Page 82 of Closer Than You Know

“I told them,” he said, as if she hadn’t demanded a name. “I told them you were in danger as soon as I learned of the plot, but apparently no one listened. Otherwise, you could have been watching all this time and stopped him.”

His words penetrated the haze of anger. “You told who what?”

“Why, Agent Alcott, of course. Shortly after my diagnosis, I told him I feared you were in danger.”

What the ...? Vera pushed away the uncertainty that attempted to intrude. This could be a trick. His way of throwing her off balance.

“When was this?” She uncrossed her legs and sat up straighter.

“February third. They told me in December there was nothing to be done for my condition. By February I realized what was happening, and I told Alcott he should warn you.”

Vera clasped her hands together in her lap to prevent herself from reaching over and ripping his throat out. “I’ll take that up with Alcott.Thisis between you and me. Tell me who it is.”

He shook his head, as if what he had to say next made him sad. “You should have followed your instincts, Vera. You knew there was someone else. You felt it in your bones, but you were afraid to bring it up. You were so new at the business of being a detective.” He looked away, as if needing a moment to collect himself. “I was wrong to do what I did. But I thought it was the right thing at the time.” He searched her eyes once more. “Can you understand that?”

She understood nothing except that this man was a monster. Still, she played along. She couldn’t take any risks when Eve’s life hung in the balance. He was suggesting that she recognized he might have had someone working with him back then. And she had. But there had been no evidence, and she hadn’t pushed the issue. She’d let it go. They had their killer. End of story.

“You’re only human,” she offered. She wanted—needed—to understand what he was talking about. Every nerve ending in her body tingled. He was about to tell her something important—maybe something that would save her sister.

He nodded. “I knew you would appreciate my dilemma. You’ve done things you needed to do as well. You’ve covered for the people you love—no matter the bad deeds they’ve done.”

The realization of what he was saying bored into her brain, shook her as if an earthquake had begun deep inside her. “No.” She drew away. This could not be right. “I was there.Youkidnapped me, andyoukidnapped Eric Jones. I saw what you did ... you confessed. Why would you change your story now?”

He stared at her, saying nothing, a look of ... not triumph ... a look of defeat in his eyes. No. No. This couldn’t be.

“I wanted to protect my family,” he said quietly. “I had no choice, really. It was my fault after all. Genetics.” He shrugged. “One was bound to inherit those more unpleasant genes.”

“No.” She could not get right with the words he was saying. “You had every detail down to a science ... every single detail. Gloria identified you.”

“Well, I was there, after all ... guiding my prodigy.” He closed his eyes a moment, his face in a tight grimace.

Pain, she surmised. With cancer came pain. She felt no sympathy ... she felt only horror and dismay at what he was insinuating to her. The need to rush out of the room was a barely suppressed throbbing impulse inside.

Prodigy? What the hell? Was he suggesting his son, Christopher, had been a fledgling serial killer?

When his eyes opened once more, he went on. “You came so close. I realized then that I had been deluding myself. Evading exposure for an entire life’s work is rare. It requires a certain level of skill. I recognized this one, sadly, was not like me. I had to make a way out—you understand. We do what we must for those we love. So, I promised to reveal myself if—”

“Jesus Christ,” she snapped, cutting him off. “You are a fucking psychiatrist. You are well aware that he cannot just cut it off. Any more than you could.” This meant only one thing—the Messenger had worked with a partner. How the hell had that partner been finding a way to assuage his needs all this time?

“I had to offer the opportunity,” he argued. “It was the least I could do.”

Dear God, how many more had been tortured and murdered without their killer being caught?

“Is it Christopher?” Serial killers were far more likely to be male than female. The reality of what he was saying made the bottom drop from her stomach. And the bastard had Eve.

“Anger is the guide now,” he said softly, as if Vera had said nothing. “I’m dying, and my family is feeling true, bone-deep loss for the first time in their lives. I suppose I protected them far too well. At any rate, the goal is revenge.” His gaze fixed on Vera. “The concept that we would never have been caught if not for you is in play. You were the first to make me see the possibility. I may have said as much.”

“How many others?” The urge to vomit had her throat tightening.

“You mean before the FBI became aware of my work?” Pride twinkled in his eyes. “One each year since I was twenty. My methods evolved, of course. As did those of the FBI, which eventually brought my work to their attention.”

Vera had known he hadn’t suddenly started at age fifty. Son of a bitch. But right now, his history wasn’t relevant. “How many others has your prodigy killed without you?”

He made a face. “I don’t believe there have been others,” he insisted. “He loves his work. He saves lives now. He doesn’t take them.”

He.

“Oh my God.” Her jaw fell slack. She snapped it shut and summoned a steady tone. He wasn’t talking about Christopher or Pamela ... he was talking about Patrick, his grandson—the doctor. “Wait.” She held up both hands. “Your grandson was only seventeen when you were arrested.”

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