Christmas Confessions
Kathleen Long

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Copyright

After a career spent spinning words for clients ranging from corporate CEOs to talking fruits and vegetables, KATHLEEN LONG now finds great joy spinning a world of fictional characters, places and plots. A RIO and gayle Wilson Award of Excellence winner, and a National Readers’ choice, Booksellers’ Best and Holt Medallion nominee, her greatest reward can be found in the letters and e-mails she receives from her readers. Nothing makes her happier than knowing one of her stories has provided a few hours of escape and enjoyment, offering a chance to forget about life for a little while. Please visit her at www.kathleenlong.com or drop her a line at PO Box 3864, cherry Hill, NJ 08034, USA.

For Writers At Play with love and thanks for

your friendship, encouragement, cheers and

commiserations. Unconditional love with an endless

supply of laughter. What more could a girl ask for?

This one’s for you.

Chapter One

Unknown number.

Detective Jack Grant frowned at his phone’s caller ID and swore softly. He put down his case notes and took the call.

“If you’re about to read from a script, you can save your breath by hanging up,” Jack growled into the receiver, his throat tight and dry from too many hours without sleep or food.

He glanced at the clock over his kitchen table. Eightfifteen in the morning. He’d been working nonstop since he got home from the precinct the night before.

The caller hesitated before speaking, and for a split second Jack thought he might get lucky and avoid conversation completely. He thought wrong.

“I wondered if you’d seen the latest blog at Don’t Say a Word?”

Don’t Say a Word? The name rang a bell, but Jack couldn’t pry a connection loose from the jumble of facts and evidence his current case had planted in his mind.

“The confession site?” the caller continued.

The caller’s voice indicated he was male, older, and either a heavy smoker or someone with a serious bronchial condition.

“Buddy,” Jack said, “I think you’ve got the wrong number.”

The caller began to cough—a sputtering, choking sound that made Jack feel as though he was violating the man’s privacy by listening.

He thought about asking if the man was all right, but that would indicate concern on his part, and concern was something Jack offered to no one, not if he could avoid it. Concern indicated vulnerability, and vulnerability indicated weakness.

Jack hated weakness.

He held the phone away from his ear until the sound of coughing subsided.

“It’s about Melinda,” the caller ground out as if struggling for air between choking spasms.

Melinda.

Jack had no doubt there were millions of Melindas in the world, but the combination of the caller’s voice and the name Melinda shifted Jack’s thoughts from the present to the past—eleven years past, to be exact.

“How have you been, Mr. Simmons?”

“Have you seen it?” the man asked, ignoring Jack’s question.

Melinda Simmons had gone missing from a New Mexico university campus not long after Jack’s sister, Emma, had vanished from a college fifty miles to the east.

Unlike Emma, Melinda’s body had never been found.

Her case had joined a handful of others—unsolved, their connection suspected, but never proved. The man Jack had thought responsible for the rash of college coed abductions and murders had been a self-proclaimed photographer who’d been in possession of photos of Emma, as well as of Melinda and the others upon his arrest.

Boone Shaw had walked free after a trial that had blown up in the prosecution’s face. The press had blamed the acquittal on a lack of evidence and an airtight alibi the defense attorney had presented immediately before closing arguments.

Life for Jack had tilted on its axis the day his sister’s lifeless body had been found.

Life for the Simmons family hadn’t fared much better.

Melinda Simmons’s mother had succumbed to her lung cancer not long after the trial.

Her father, Herb, had dropped out of society instead of facing his daughter’s tragic disappearance and presumed death alone.

Jack had figured him dead years ago. But here the man was on the other end of the phone, resurrected like the heartache Jack had denied since the day he’d buried Emma, since the day Boone Shaw had walked free.

“Are you near a computer?” Simmons asked.

“Give me a second.” Jack settled in front of his PC, clicking the icon to gain Internet access.

He waited for the entry page to open, cursing the cable connection under his breath. He initiated a search for the Don’t Say a Word Web site, then clicked onto the site via the list generated by the search engine.

As the site’s entry page came into focus, Jack’s chest tightened.

Apparently Herb Simmons wasn’t the only family member back from the dead. Anyone looking at the modeling shot of Melinda would never guess the young woman had allegedly been strangled and left in the desert eleven years earlier.

“Is he back?” Herb Simmons asked, his voice faltering, his emotion palpable across the phone line.

Jack winced.

Damn Boone Shaw for causing so many families so much pain.

“Could be,” Jack answered as he skimmed the site for an indication of just who was responsible for posting the girl’s photograph.

Jack remembered now where he’d heard the confession site’s name. The Web site and its cofounders had been profiled a few weeks back in People magazine.

The site promised an anonymous means for the public to air their most personal secrets, the thought being that confession was good for the soul.

According to the feature story, the public visited the site in droves, their morbid curiosity no doubt driving them to salivate over the suffering of others.

So much for keeping a secret.

Broken promises. Broken marriages. Broken dreams.

As if any of the bull the confessor spouted was true.

Each Saturday the site’s blog featured a sampling of handmade postcards received during the previous week.

Today was Thursday. That meant the posted blog had gone up five days ago, and apparently the selected “confession” had been strong enough to carry the site alone.

The faded black-and-white modeling shot of Melanie Simmons filled the majority of the visible page, and included only a one-line caption.

I didn’t mean to kill her.

Jack raked a hand through his close-cropped hair and winced. “Sonofa—”

“I thought you’d want to know.”

“You thought right.”

“Don’t let him get away this time.” Simmons’s tone dropped soft, yet suddenly clear.

“I didn’t let him—”

But the line had gone dead in Jack’s ear.

“—get away the first time,” Jack said for the benefit of no one but himself.

He’d always thought that if he uttered the statement often enough, one day he’d believe the Shaw acquittal to be no fault of his own.

That theory hadn’t paid off yet.

Jack might have been a rookie detective at the time, and the powers that be might have kept him as far away from the actual casework as they could, but still, the thought that he might have done something—anything—differently haunted his every moment.

He’d failed to keep his baby sister safe, and he’d failed ever since to find a way to bring her killer to justice.

Jack woke each morning, wondering how he might have saved Emma from the monster that had taken her life. He went to bed each night determined to find a way to make Boone Shaw pay for what Jack knew he did.

He’d never doubted the man’s guilt. He never would. And he’d never stop trying to bring the brutal killer to justice, not while there was a breath of life left inside him.

Jack dropped the now silent phone to his lap and pulled his chair close to his desk, studying the blog entry—the reproduced photo postcard, the card’s typewritten message, and the weekly editorial.

Apparently the site owner responsible for writing the weekly comments had deemed the postcard a crank.

Jack scrubbed a hand across his tired face and laughed.

What an idiot.

Had the woman even thought to touch base with the local police or the FBI?

No matter. Abby Conroy had just given Jack the first new lead he’d had in years. Maybe he’d have to say thanks…in person.

Jack’s gaze shifted from the monitor screen to the calendar tacked haphazardly to the wall. Nine days until Christmas.

The calendar illustration consisted of a holiday wreath draped over a cactus, no doubt someone in the Southwest’s idea of holiday cheer.

But the timing of the Don’t Say a Word posting gnawed at Jack.

Melinda, Emma and the other coeds had vanished during a ten-day period leading up to Christmas.

Had Boone Shaw decided to resurrect his own special brand of holiday cheer? And if so, why now? Why wait eleven years?

Granted, the man’s trial had dragged out over the course of two years, but after Shaw had gone free, he’d never so much as been pulled over for a speeding ticket again.

And Jack would know. He’d kept tabs on the man’s every move.

As crazy as the thought of Shaw sending a postcard to a secret confession site seemed, Jack had seen far stranger things during his years on the force.

He’d seen killers tire with getting away with their own crimes. He’d seen men who might never have been caught, commit purposeful acts to gain notoriety.

Who was to say something—or someone—hadn’t motivated Shaw to come forward now?

Jack rocked back in his chair, lifting the hand-carved front legs from the floor as the possibilities wound through his brain.

Truth was he wouldn’t sleep again until he’d held that postcard in his own hand.

He blew out a slow breath.

Christmas.

On the East Coast.

In the cold.

He supposed there were worse things in life. Hell, he knew there were.

He pulled up the Weather Channel Web site and keyed in the zip code for the Don’t Say a Word post office box. Then Jack leaned even closer to the monitor and studied the forecast.

Cold, cold and more cold.

Jack hated the cold.

Almost as much as he hated Christmas.

“Ho, ho, ho,” he muttered as he dialed his chief’s home number.

The senior officer answered on the second ring, and Jack didn’t waste a moment on niceties, clicking back to the image of Melinda Simmons’s smiling, alive face as he spoke.

“I’m going to need some time off.”

ABBY CONROY COVERED the ground between her post office box and the Don’t Say a Word office in record time. The morning air was cold and raw, teasing at the possibility of a white Christmas the region hadn’t seen in years.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hanover,” she called out to an elderly woman walking a pair of toy poodles, each dressed in full holiday outerwear complete with tiny Santa hats and jingle bell collars.

Now there was something worthy of confession.

Abby stifled a laugh and pulled the collar of her wool pea coat tighter around her neck.

The local retail merchants’ association had gone all-out this year in an effort to draw tourists into the Trolley Square section of town from the nearby attractions such as Winterthur, Brandywine Art Museum and Montchanin.

Thanks to their hard work, the Christmas holiday proclaimed its approach from every available storefront, lamppost and street sign.

Good thing Abby loved the holidays—or should she say, had loved the holidays.

This Christmas marked an anniversary she’d just as soon forget, but knew she never would.

Abby shoved the depressing thought far into the recesses of her mind and glanced at the stack of postcards in her hands.

She’d started the Don’t Say a Word online secret confession site just shy of a year earlier, and as the site’s anniversary approached, so had the number of “secrets” shared anonymously by the public each week.

Sure, the profile in People magazine hadn’t hurt. Sadly, it had also drawn the phonies and the cranks out of the woodwork.

Whereas Don’t Say a Word had started small and had grown via word of mouth, helping those who truly needed to share something from their past in order to ease their souls, the recent media attention had drawn confessions above and beyond anything Abby had ever imagined, including last week’s.

She tightened her grip on the mail as she pictured the card featured in this week’s blog. Typically she chose three or four for the blog, but last week she’d chosen only one.

I didn’t mean to kill her.

Anger raised the small hairs at the back of her neck. She’d shown the card to a local police detective before she’d published the photograph—an older black-and-white shot of a young woman sporting a ponytail and huge grin.

Even the officer had shared her first reaction. Someone wanted his or her fifteen minutes of fame and had decided to take the sensational route to get there.

Well, perhaps Abby had made a mistake by giving the so-called confession space on the very public blog, but she’d wanted to call attention to the sender’s callousness.

The site and service were for people who spoke from the heart, not for someone who found sending a card like last week’s feature amusing.

She’d been a bit harsh in her blog, but so what? There were thousands of people out there with secrets, secrets that needed to be told in order to ease the keeper’s heart and mind. Abby wasn’t about to tolerate anyone’s sick humor at the expense of her site or her readers.

Her business partner, Robert Walker, had wanted her to toss the card in the trash, but she hadn’t been able to. Matter of fact, instead of archiving the card in the office files after she’d written her blog, she’d tucked it into her briefcase, where it still sat as a reminder of her commitment to preserve her site’s integrity.

Abby crossed a side street then hopped up onto the sidewalk running alongside her office building. The heels of her well-loved boots clicked against the cobblestone walkway as she headed for the entrance.

She glanced again at the stack of cards in her hand, but instead of flipping through them, she tucked them into her coat pocket. The cold had found its way beneath the heavy wool and under her skin. The only thing she cared about right now was finding the biggest, hottest, strongest cup of coffee she could.

“Good morning, Natalie,” she called out to the receptionist as she entered the building.

The young woman looked up with a grin, her blunt-cut hair swinging against her slender neck. “Cold enough for you?”

Abby faked a shudder as she headed for the office kitchen.

Theirs was a shared space. One receptionist and administrative assistant for several tenants, allowing each company to share basic expenses with several other start-ups. Perfect for the work she did.

A few moments later, she headed toward her office space, steaming cup of coffee in hand, just as she liked it, heavy on the cream, no sugar.

She reached into her pocket to pull out the mail, but stopped in her tracks when she realized someone had reached the office ahead of her.

A broad-shouldered man stood talking to Robert. Based on the look on Robert’s face, the call was anything but social. Robert’s typically laughing eyes were serious and intent, focused on the other man’s every word.

As she approached, Robert ran a hand over his closecropped blond hair and frowned. When he caught sight of Abby he nodded in her direction.

The visitor turned to face her and Abby blinked, stunned momentarily by the intensity of the man’s gaze. She’d never quite understood the term dark and smoldering until that moment. No matter, she wasn’t about to let the man intimidate her, and certainly not because of his looks.

“Abby—” Robert tipped his chin toward the visitor “—this is Jack Grant, a detective from Phoenix, Arizona.”

Detective?

She’d heard stories from other Web site owners such as herself about law enforcement trying to gain access to information on certain postcard senders, but Abby had made a promise to her blog visitors. A secret was a secret. Let the police do their own detective work.

“Detective,” she said as she lowered the coffee to her desk and reached to shake the man’s hand. “Welcome to Delaware.”

He said nothing as he gave her hand a quick shake, all business and confident as could be. The contact sent a tremor through her system.

Attraction? Apprehension?

Abby shook off the thought and shrugged out of her coat, then reached again for her coffee.

“Coffee?” she asked the man.

He shook his head, his gaze never leaving hers.

She fought the urge to swallow, not wanting to provide the man with any clue as to how much he’d unnerved her simply by his appearance.

“I wanted to speak to you about your blog,” he said, his voice a deep rumble of raw masculinity.

“Detective Grant claims he knows the woman from last week’s blog.” Robert thinned his lips as he finished the sentence.

Abby could read Robert’s mind. He’d told her to toss the card in the trash, and when she’d chosen instead to feature the photograph and the caption, he’d been angry with her.

Robert and she had been friends since elementary school and they rarely argued. She supposed there was a first for everything.

“A friend of yours, Detective Grant?” she asked.

He pursed his lips, studying her, his brown eyes going even darker than they’d been a split second earlier. Then the detective shook his head.

“I never had the pleasure of meeting the young lady.”

“No?” Abby took another sip of coffee, trying to guess exactly why the detective had made the trip to Delaware from Arizona. “Old case?”

Grant nodded. “Old case.”

Robert dropped into a chair and ran his fingers through his hair. “I told you to throw it out.”

“I wanted to make a point,” Abby said, her voice climbing.

“I’m glad you didn’t throw it out.” The detective spoke slowly, without emotion. “Matter of fact, I’d like to see it.”

Robert pushed away from his desk. “We keep every card archived. I’ll get the most recent box.”

Abby shook her head. “I never put it in the file.”

Robert turned to face her, a frown creasing his forehead. “Why not?”

She shrugged as she reached for her bag. “I don’t know.”

Abby pulled the card from an inside pocket and handed it to Detective Grant.

He touched the card as if it were a living, breathing thing as he studied the front, the back, the label, the print of the message.

“Anonymous,” he muttered beneath his breath.

“No postmark,” Abby added. “I’m still trying to figure that one out.”

“I don’t suppose the idea of contacting the authorities ever crossed your mind?”

The detective’s dark gaze lifted to hers, and for a brief moment Abby saw far more than an officer of the law out to solve a cold case. She saw the heat of emotion, the hint of…what?

The dark gaze shuttered and dropped before she had a chance to study the detective further.

Abby pulled herself taller. “As a matter of fact, I took the card to the local police, who said there’s no indication this woman is a victim of a violent crime.”

“And they knew this how?”

Abby opened her mouth to speak, then realized the detective was right. A chill slid down her spine.

“You’re here because you think differently?”

He nodded as he pulled a folder from his briefcase.

Abby held her breath as Jack Grant carefully extracted a single photograph from the thick file. A black-and-white portrait of a young, dark-haired woman.

The shot might be different, but the subject was the same.

The girl from Abby’s anonymous postcard.

“Her name was Melinda Simmons.” The detective placed the photograph on Abby’s desk and slid it toward her.

Her name was Melinda Simmons.

The implication of the detective’s phrasing sent Abby’s insides tumbling end over end.

“Was?” she asked.

“Missing and presumed dead,” he answered.

Abby thought about the card and its one-line message.

I didn’t mean to kill her.

“You’re going to tell me you honestly believe a murderer sent us that card?” Her heart rapped so loudly against her rib cage she was sure the detective could hear the sound, yet she concentrated on maintaining her composure.

“Someone did. And I want to know who and why.”

“Maybe you sent the card, Detective.” Abby knew she was out of line, but the detective’s holier-than-thou attitude had gotten under her skin. “How do we know you didn’t decide to get creative in drawing attention to one of your cold cases?”

Jack Grant smiled, the expression even more unnerving than his scowl. “You can think whatever you want, Ms. Conroy, as long as I have your word you’ll notify me when another card arrives.”

Abby blinked. “Another card?”

Detective Grant nodded, handing her a business card before he zipped up his leather jacket. “If this is the guy I think it is, he likes Christmas, and he likes attention. And apparently he’s picked you as his target for this year’s holiday cheer.”

Abby took the card, staring down at the contact information, complete with cell number. “How long will you be in town?”

“Long as it takes.” Grant moved quickly back toward the lobby.

“What if he doesn’t send a second card?” Abby winced at her suddenly tight voice.

“He will.” Detective Grant gave a curt wave over his shoulder. “He will.”

Chapter Two

Abby slowed as she rounded the corner in front of her townhouse. Dwayne Franklin stood stringing tiny white Christmas lights along the hedges that framed her front window.

“Oh, Dwayne. I told you we could skip that this year. It’s too much work.”

Her next-door neighbor pivoted at the sound of her voice, moving so sharply he lost his balance and stumbled, catching himself against the window frame.

Abby reached for his arm and he straightened, anchoring his hands on her elbows and squeezing tight. Too tight.

She swallowed down the nervousness her neighbor inspired, knowing she was being ridiculous.

He was as harmless as a fly. A man who’d been down on his luck for as long as she could remember, and a man who’d been a good neighbor to her for as long as she’d lived on the quiet city street.

“How about some coffee?” she asked.

“I’ll be right in after I finish,” he said with a smile.

Abby stepped back and admired his work. The twinkling strands did wonders for the front of her house. But then, Dwayne kept up her property as if it were his own—cutting her small patch of lawn in the summer, weeding her garden in the spring, and now stringing holiday lights before Christmas.

“I’ll leave the door unlocked,” Abby called as she headed around the side of the house toward the entrance to her townhouse.

“You have to admit there’s nothing like holiday cheer.”

Dwayne’s words did nothing to warm her, instead reigniting the chill she’d felt ever since Detective Jack Grant’s visit.

Holiday cheer.

The detective had seemed sure whoever had sent the Melinda Simmons postcard would strike again.

That holiday cheer, Abby could do without.

The temperature inside her living room seemed overly warm as Abby stepped indoors. She adjusted the thermostat, shrugged off her coat and tossed it over the arm of the overstuffed chair that had once been her grandmother’s. She’d love nothing more than to pour herself a cup of coffee and curl up with a good book, but Dwayne would no doubt dawdle and Abby would end up cooking them both dinner.

Oh, well, she thought as she headed toward the kitchen. There was no harm in letting the man spend time at her house.

He was lonely, and he’d proved to be a good neighbor time and time again. Plus, she had nowhere better to be.

Abby worried occasionally that Dwayne wanted something more in terms of a relationship, but he’d never so much as tried to kiss her. She probably had nothing to worry about. Matter of fact, she ought to check her ego.

A framed photograph captured her gaze as she flipped on the kitchen light, and she plucked the picture from the counter.

In it, she and two friends stood in front of a series of paintings. Abby’s first gallery show. At the time, Abby’s specialty had been landscapes, her work recreating what she considered the most beautiful canvas of all—nature. But in the years since, Abby had found her time spent creating murals to be more lucrative. Enough so that she could afford to run the confession site on the side.

She refocused on the photo, the faces. Gina and Vicki had been by her side during every moment of her career, just as they’d been by her side during every moment of her life from first grade forward.

Until last year.

Until Christmas Eve when Abby had let a call from Vicki go unanswered and she and Gina had found Vicki’s body the next morning.

Suicide by hanging.

Her heart squeezed at the memory, the image burned into her mind’s eye as if she stood there now, filled with horror and disbelief. Filled with shame and guilt that she might have been able to stop her friend from doing the unthinkable if she’d only answered the damn phone.

She’d vowed to never again make that same mistake. And then she’d founded Don’t Say a Word.

“All done.”

Dwayne’s voice startled her, and Abby dropped the frame. The glass and pewter hit the granite countertop with a crash, and a wicked crack shattered the glass, sending shards skittering across the counter.

Dwayne was at her side in an instant, taking her hands in his, checking her fingers for any sign of blood.

He held her hands until Abby felt the urge to squirm. “I’m okay.” She wiggled her fingers free from his grip, swallowing down the memories of the past. “Just careless…and tired.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Let me clean this up and I’ll make that coffee.”

Dwayne shook his head, staring at her with such intent she felt he could see into her thoughts.

“I’ll take care of this.” He spoke without emotion as he reached to moisten a paper towel, then set to work capturing each shard of glass.

As Abby measured the coffee grounds by sight and set up mugs and cream for two, her neighbor diligently worked behind her, carefully erasing every last trace of her clumsiness.

Then he stood and watched her work, his eyes staring into the back of her head.

She fought the urge to tell him to go sit in the living room.

He was harmless, lonely, and she’d had a long day.

Nothing more, she told herself. Nothing more.

But she couldn’t shake the sense of dread that had enveloped her every sense since Detective Grant had left the office.

He’d called her a target for the postcard sender’s holiday cheer.

A target.

Abby couldn’t help but wonder who it was that had put Don’t Say a Word in his crosshairs.

She’d researched the old case thoroughly after Grant walked out of the office. She’d studied every piece of information she could find, including biographical data on Boone Shaw and information on each of the victims—including Grant’s younger sister, Emma.

No wonder the detective wore such a scowl. If Abby understood one thing, it was how the pain of losing a loved one never left you. So much for the adage about how time heals all wounds.

No wonder the detective had made the cross-country trip as soon as he’d seen the blog.

And no wonder he was focused on the question that now haunted Abby’s mind.

Had Boone Shaw chosen Don’t Say a Word to bring attention to his crimes? Why?

And if somehow the sender wasn’t Shaw, who was it?

Abby’s stomach caught and twisted as the next question slid through her mind.

When would the next card arrive?

JACK PAID THE pizza delivery kid, then flipped the dead bolt back across the hotel door.

He opened the cardboard box and pulled one slice free from the pie, sinking his teeth into the dough and cheese.

Cold.

The pizza was cold.

Just like Delaware. Just like this room. Just like this case.

He was kidding himself if he thought one anonymous postcard was going to break the old murder case wide open, let alone an anonymous postcard bearing no postmark.

That particular piece of the mystery had been nagging at Jack all day.

In addition, he’d made some calls on his way back to the hotel. His source in Montana had said Boone Shaw fell off the radar several weeks back.

The man could be anywhere.

Grant muttered a few unkind thoughts aloud, then tossed the pizza box onto the bed.

He’d stopped at the local police department to let them know he was in town and working unofficially. While they’d been more than polite, they’d offered no help, no resources.

He couldn’t blame them. Surely they had more important things to worry about than a postcard featuring the photo of a young woman missing and presumed dead eleven years earlier.

He’d also met with the officer who had checked out the card on Abby’s behalf. Detective Timothy Hayes.

Jack couldn’t blame the man for thinking the card a hoax.

The card itself was nondescript—available at any office supply store. The same could be said for the white label, and the message had been printed on what could be one of a thousand different laser printers.

Simply put, the card offered nothing distinctive. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing except the image of Melinda Simmons, a young girl the rest of the world had forgotten years ago.

The photograph itself was the only unique aspect of the card, and without further cause, no crime lab was about to waste precious time on an analysis of paper, age and adhesive.

The thought of tracing fingerprints was a joke. What better way to wipe out any prints than by sending a postcard through the United States mail?

Yet, how had the sender managed to avoid the card receiving a postmark? Luck? Not likely.

Had the card been hand-delivered? If so, whoever was responsible might be close. Too close.

Jack took another bite of cold pizza and groaned before he tossed the rest of the slice back into the box.

He slid the copies of his old case notes from his bag, spreading the contents across the hotel room’s desk.

Five faces stared back at him from the case photos. Five victims, all struck down within a ten-day period years earlier. There had been no known victims since, so why had Boone broken his silence? Why now?

Jack studied the photos taken of young, vital women—Emma included—during happier times. Each shot had been provided by a grieving relative—a relative who had trusted Jack and the investigative team to bring their daughter’s killer to justice.

Jack pulled the mug shots of Boone Shaw free from the file and stared down into the man’s dead eyes. Shaw had been a big man, strong, yet fairly nondescript as far as physical features went.

Even eleven years ago, he’d been all but bald, and his round face had offered no unique features or scars. His manner of dress had blended seamlessly into the New Mexico culture.

For all intents and purposes, Shaw had been exactly what he claimed to be—a photographer out to build a business as he helped young wannabe models get their starts.

Jack knew better. He knew it, felt it, believed it.

Boone Shaw had been as guilty as they came.

Yet, when push came to shove, the lack of DNA evidence and Shaw’s airtight alibi had been enough to let the accused walk.

Jack had waited every year, every month, every day since the trial ended for the chance to go after Shaw again. The Melinda Simmons card might not be much, but Jack planned to work it for everything he could.

Jack flashed back on the image of Abby Conroy.

The woman looked more like a waif than the co-owner of the thriving Internet site. Short and slender, she’d sported a navy knit cap, pulled low on her forehead, the pale blond fringe of her bangs peeking from just below the hat’s ribbed edge.

Her long hair had been tucked behind her ears, and her nose, reddened by the cold, had matched the bright circles of determined color that had fired in her cheeks as she defended her actions.

A real spitfire.

Yet her ice blue eyes had remained as chilly as the temperature outside, faltering only when she realized Jack was telling the truth.

She’d been carrying around the photo of a dead girl, and she’d done exactly what the killer had wanted by publishing his message.

Even so, the woman had made it clear her first priority was the integrity of her site and the anonymity of the site’s supporters, but she’d no doubt change her tune as soon as another card arrived.

And it would arrive.

Jack hadn’t been so sure about anything since the day he’d first looked into Boone Shaw’s eyes and known the man had killed Emma.

Abby Conroy might think her precious blog site innocent in the sins of the past, but as long as she encouraged confessions, she sure as hell wasn’t innocent in the sins of the present.

And Jack had no qualms about blowing Abby Conroy and Don’t Say a Word sky-high.

He’d vowed long ago to do whatever it took to bring Emma’s killer to justice.

Now all Jack had to do was sit back…and wait.

ABBY RETURNED TO the broken photo frame after Dwayne left.

For once, her neighbor hadn’t lingered. Matter of fact, Abby was used to the man being quiet, but tonight he’d been more distant than ever. If Abby hadn’t known better, she’d swear there’d been something he wanted to tell her, a secret he wanted to share.

Abby knew Dwayne regularly read the blog. He’d told her so on various occasions over the past year—while they shared a glass of iced tea after he’d worked in her yard, or on the occasional evening she offered him a quick sandwich when he’d bring over her mail.

He’d never told her much about his life, his work, his past. Perhaps that was better.

The man was a loner in the true sense of the word, and yet he’d befriended Abby. He looked out for her, kept an eye on her property, trusted her.

He even went so far as to take Abby’s personal mail from the small box by her front door if she worked too late. He had a fear of the mail sitting out all day.

Perhaps he’d once been the victim of identity theft—who knew—but on the occasions Dwayne did take in her mail, Abby would thank him for his kindness and write off the odd practice as a quirk of a lonely mind.

The fact Abby hadn’t put a stop to the practice drove Robert and Gina insane, but Abby knew Dwayne was only trying to be neighborly.

Both Robert and Gina felt Dwayne’s overfamiliarity was just that. Overfamiliar. Robert had gone so far as to say Dwayne’s behavior bordered on stalking, but Abby didn’t agree.

Dwayne was lonely and more than a little paranoid. End of story. And as far as Abby knew, none of the other neighbors gave Dwayne the time of day.

Well, she, for one, wasn’t about to ignore him.

Abby dropped her gaze to the scarred picture of herself with Gina and Vicki. Just look where ignoring a friend had gotten her once before.

Vicki’s death was the reason Abby spent so much time with each postcard she received. She tried to put herself in the sender’s position, tried to imagine the anguish, the guilt, the relief each felt at finally coming clean.

She was no therapist, nor did she profess to be one, but she could offer space. Space to come clean. Space to confess. Space to shed the burden of a secret’s weight carried for too long.

Abby understood the pain of holding a secret inside, she understood how the truth could slowly eat away at you, uncoiling like a snake.

She’d never told a soul—not even Robert or Gina—about the call she’d ignored from Vicki.

Perhaps someday she’d send herself a postcard.

She laughed at the irony, glad she could laugh at something today.

A mental image of Detective Jack Grant flashed through her mind and her belly tightened. The man’s intensity was breathtaking, albeit foreboding. If he hadn’t scowled so intently the entire time he’d been at the office, she might be tempted to call him handsome. But she wasn’t about to make that leap, not anytime soon.

She thought again about the case information she’d uncovered on the New Mexico murders.

Seemed Detective Grant had left out a bit of information himself. So much for full disclosure.

No matter. Abby recognized his type.

He’d tell her what she needed to know, when he thought she needed to know it. He probably believed he was protecting her by sparing her the gory details—like the killer’s signature.

She shuddered at the thought.

Abby had been too harsh with the detective, too defensive about her work and the site, and she knew it.

The detective had called briefly later in the day, asking to go through the archives in order to check each postcard for any sign the sender had reached out before.

Abby thought the exercise would be nothing but wasted time, but if that’s what Jack Grant wanted to do, that’s what she’d help him do.

And then it hit her.

Postcards.

She’d never so much as flipped through the contents of the post office box that morning. She’d been so taken aback by the detective’s visit and the harsh reality of his disclosure she’d forgotten about today’s mail.

Abby retraced her steps to the living room and dipped her hand inside the large pocket of her coat. Today’s stack of cards hadn’t been quite as cumbersome as those in recent weeks. Perhaps the onslaught of submissions that had followed the People magazine article was finally tapering off.

Maybe now business would return to usual.

She checked the thought immediately. Business as usual did not include an apparent murder confession.

Abby sank into her favorite chair and flipped through the cards one by one, reading each message before she studied the accompanying graphic.

I never told my father I loved him.

Abby’s heart ached as she studied the apparently scanned image of a scribbled crayon drawing of a house and tree on the reverse side of the card.

I cheated on my bar exam.

The submission featured a store-bought, glossy image of a lush tropical resort.

Apparently this particular confessor didn’t suffer remorse. Abby laughed and moved on.

She shouldn’t have ignored me.

Simple black type on a white label.

No postmark.

Abby choked on her laughter.

She dropped the card into her lap and reached for her gloves. She pulled them from her coat pocket and slipped them over her fingers before she reached for the card again, this time turning the simple card over.

Surely she was overreacting.

This card couldn’t be the same, couldn’t be another confession, another photograph of some poor girl who’d thought she had a shot at a modeling career and ended up dead.

Abby held her breath, gripping only the edges of the card as she turned it over.

A beautiful young woman looked back from the black-and-white shot. She smiled, and yet her eyes hinted at something other than joy. In them, Abby saw nervousness…and fear. Had she known she was in danger at the moment this shot was taken?

The coffee Abby had shared with Dwayne churned in her stomach as she turned back to the message, reading it again.

She shouldn’t have ignored me.

Dread gripped her by the throat and squeezed even as the bright white lights twinkled through her sheer curtains from the bushes outside—an ironic juxtaposition of holiday present and past.

Abby carefully placed the card on an end table and reached into her coat pocket again, this time in search of Detective Grant’s business card.

Her own words echoed in her brain.

What if he doesn’t send a second card?

She’d been so sure of herself, even after the detective’s explanation of the case and the killer’s cruelty.

Detective Grant had been equally sure, and he’d been correct in his prediction.

He will. He will.

Little did the detective know the second card had been in her coat pocket even as he’d spoken.

Abby dropped her focus to Jack Grant’s business card and studied his cell phone number.

The man had traveled all the way from Arizona to Delaware to chase a single lead. She had to admire him for that.

Then Abby took a deep breath, reached for her phone and dialed.

Chapter Three

Jack pulled his rental car to a stop in front of the quaint townhouse. Small white lights twinkled from the short hedge lining the home’s oversized windows.

Figured Abby Conroy would have holiday lights.

Based on the tone of her voice when she called, Jack’s earlier visit had served to snap her out of any holiday cheer she’d been experiencing.

Jack unfolded himself from the car and headed toward the door. Around the side, she’d said.

Dark sidewalk. Isolated entrance.

The woman was nothing if not a picture of what not to do when devising personal security.

She’d provided him with her home address, but Jack had already been able to ascertain that information without so much as pulling a single departmental string.

He’d tracked her by working backward from her postcard confession site through the registration database and public contact information he’d pulled online.

If Boone Shaw—or anyone, for that matter—decided to target Abby Conroy, nothing about the woman’s life would make finding her a challenge.

Now that Jack had had time to stew on the information he’d received, he was certain Boone Shaw had gone underground for a reason.

Shaw had never vanished so thoroughly before, and even though he’d never been picked up on any sort of charge during the eleven years since the trial, he’d left a trail.

Until now.

Business dealings. A new photography studio. Credit card and mortgage debt.

The man had led a normal life, a full life, a life he didn’t deserve.

A calm sureness slid through Jack’s system as he headed toward Abby Conroy’s door.

There was always a chance Shaw wasn’t the person physically sending the cards, but Jack had no doubt he was responsible. Somehow.

The man had killed Emma, just as he’d killed Melinda Simmons and the others.

Jack had seen it in Shaw’s eyes the day they’d pulled the man into custody along with the piles of so-called modeling shots he’d accumulated during his time as a photographer.

The man had been guilty—a sexual predator with a camera. And his victims had been only too willing to pose, believing his promises of bright futures, bright lights, big dreams come true.

“Can I help you?” A thirtysomething man wearing only a pair of jeans, sneakers and gray sweatshirt stepped into Jack’s path.

Jack’s hand reached automatically for his weapon before he remembered he’d left his service revolver back in Arizona, part of the agreement he’d struck with his chief.

The weight of his backup weapon in his ankle holster provided comfort, but reaching for the gun didn’t fall under the subtle category, nor was the move necessary.

The ghost of Boone Shaw had Jack jumping like a rookie.

Besides, the man before him was more than likely nothing but a neighbor, someone suspicious of a man approaching Abby Conroy’s door.

Jack couldn’t fault him for that, but he could ask questions.

Jack measured the man, from his feet to his face. “A bit cold to be outside without a coat, isn’t it?”

“I spend a lot of time over here.” The man’s dark eyes shifted, their focus bouncing from side to side, never making direct eye contact. “With Abby,” he added, as if use of her name would prove something to Jack, somehow put him in his place.

Jack extended his hand. “Detective Jack Grant. I’m here on official business.”

The other man blinked, his expression morphing from aggressive to vacant. “Dwayne Franklin. Abby and I have a…relationship.”

Jack doubted the validity of the man’s statement based on his inability to make eye contact.

If anything, the man was a neighbor who thought he had a relationship with Abby Conroy—yet another security issue Jack planned to talk to the woman about.

Jack flashed his shield, and the man uttered a quick good-night as he headed toward the house next door.

Abby pulled the door open, having apparently heard voices.

“Detective Grant?”

“You might as well start calling me Jack.” He jerked a thumb toward the neighbor’s house. “Does your neighbor make a practice of lurking outside your house?”

A crease formed between Abby’s brows and Jack noted her coloring seemed paler than it had been that morning. “Dwayne?”

Jack nodded.

“He hung the lights for me earlier. He was probably checking his work.”

Jack gave another sharp nod, saying nothing. Let the woman believe what she wanted to believe. As far as Jack was concerned, her neighbor’s actions were a bit too overprotective.

Jack had always been a master at assessing people and their situations, and this situation was no different.

Abby Conroy apparently trusted everyone, her postcard confessors and loitering neighbor included.

Jack trusted no one.

Any work they did together ought to prove interesting, if nothing else.

He chuckled under his breath, quickly catching himself and smoothing his features. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d found anything humorous. But if he was forced to work alongside Ms. Conroy in order to flesh out this lead, he might as well enjoy himself.

“Something funny, Detective Grant?”

Confusion flashed in the woman’s pale eyes, yet it was a second emotion lurking there that sobered Jack, an emotion visibly battling for position.

Fear.

Maybe Abby Conroy wasn’t as naive as Jack had thought.

He shook his head. “I meant no disrespect, but you and I need to talk about protecting yourself.”

He patted the door frame as he pushed the door shut behind them. The flimsy door boasted nothing more than a keyed lock.

He tapped the knob. “There’s this new gadget called a dead bolt. You might want to check it out.”

But his warning fell on apparently deaf ears. Abby showed no sign of having heard a word he’d said.

She hadn’t explained the reason for her call, and Jack hadn’t pressed her. He’d hoped she wanted to talk to him about a change of heart regarding the archived postcards.

But as Abby pointed to a stack of postcards sitting on an end table, then reached for one in particular, Jack’s stomach caught.

“He’s sent another, hasn’t he?”

She handled the card by the edges, handing it to Jack even as she spoke, not answering his question, but rather reciting the card’s message from memory.

“She shouldn’t have ignored me.” Abby’s voice dropped low, shaken.

Jack forced himself to look away from her face, to shove aside the ridiculous urge to reach for her, to promise her he wouldn’t let the man responsible for sending the postcards touch her.

He forced himself instead to reach for the card, to study the message.

The sender had once again used a nondescript white mailing label, printed in what appeared to be laser printer ink. The label had been adhered to the back of a plain white postcard.

Nondescript. Untraceable.

Again.

But there was nothing nondescript about the photograph glued to the opposite side.

Jack turned the card over in his hand and swore beneath his breath at the sight of the face captured in the black-and-white print.

His features fell slack, slipping like the strength in his body.

Abby placed one slender hand on his arm. “Detective? Are you all right?”

Her words reached him through a fog of semiawareness. The face on the photograph fully captured his focus, his senses, and yet he’d never seen this particular photograph before.

Never before.

Jack set down the card long enough to reach for his briefcase, extracting a small evidence bag. He slid the postcard inside, carefully touching only the edges even though he knew the card had been handled countless times during its journey through the mail.

“Detective?” Abby released his arm, but her tone grew stronger, more urgent. “Is she one of the five from New Mexico?”

Impressive. Abby Conroy had done her homework during the hours since he’d stepped into her life and world, something that didn’t surprise Jack in the least.

He steeled himself then nodded, tucking the card away before he looked up. “Her name was Emma. She was nineteen when he killed her.”

“Emma?”

Jack shoved down the tide of grief threatening to drown his senses.

“Emma Grant?” Abby asked softly.

Jack gave another nod, not trusting his voice at the moment and not wanting Abby to sense how much the card had rocked him.

The bastard had sent a picture of Emma. A picture Jack had never seen either in Emma’s personal belongings or the photos taken from Boone Shaw during the original investigation.

“I’m so sorry, Detective.”

“Are you ready to work with me now?” Jack purposely redirected the conversation, wanting Abby’s cooperation, not her sympathy.

Abby’s throat worked. “I’m sorry for how I acted earlier. I was being defensive and I was wrong.”

Jack pointed to one of the living-room chairs, gesturing for Abby to sit. “Tell me what you found out since this morning, then I’ll fill in the gaps.”

As Abby recounted the news articles she’d uncovered online, Jack leaned his hip against a second chair, and wondered whose face Shaw would feature in his next message. And when?

No matter. Jack was here now. He had eleven more years of experience than he’d had the last time he’d gone up against Boone Shaw, and this time he was ready.

Jack planned to do exactly what Herb Simmons had asked him to do—whatever it took to make sure Shaw didn’t get away again.

This time, Boone Shaw was going to pay for the lives he’d ended, the families he’d ripped apart and the heartache he’d inflicted.

This time, Boone Shaw was going away.

For good.

HE WONDERED HOW many people remembered the girl in the photograph—her blond hair bouncing around her shoulders in natural waves, her dark eyes bright and hopeful.

He remembered those eyes in death, still searching as if pleading for her life.

Her parents had died not long after she’d been found dead and battered, her body dumped in Valley Forge National Park. A freak accident in a snowstorm had taken their lives, if he remembered correctly.

His mind and sense of clarity might not be what they’d once been, but his sense of what drew people’s attention hadn’t faltered.

If he played this right, the Don’t Say a Word site might prove to be the opportunity he’d been seeking for years.

One more anonymous card confessing a murder, one more innocent face, one more blog and the story would take on a life of its own.

And there was nothing he loved more than a story—a good story.

A new postcard would launch this particular story into the national focus, and he’d be right there to reap the benefits.

What would the media call the sender? The Christmas Killer? The Christmas Confessor?

He laughed, enjoying the moment.

The Christmas Confessor.

He liked it. He liked it a lot.

He carefully adhered the print to the postcard then affixed the one-line message to the back.

No one likes a show off.

What would Abby Conroy say about this card? Would she call him an opportunist?

Perhaps.

But then, she wouldn’t be far from the truth, would she?

He thought about logging on to the Internet and visiting the confession site again to stare at the first card, to study the expression on Melinda Simmons’s young features, but he forced himself to focus.

Forced himself to finish the task at hand.

He carefully tucked the postcard into his briefcase, careful not to leave any prints. Then he reached for his coat. After all, the night air outside had gone cold and raw and he had miles to go.

Miles to go.

Things to do.

And confessions to deliver.

Chapter Four

Abby started a second pot of coffee while Jack Grant worked in the office’s shared conference room. She’d checked the schedule when she and Jack arrived late last night, and knew no one had the room booked for today. It was Saturday, after all.

“I need to raise a pertinent question,” she said as she headed back into the room where stacks of postcards covered every available space.

Jack grunted, his version of a reply, Abby had quickly learned during the hours they’d been working side-by-side, studying postcard after postcard.

“It’s Saturday. I need to post a new blog.”

The detective’s hand stilled on the card he’d been reading and he lifted his gaze to hers. “Any thoughts?”

Did she know what she wanted to say this week? Which secret confessions she wanted to feature?

She’d had three cards picked out and her thoughts ready to go, but that had been yesterday. Yesterday, before her sense of reality had been turned on its ear.

Today, she could think of only one message. One card.

She shouldn’t have ignored me.

“I want to flush him out.” She braced herself, expecting a harsh response from Jack.

Instead, the detective narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, reached for the outstretched coffee cup and took a long drink.

The man took his time before he answered, and Abby could almost hear the wheels turning in his brain. The depth of his concentration turned his caramel eyes chocolate and his sharp features smooth.

Abby swallowed down the sudden tightness in her throat at the precise moment the detective spoke.

“Do it.”

Abby blinked, surprised by his lack of objection. “Really?”

He shrugged with his eyes. “That’s the answer you wanted, correct?” Jack gestured to the piles of cards, the thousands they’d spent the night sorting.

Abby could follow his thoughts without him saying a word. They hadn’t found another card like the first two, and out of thousands and thousands of postcards, they’d found only a handful of cards without a postmark.

What were the odds the two cards—the photos of Melinda Simmons and Emma Grant—both happened to slide through the United States Post Office machines unscathed? Fairly high, she’d imagine.

Somehow, whoever had sent those cards had gotten around the system, but how?

“He either hand-delivered the cards or slipped them into your post office box,” Jack said matter-of-factly. “He’s closer than you think, Ms. Conroy. The sooner we find him, the better.”

Abby’s belly tightened. “How close?”

The detective dropped his focus back to the pile of postcards sitting in front of him. “That’s what I intend to find out.”

A SHORT WHILE LATER, Jack shifted his focus from the remaining stacks of cards to Abby Conroy herself.

He watched her as she sorted through a stack, pulling at her lower lip with her top teeth as she concentrated. She tucked a wayward strand of long, sleek hair behind her ear then abruptly looked up at Jack, as if she’d sensed him watching.

Her eyebrows drew together. “Something I can do for you?”

Even as exhausted as he knew the woman must be, determination and stubbornness blazed in her expression. She was a spitfire, of that there was no doubt.

Jack shook his head, realizing he must be more tired than he realized. He’d allowed the woman to catch him openly staring at her.

Busted.

Then he asked the question he’d been pondering since he’d first set foot inside the Don’t Say a Word office.

“I can’t help but wonder why someone like you felt compelled to solicit all of—” he gestured to the thousands of cards on the table “—this. Don’t you have demons of your own to contend with?”

Abby’s throat worked as if he’d hit a nerve. “Maybe that’s why I wanted to give others a vehicle, a safe and anonymous way to cleanse their conscience.”

“Because you don’t have a way?”

“Maybe I’m just a sympathetic person, Detective.”

Detective.

He had hit a nerve.

Abby dropped her focus back to the stack of cards, effectively telling him to buzz off without saying so. What she couldn’t realize was that her nonverbal response had set off the investigative portion of Jack’s brain.

The woman had tapped into his curiosity as soon as they’d met, with her all-American looks and her stubborn demeanor, but now that Jack had stolen a glimpse through the crack in her protective wall, he wanted more. He wanted the full story.

“You’re right, though,” he said, never taking his focus from her, wanting to read her response.

“Right about the site?”

“Right about the cards.”

That got her attention and she lifted her curious gaze, her eyes the color of a clear, winter sky.

“I think Melinda’s card was the first. There’s nothing here to suggest this guy’s reached out to you before last week.”

“But you think he’ll reach out again?” She spoke slowly, using his terminology.

Jack nodded.

“I don’t understand why.” Her voice tightened. “Why Don’t Say a Word? And what does he hope to gain?”

“That, Ms. Conroy, is the sixty-million-dollar question.”

She disappeared after that, claiming the need to clear her head. Jack couldn’t blame her.

They’d been working all night and the truth was, the cold, cruel world outside had marched right into her life the moment Jack had arrived on the scene and burst her crank-postcard-theory bubble.

He’d have been surprised if she didn’t need space at some point.

As for Jack, he’d finished sorting postcards and didn’t care if he never saw another so-called confession again in his life.

What he needed to do now was to get back to his hotel. He had calls to make and a former suspect to track down.

When footfalls sounded behind him, Jack never guessed anyone but Abby would be stepping into the conference room.

He rocked back in the chair without turning around. “I’m not finding anything.”

But the voice that answered wasn’t Abby’s.

“What was it you were looking for?” Humor tangled with curiosity in Robert Walker’s voice.

Jack straightened, pushing himself out of the chair to greet Abby’s partner. “Surprised to see you here on a Saturday.”

“I should probably say the same thing to you.” Robert looked as impeccable today as he had the day before. He held a cup of designer coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. “I had some paperwork to get caught up on. End of the month bills, et cetera.”

The other man’s gaze skimmed Jack from head to toe. The look of disdain in Walker’s eyes didn’t go unnoticed. Quite frankly, Jack didn’t give a damn. He knew he looked rough after traveling the day before and working through the postcards all night.

So be it. He’d rather worry about a case than his appearance any day. At this point in his career as a homicide detective, Jack had come to accept the fact that most days his appearance wasn’t much better than that of some of his victims.

Walker, on the other hand, appeared to be a man who put a high price on fashion and first impressions.

“We were out of cream, so I ran next door.” Abby’s voice filtered into the room several moments before she appeared. “I don’t know about you, but after last night, I’m not settling for black coffee.”

One of Robert’s pale brows arched in the moment before he shifted his attention to Abby.

“Robert.” She stuttered to a stop in the doorway. “I didn’t realize you were working today.”

“Just came in.” He smiled, tucking his newspaper under one arm to reach for the box of doughnuts Abby juggled along with two foam coffee cups.

“Thanks.”

An odd sensation rankled inside Jack’s gut as he watched Abby shift her load, transferring the box to Robert. Her features softened, her eyes brightened, and if he weren’t mistaken, she and Robert shared a lightningfast look reminiscent of the way Jack had seen lovers do.

Were Abby Conroy and Robert Walker more than business partners? Jack had seen no sign of that possibility at Abby’s apartment other than the occasional photograph. And she’d mentioned nothing of the sort, not that she would. The woman struck him as anything but someone who shared her thoughts easily. Ironic, considering she spent her days hoping the public would confess en masse.

“Something going on I should know about?” Robert asked, never taking his gaze from Abby.

She nodded, but it was Jack who spoke.

“There was another postcard in yesterday’s mail.”

Robert’s brows drew together as he frowned.

“I forgot to sort the cards.” Abby gave a quick shrug as she handed Jack his coffee then set her cup on the table. “I went by the post office box on my way in, but once I stumbled upon you and Detective Grant, I never took the mail out of my pocket. I remembered them last night after Dwayne left…”

Her voice trailed off noticeably toward the end of her sentence and Jack noted the angry look that flashed across Robert’s face.

Apparently Abby’s partner wasn’t a Dwayne fan, either, although he said nothing in response to Abby’s statement.

“Did you call the authorities?” Robert asked.

Jack nodded, pursing his lips. “I’m working with local police, keeping them abreast of any developments. And I dusted for prints myself.”

“And?” Robert’s features tensed.

“And they agree with me that as of right now we have nothing to go on except the fact both cards bore no useable prints and were prepared using materials that could have been acquired anywhere.”

“What about the photographs?” Robert asked.

“My thought—” Jack pulled the second postcard from his case file “—is that the photos used to make the postcards are scans of the originals.”

“And you’re some sort of photography expert?” Robert’s brows lifted toward his too-neat hairline.

Jack shook his head, not even trying to hide his amusement at Walker’s arrogance. “And you are?”

Walker shrugged. “I used to dabble. May I take a look?”

Jack handed the photo to Robert, studying the man as he stared intently at both sides of the card.

“I think you’re right. The quality isn’t that of a true photograph.”

“More like a high-quality personal printer.”

Robert nodded, continuing to scrutinize Emma’s photograph, his expression revealing not a clue as to what he was thinking. “Pretty girl.”

“She was.” Jack fought the urge to put his fist through a wall, something he had only done once in his life—the day Boone Shaw walked free.

“One of your victims?” Robert’s expression brightened.

“Yes.” Jack gave a sharp nod. “And she’s my sister.”

Robert let loose a long, low whistle. “My sympathies.” He turned over the card to reread the message, drawing in a sharp breath as if the words meant more now that he knew the victim was a relative. “When?”

“Same week as Melinda Simmons. Christmas week, eleven years ago.”

Robert handed the card back to Jack. “Why confess now? Why use our site?”

Jack tucked the card back into the file without looking at Emma’s full-of-life eyes captured in the photograph. How long had she lived after that moment? What hell had she suffered at the hands of her killer?

“I’d imagine he saw your People magazine feature and decided you were the surest means to an end.”

“An end?”

“His fifteen minutes of fame.” Jack gathered up his notes, tucking the folder and his papers back into his briefcase. “For some reason he’s decided now’s the time to get the credit he deserves.”

“I’m not following you.” Robert narrowed his eyes.

“You’d be surprised how many psychopaths reach a point where they want to be caught,” Jack replied.

A shadow crossed Robert’s face, an emotional response Jack couldn’t quite read.

“Isn’t that a bit clichÉd?” Robert asked.

“Perhaps.” Jack forced a polite smile. “But true. These killers work so hard not to get caught that there’s no notoriety for them. Sometimes they crack. They want the attention they feel they deserve.”

“The credit?” Robert repeated, as if weighing the word.

Jack nodded.

“Why now?”

“Maybe he’s sick or feels he’s running out of time. Maybe he feels threatened by a new killer. Maybe he’s simply bored with being anonymous.”

“Amazing.” Robert smiled, the move not reaching his unreadable eyes. “Good work, Detective.” Then he turned, heading toward the door. “Speaking of work, I’d better get to mine.”

With that, Robert was gone, leaving Jack and Abby to their roomful of postcards.

“Not a warm and fuzzy fellow?” Jack asked after Robert was out of earshot.

“He doesn’t like the cards.” Abby handed Jack a cup of coffee. “He probably broke into a cold sweat just being near this many.”

Jack frowned.

“Says they give him the creeps,” Abby continued.

“So why does he do this?”

She screwed up her features as if the answer were a nobrainer.

“He does it to help me.”

Jack said nothing, knowing from years of interrogation that sometimes silence was the fastest way to discover additional information. Abby didn’t disappoint.

“He handles the business aspect and the promotion. I handle the postcards and write the weekly blog.”

“And this keeps you both busy full-time?”

She shook her head. “I paint. Landscapes mainly. Murals. Robert does freelance marketing. Speeches. Brochures. Advertising design. Things like that.”

“So you both work here all day then work at home each night.”

Abby nodded. “More or less. We rarely put in full days here. This—” she gestured to the office in front of and behind her “—allows us flexibility to do our own things.”

“You working on a mural right now?” Jack asked the question knowing it seemed unrelated to the case at hand, but realizing you never knew where the facts of a case might lead you.

But Abby only shook her head. “Last thing anyone wants at Christmas time is a mural painter in their home or office.”

Jack scanned the stacks of cards filling the room. “Any income from this?”

“Only from the advertising. It’s enough to cover hosting and office expenses, but not much more. We really didn’t start this for the money, so that aspect doesn’t matter to either one of us.”

“Any enemies?”

His question visibly startled Abby and she took a backward step. “Not that I know of.”

Jack pushed away from the table. “Then we keep our eyes and ears open until we know for sure who’s on your side and who isn’t. And in the meantime, let’s go write that blog of yours.”

JACK STOOD OVER Abby’s shoulder as she worked, later than usual in drafting her weekly blog.

Typically, she tried to have the site updated just after midnight each Friday night. Considering it was now after noon on Saturday, she was running seriously behind schedule.

Robert had stayed less than forty-five minutes before he’d claimed to have forgotten a social event scheduled for that afternoon. Abby knew him well enough to know he hadn’t planned on having company here at the office. He’d probably packed up the bills to take home for processing.

As for the blog, Abby had tucked away the cards she’d planned to feature, working instead from only one.

The postcard and photo featuring Emma Grant.

The young woman’s smiling face haunted Abby. She couldn’t begin to imagine the kind of hurt the image had brought to life deep inside Jack.

For all of his hard-shelled bravado, the detective’s eyes provided a window into the pain he’d locked inside. Abby didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to spot his true emotions, and she grimaced on his behalf.

She hadn’t known him long, but she’d seen enough to know Jack wouldn’t be pleased by her observation. Some men prided themselves on being strong, resilient, alpha males. Jack Grant fell soundly into that camp—the camp that said real men didn’t show their feelings.

But as her gaze dropped again to Emma’s face, and Abby considered the magnitude of the loss Jack had suffered, she didn’t see how he could feel nothing, yet nothing was all he projected.

A man would have to be a robot to keep that sort of heartache locked inside forever. Sooner or later, he’d snap. Either that, or he’d shut down completely. How else could a person survive?

Jack stood behind her as she worked, the heat of his body warming the back of her sweater.

Well, the man definitely was not a robot.

Abby had never written one of her blogs with someone breathing down her neck, but she understood why the detective watched her every move, studied her every word. He’d made a commitment to clear a case, to catch a killer, to ease the suffering of the families left behind.

He was here because he thought Abby could help him. Plain and simple. He was here to make sure she didn’t misstep in their efforts to flush out the postcard’s sender.

She might be used to working alone, but Jack’s goal had become her goal, and she’d do whatever it took to help him in his cause.

“Am I distracting you?” Jack asked, as if reading Abby’s thoughts.

He leaned so close his breath brushed the strands of the hair she’d twisted up into a clip so that she could concentrate. In fact, she’d thought about the detective’s proximity long enough that she’d begun to imagine the feel of his breath against the bare expanse of her throat.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.