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  “Yeah. I understand. Like once a cheater, always a cheater.” She hated how her mind drew that comparison and, with it, how she thought of Brandon and their complicated relationship—or lack thereof, as it was these days. She should have known better than to give her heart to a man who would cheat on his wife in the first place.

  “Exactly. It’s probably getting easier for him.” Zach pulled into the parking lot for Down the Hatch. “You should fill Jack and Brandon in on what you found. If the veil is the something old, and the earrings the something borrowed, the gown…I assume is the something new?”

  She nodded.

  “Then what is the something blue? The garter belts and underwear were white. Their eye makeup was in gold tones.”

  “Well, Jack and Brandon will need to know to keep their eyes out for the something blue.”

  She dialed their boss on her cell, missing the accessibility of an onboard phone system. She filled Jack in on her discovery and basked in the second’s worth of praise she received.

  -

  Chapter 6

  THE HOUSE WAS ABUZZ WITH ACTIVITY, but no one was interested in me. They had other things to take care of. More important things. My birthday was an inconvenience this year, but I handled it like a big boy—no tears and minimal tantrums.

  The only thing that was important to anyone was the Big Event. That’s what Mom called it, that’s what my dad would mumble before pressing a glass of amber liquid to his lips.

  Because of the Big Event, I wasn’t even getting a party.

  “You’re ten years old. You need your family and cake. Nothing more,” Mom said.

  I blew out my candles, every last one of them snuffed out by my precise exhale. That meant my wish would come true. But I had forgotten to make a wish.

  Mom was rushing me to get on with it. There was a lot to do, and I was an afterthought. “Open your gift.”

  A single box sat on the coffee table in the living room. With all our relatives in town and staying at the house, all they could muster together for me was one lousy gift?

  “It’s from all of us, dear.” Mom smiled, her cheeks rosy. The hue caused from the wine refills. Her glass hadn’t been empty for days. She turned to a woman on her right and bumped her elbow. I think she was a distant cousin. I wasn’t sure. It didn’t really matter.

  “He’s going to love it,” the woman said.

  I tore into the wrapping paper. All I wanted was the new Street Fighter. If that’s what they got me, I could live with one gift.

  The paper gave way to reveal an artist’s kit. It contained a few sketchbooks and charcoals.

  “I know you wanted that video game,” Mom started, “but it’s far too violent for a young man. This will expand your mind.”

  Dad settled back in his recliner. “Yeah, son, who knows? One day, you might be an artist.”

  That was in 1987. He remembered it like yesterday.

  And Dad had been right. He didn’t let a day go by without drawing in his sketch pad. It was like an extension of his arm. He took it everywhere that summer. And after the Big Event, he sought solace in it. It was a spiritual experience for him every time he put charcoal to paper. The way it smelled and the way it scraped across the sheet, the fibers providing some resistance.

  It was through the art that he relived the past and kept it alive. The Big Event was a turning point in his life, and it had set the foundation for what he was meant to do.

  And Tara was so beautiful. So blissful. So truly happy. It’s all that he could ask for. With Cheryl, he’d felt remorse, despite the favor he had done for her. This time, he was on a high. Being able to do his part in this way was his purpose.

  He had wanted to call out of work today to simply bask in his accomplishments. To study the pictures he had made, to feel the women’s presences.

  But he was ripped away from them, violently torn like a cotton sheet frayed on metal. There was no fighting what he had to do. He had to go in to work in case the cops got any leads. Not that it would be easy for them to connect him to Tara. He was careful about his selection. Although, it wasn’t so much that he chose them as they were guided together, connected for a sole purpose.

  He had met Cheryl and Tara through a blend of circumstance and synchronicity. Sometimes it was a matter of making oneself available for the good to travel through you.

  He wasn’t a killer. In fact, he hated the term. To be labeled a killer carried such a negative connotation. No, he was a lightworker, an angel put on this earth to make it a better place and to help those who needed it to move on to the next life.

  -

  Chapter 7

  NADIA WAS STILL LOOKING INTO Glen Little’s employment history to see if it aligned with anything in Cheryl Bradley’s record. In the meantime, Jack and I were on the way to speak with the man himself.

  It was a Monday morning, and Glen would be at work unless he had called in sick. And that was a possibility. He was, after all, the one who first discovered Tara. The remaining question was if Glen had killed Tara and then reported it.

  If Glen wasn’t at the office, we’d need to speak with management anyway to verify the Sunday overtime, which was Glen’s defense for being at Tara’s in the first place.

  The accounting firm was on the third floor of an older building. The carpeting was threadbare, and the walls were a faded, dirty beige. Passing judgment on these elements, I wondered about the lucrativeness of the business. Added to that, the front desk was made of veneered particleboard with chunks missing from two of the corners.

  The nameplate announced the receptionist as Candy.

  I looked at the woman. While the name would better suit a stripper than an admin clerk, she had huge wide eyes and a round face. Her hair was pinned back with a barrette, and she was smiling. It was apparent the news of Tara’s death hadn’t reached the firm yet. Her expression was genuine, and I didn’t want to be responsible for removing it. It was a good thing I was with Jack. He’d have no issue doing the honors.

  He flashed his creds. “We’re special agents with the FBI. We’re looking to speak with Glen Little.”

  Her smile faded, leaving her with a gaping mouth and blinking eyes. “Sure, I can get him.”

  “We’ll also need to speak with your boss,” Jack added.

  “Mr. Neal? Do you want to speak to him first or second?”

  “Mr. Neal?” I asked.

  “That’s what we call him. His name is Neal Grigg.” Her eyes were on me, and I guessed she was looking for an answer to her question. I deferred to Jack.

  “Please let him know we’re here speaking with Mr. Little and we’ll need to speak to him next.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Is there a boardroom?” Jack asked.

  Candy pointed down a hallway flanked with banker boxes but ended up leading us to the boardroom anyway. I assumed Jack’s sour expression was what persuaded her to comply. Other employees gawked from their cubicles as we walked past.

  “I’ll get Glen for you,” Candy said before leaving us.

  “Uh-huh.” It wasn’t quite Jack’s famous guttural response, but close enough to hmm without it being that.

  A couple of minutes later, a man entered the room. Most women would find him attractive. His dark hair was trimmed short, and he was clean-shaven. His brown eyes were lively as he walked toward the table. “Hello?” Then his eyes traced over us, confusion registering there as he tried to place who we were. I’d save him the trouble.

  “We’re with the FBI,” I explained. “We have a few questions for you about Tara.”

  “Yeah, sure.” He closed the door behind him and took a seat at the conference table across from us. He interlaced his fingers and cracked a few knuckles, then proceeded to pick at his thumbnail. “No one here knows yet, and I can’t bring
myself to say anything.”

  “It’s a good thing you haven’t, even though I find it strange. I’m also surprised you’re back to work so soon.” Jack’s focus was intent on Glen. It was making me squirm for him.

  He stopped fidgeting with his hands. “What else am I supposed to do? It’s not like I can bring her back.”

  Jack leaned forward and clasped his hands, resting his forearms on the table. “About that…”

  He let it hang out there, the insinuation and assumption clear.

  Glen pulled on his collar and loosened the knot of his tie. “You don’t think I had anything to do with it? With her death?” His Adam’s apple heaved with a rough swallow.

  “I’m not sure why you’d presume that.” Jack was playing mind games with the guy, and I understood why. Oftentimes, the guilty faltered when they were barely holding themselves together as it was.

  Glen sat back in his chair, his arms dangling at his sides. “I liked Tara. Most people here did.”

  “What about her personal life? How were things going for her?”

  Glen blinked to Jack’s question. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “You were picking her up on a Sunday morning.”

  “Yes, to come in here.”

  “That still needs to be verified.”

  “By all means, let me get Mr.—”

  “No need. We’ll be speaking with him next.” Jack unclasped his hands and tapped his index finger on the table.

  Glen’s eyes fell to the movement but shot back up to make contact with Jack.

  “Were you and Tara involved in a relationship outside of work?”

  “You mean, were we lovers?” Glen laughed, an odd-sounding pitch that was amplified in the otherwise-silent room. “I’m what some old-timers might describe as someone who bats for the other team.”

  “You’re gay?” The words shot out of me without a thought. Normally, I was able to tell, but Glen gave no indication.

  “Yes, I am. I came out as a teenager and haven’t looked back. I think I knew before then, but I didn’t understand it.”

  I nodded as Jack watched me. I wasn’t sure if he was impressed with the little sideshow, but it did provide us with some interesting information. Our unsub never had sex with the women he killed; Glen’s sexual preference, combined with his discovering Tara, was not working in his favor.

  Jack finally stopped tapping. “Did Tara have a fiancé?”

  “Like I said, I really knew nothing about her personal life. We talked about business. It was how she liked things. Kept her work separate from her social life. I respected that about her.”

  I thought back on Cheryl Bradley and how her ex had described her as a flirt. I wondered if that’s how he saw Tara. “How did Tara act around men? Was she a flirt?”

  “Like I said, I only knew her work side.”

  I shrugged. “That doesn’t mean she didn’t flirt at work.”

  Glen slid his bottom lip through his teeth. He nodded. “She did all the time. She always gave me the impression she needed a man to complete her life.”

  -

  Chapter 8

  DOWN THE HATCH WAS ONE of those bars with a wide-open but eclectic interior design. Camping gear, framed celebrity prints, and vanity license plates lined the walls. Even an old truck sat on the rafters in one corner. Patrons could have spent hours simply taking in the motif.

  The bar had opened about a half hour earlier for the lunch crowd, and customers were seated in booths, as well as along the bar sipping on their libations.

  Paige and Zach went to the end of the counter and signaled for the bartender. He was a nice-looking man with dirty-blond hair teased over to the left. His frame was muscular and solid. He wore a white collared shirt—the top three buttons undone—and a black half apron. Paige blushed thinking about him wearing it and nothing else.

  She cleared her throat and pulled out her creds.

  “The FBI? What do you want?” His raised voice caused a woman nursing a martini to glance over.

  Paige assessed the woman. It wasn’t even noon. Maybe love had screwed her over, too, and she was seeking solace in the comforting buzz of vodka.

  “We need to speak with cashier number zero-zero-seven,” Paige said.

  “Double-oh-seven?” He grinned, and her heart palpitated, her response to him instinctual. She glanced at Zach, and so far, she must have been doing a good job at keeping the attraction to herself. He didn’t seem to notice a thing.

  “Yeah, double-oh-seven,” she confirmed. “But I doubt it’s James Bond.” She almost said, Bond, James Bond. That was close.

  The bartender wagged his pointed finger at her. “She’s good.”

  The heat in her cheeks was too intense not to be showing. She needed to follow the advice of her girlfriends, which started with forgetting about Brandon. Before him, she never let herself get attached, let alone fall for anyone. And she definitely never used to blush.

  Zach smiled at her as she put her creds back in her pocket. She’d been caught.

  “Are they working now?” he asked.

  “As a matter of fact…” The bartender braced both his hands on the counter, his gaze going back and forth between Paige and Zach.

  “Can we speak to him or her?” she pressed, trying to regain her composure.

  He leaned forward. “You already are.”

  Just great!

  “And your name?”

  “Marshall.”

  Oh, the name suited him. She paced her breathing. She had to focus on why they were here. She’d take care of her personal needs after hours. She made the promise to herself, and it managed to help clear her mind.

  She loaded Tara Day’s driver’s license photo on her phone and held it out for him. “Does this woman look familiar to you?”

  He studied the picture. “I see a lot of faces.”

  She wasn’t going to point out that she didn’t care how many people he saw. Her interest was in the one.

  His gaze went from her back to the photo. “She does look kind of familiar, come to think of it. Actually, she sat right there.” He pointed about five stools down the bar.

  So she had come in at seven and saddled up to the bar. “Was she with anyone?”

  He tossed in a coy smile. “I remember she was flirting with me when she first got here.”

  Paige couldn’t say she blamed the woman. But that did mean that Tara was being summarized the same way as Cheryl had been described by her ex. As a flirt.

  “Did anyone meet with her here? Or pick her up maybe?” Zach asked.

  Marshall looked from Zach back to Paige. “Well, at some point a man came in and spoke with her. The guy was what women would consider good-looking. He was in shape, average height—say six feet?—with brown hair and brown eyes.”

  That was about as generic as one could get. “Any accents? Any noticeable markings? Tattoos, freckles, dimples, moles?” she asked.

  “Not that I remember. Bushy eyebrows.” His face contorted and he continued. “But we do have cameras.” Marshall’s eyes narrowed. He straightened and crossed his arms. “What’s going on?”

  “This is part of an open investigation, and we can’t say any more at this time.”

  Marshall pressed his lips together and nodded. “Then I guess I can’t, either.”

  Paige half expected that response, but she wasn’t going to let it deter her. “You know we’re with the FBI. We don’t get involved with trivial matters.”

  He rubbed his jaw. “Oh God… She’s was murdered, wasn’t she?”

  “We can’t say at this time.”

  “So, the cameras, let me guess, they either aren’t working or they wouldn’t have caught her date on film?” Zach asked.

  “I don’t know abou
t the latter, but they are working all right. And as for getting the guy, the camera covers the bar so it should have caught him.”

  “We’re going to need the footage,” Paige said.

  “I’ll get it together.”

  “Good. We’ll be back with a warrant.” It was necessary, even if the recording was being offered voluntarily. Everything needed to be done by the book.

  -

  Chapter 9

  I PULLED OUT MY CELL and extended Cheryl’s picture for Glen to look at. “Do you recognize this woman?”

  Seconds after staring at the picture, he lifted his eyes to meet mine. “Should I?”

  It was a strange response and struck me as defensive. “You tell me if you should.” I sat back, settling my frame into the upholstery of the chair. I held Glen’s eye contact.

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “Are you sure?” I slid the phone across the table.

  His eyes drifted to the screen and then darted back up. “No, I don’t know her.”

  “All right, then. That wasn’t so hard.” I swooped up the phone from the table and clipped it back in the holder on my waist.

  “That’s all? No further questions?”

  “None for now,” Jack said. “Please send your boss in.”

  “Sure.” Glen didn’t hang around to question his release and was out the door in a second. Another man headed in right after Glen had left. He was dark haired with brown eyes and thick eyebrows.

  “Are you Neal Grigg?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah. Listen, what’s going on here?” Neal jacked a thumb over his shoulder indicating, I assumed, the fact that we’d spoken with his employee.

  “Close the door and take a seat.” Jack didn’t gesture to a chair; he barely acknowledged the man.