Page 53 of Killer Knows Best

“Thank you both for coming out,” Phillis says with a breathy laugh. “Especially you, Buddy. Everyone should have a buddy like you in their lives.” She offers him a hearty pat and a hug as she says it.

“Yes, thank you both,” Brenda adds as she presses a hand to her chest. “I hope you catch whoever is out there hurting women. It’s not a good feeling to know there’s a predator out and about hunting women like prey. It’s not right.”

“No, it’s not,” I tell her. “But don’t worry. They won’t be out there for long.”

“So you’re making progress in the case?” Phillis looks winded as she slams the trunk closed.

“You can say that.” Jack shrugs because he’s not so sure himself.

Brenda pants as if she were breathless at the thought. “Oh, and I hope you catch them soon. I haven’t been able to sleep ever since I found out what happened to that poor girl, and herfriend, of course. It takes a certain monster to do something like that.”

“Yes, it does,” I say. “The irony being that the monster usually doesn’t feel like a monster at all. Sometimes it’s quite the opposite.”

“A slaying savior.” Brenda gives a little laugh. “Now that’s morbid. Although with the women they’re going after, they might be onto something.” She winces. “Sorry. Talk about morbid. My humor leaves much to be desired. Please call or stop by if you need us. We’re both local. I’m just past the university, and Phillis has acreage about fifteen minutes from here.”

Phillis nods. “I moved into the carriage house after my husband and I divorced. Losing a child can destroy a marriage just as good as anything else, and I never could get used to rolling around in that big old house all by myself. Maybe once the dust settles from the book tour, I’ll consider selling it. If either of you is on the lookout for a fifteen-stall horse ranch with a fountain large enough to swim in, just let me know.”

We share a polite laugh before saying one last goodnight and parting ways.

“Where to now?” I ask as soon as we’re settled back in the truck and I give Buddy a few of those doggie biscuits I actually approve of.

They’re so good, Jack has snacked on a few himself. And he wonders why I’m not doling out the kisses.

“Where else? Barhopping in Denver,” he says as we head onto the main road. “It’s time to end the night with a little Social Disorder.”

35

SPECIAL AGENT JACK STONE

The House of Rock is alive with loud banging and thumping; some might even call it music.

The walls pulsate with the heavy bass and it’s a rhythmic throb that makes the floor vibrate underfoot.

Social Disorder is on stage and their lead singer is howling into the mic as groupies throw their bodies around as if they’re possessed.

It smells like booze, sickly sweet perfume, and enough sweat to make any boys’ locker room proud.

We step inside as Buddy trots beside us, wagging his tail in sync with the music. The moment we walk in, women swarm over to him—and, by proxy, toward me. But Buddy soaks it up with his tongue lolling out like he’s the star of the show.

A tall brunette drapes herself over me in an effort to pet him, and Fallon shoots me a look.

“You’re popular tonight.” She sheds a quick smile. Not theI’m so happykind of a smile, but theyou’re going to be in trouble laterkind of smirk.

“Must be the cologne,” I say dryly, though it’s clearly Buddywho’s the crowd favorite. But I’ll admit, I seem to be garnering my fair share of sexual attention whether or not I like it.

I used to love it. It was what I lived for. But with Fallon in my life, it feels wrong, as if I’m tempting fate, or fate is tempting me in an effort to see if it can shake me loose from her.

Fat chance.

I’m not straying.

Never have, never will. Not from Fallon. I’d have to be insane to do so.

Deeper in the room reeks of stale beer with an undercurrent of smoke that hangs in the air like a bad memory. We weave through the crowd with the strobe lights flashing overhead, turning everyone into jerky figures as they thrash to the music.

“Over there.” Fallon points toward the bar and I see Nikki sitting next to Rush Simmons, the questionable manager of the band currently tearing up the room.

The guy looks like he’s exactly where he wants to be—holding court with a drink in one hand and a greasy grin on his face. We head over, and as soon as Buddy arrives, a whole new set of groupies gather around him.

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