Page 20 of Sullied Saints

None of us has a response, and Dean's face falls. I can see him regretting raising his voice. We all know that Howie retires this year, and he's been on the Cocooner case for the better part of ten. I can't imagine a whole career, a lifetime, ofthis. But then, won’t that be my future?

A siren bleeps, and we look up to where a cordon has been hastily set up between the entrance and the black media cars just arrived.

I sigh, rubbing my forehead. "Okay, I'll go distract them." I look at Dirk. "Go with Dean and Howie. Their car is closer."

He nods, briefly making eye contact, and my heart does a little flip. There's so much we need to say to each other, so much we need to resolve.

Cold nipping at my bare hands, I hurry for my car. The air only seems to have gotten colder since we arrived.

Their questions are immediate and relentless.Is the crime scene Cocooner’s? Or a new one? Can you share what you saw? Are you working with Needler on the case? With Cocooner getting away with her crimes, do you think it will encourage others?I ignore most of their questions, stopping outside my car with them gathered around me, and the answers I do give are too vague to be of use to them.

"Is your partner here, still on the case of the killer who attacked him?"

Between their heads, I see Dirk and the others slip into Dean's car.

"No, he's not here."

***

Tristan watches me as I walk into his cell.

"Was it Cassandra?" he asks.

I blink at him.

He’s been moved since our last interview. To the precinct’s one-and-only private cell. It has three real, white walls, even a small window up high, too small to squeeze out of. A fourth wall of bullet-proof glass divides the cell from where I stand, on the free side.

Hoping to hide my reaction, I turn away and take a seat in the only chair on this side of the glass. On his side, the square room is nearly bare, just a single bed and a small desk with a plastic chair, and a sink on the other side. A small curtained corner has, I assume, bathroom facilities.

Tristan himself seems none the worse for this, his shadow of a beard grown out to a golden dusting on his face, his hands uncuffed. He's turned the orange jumpsuit down over his hips, revealing the pristine white shirt underneath.

Once I've taken a seat, I look up at him where he stands, head tilted, on the other side of the glass. The citizens of Tregam have created their own idea of what he looks like now, based on old pictures of Tristan and the descriptions given by his victims. They’re fairly accurate, though not quite exact. I’ve seen sketches and even a painting, blown up huge on their banners. Along with a few suggestive ideas scrawled around those likenesses. Now the Needler is not only a twisted hero, but ahottwisted hero. Even more worth protesting for. I wonder how he'd react to know how the ladies of Tregam are regarding him.

If he’d been ugly, misshapen or creepy-looking like most killers, we’d happily hand out his image, but that’s not the case, so the best we can do is leave it alone.

I straighten my jacket. "Why do you ask that?"

"I can't think of anything else that would set this place buzzing so much." His pink lips twitch. "Besides me, I suppose."

"There was a crime scene, yes."

"And?" When I neglect to answer, Tristan sighs, "How am I supposed to help if you won't tell me anything?"

"Are you going to help?" I ask pointedly.

"I want her caught. I don't want her dead," he reminds me.

"Every attack she does now, we could have prevented, if you'd just…"

"I saved your life. And your partner's," Tristan cuts me off. "Tell me why it should have been my responsibility to do more. I didn'tmakeher."

He's right, right enough anyway.

"Fine. Yes, it was Cocooner…"

"But…" he prompts, moving closer to lean his hip on the glass, casual, though it makes me glance up at the cameras. We're both supposed to stay away from the glass.

"But," I concede. "It might also be a copycat.Anothercopycat."

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