIA

The only thing that’s been keeping my sanity loosely stitched together today is the knowledge I’d be right here.

In front of Dr. Elijah Kaplan’s home.

He apologized, which for most people would be sufficient. But I’m not most people.

Besides, he went on to open his mouth. He didn’t realize I was a flight above him and Dr. Fletcher as they descended the stairs.

All I ask is that you take my kidneys first. Where do I sign?

My leather gloves squeak as I fold my hands into tight fists.

Kaplan is about to do some kind of eyewitness interviews, and he would do virtually anything to prevent me from coming along, even though this is directly related to my dissertation. Dr. Fletcher had to pull in more than one favor for him to even consider it.

What the fuck?

I need to know why. Why would he offer up his organs to get out of providing me with an opportunity to do my research? Why would he rather throw me to Dr. Fletcher like a scrap of meat to a stray dog? As soon as I received his email, I looked her up, of course, and I recognized her instantly as the woman I saw entering Kaplan’s home with him two nights ago. I didn’t like the unexpected swell of relief I felt when I found pictures of her wife, a surgeon at Vangrove Hospital. But that relief quickly drowned when I realized one more potential reason for his dismissive behavior had been swept away.

The more I think about it, the more I believe I’m still missing something. And whatever it is, it’s in this house.

I walk up to Kaplan’s door with the confidence of someone who is meant to be there. I don’t do any of that “checking over my shoulder” shit that you see in movies. That just looks suspicious. If I look like I’m meant to be here, I am.

I push the pin of my snap gun into the tumbler lock and the door pops open. Kaplan’s dog lopes across the floor on the other side, his nails clacking on the hard surface, his deep bark bouncing off the walls. I say some calming words and slip inside. The German shepherd flips his guarding switch to an excited greeting as he recognizes my voice and scent. It’s the first time I’ve been here, but I’ve met Duke before, in anticipation of needing to break in at some point. Getting a temporary job at Snyder’s Doggie Daycare certainly helped. I spent as much time as I could with Duke one-on-one, even taught him a few special tricks. The chopped steak in my pocket does wonders too, much better than the shitty commercial treats that Kaplan gives him. Duke may be a retired police dog, but even he can be won over. I smell and act like I’m meant to be here, and so I am.

I take in the space around me as Duke follows my silent footsteps into the darkness. Kaplan doesn’t have cameras or a security system. He relies on a dog and simple locks for that. It’s obviously a shortsighted approach.

There’s a night-light in the hallway, but it’s still dark enough that it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. There are art prints and photos of adventures with friends and family lining the entryway. Kaplan with a group of guys in motorcycle racing gear. Kaplan and friends at the beach. Kaplan shirtless, holding a fish. I roll my eyes and proceed down the hall, tossing Duke steak bites as I go.

After a cursory glance, I bypass the living room with its “monochrome man” interior. There’s a lot of grey and black. But I’m pleased by the white bookshelves that are jammed full of books of every size and color. I don’t take more than a moment to peruse his reading tastes. The interesting pieces of a person’s inner life are rarely in a living room. They're in the darker recesses, in shadowy corners and private spaces.

I give Duke another piece of steak and issue my own command to lie down and stay in the living room where he can see the front door. He does as he’s told. If Kaplan can use him as a security alarm, so can I. This is Kaplan’s soccer night with his “dude bros”. He doesn’t miss it, but who knows when he could pull a hammy and show up home unexpectedly.

I drift down the dark hall. The bathroom is first. Nothing of much interest aside from a basket of cheap toothbrushes and toiletries in unbroken packaging under the sink. There’s a box of tampons behind it, the cardboard flap covered in a thin film of dust. How thoughtful. He likes to be prepared for his lady guests.

After the bathroom is a bedroom across the hall. I enter and use the flashlight on my phone as the heavy curtains are drawn. The dim pool of light flows across the hardwood floor, then a grey rug, a pair of men’s slippers. The black stained wood of a simple nightstand. The matching platform of the bed. The headboard and a post that rises from it.

A silver grommet.

“My, my, Dr. Kaplan,” I say, bending to look more closely at the stainless steel ring. Scratches dull its surface. I stand and follow the line of the post, another grommet fixed to the top, close to where it joins a crossbeam. The four planks of black wood above me each have a grommet in the center and where the horizontal beams join the posts. At the foot of the bed, the platform extends beyond the mattress, a cushioned mat laying across the end.