how someone really behaved, only how she was remembered.

He thought about the page in his pocket. A court scene. No mention of Tate. Too bad…or maybe not. Think of all the overeducated experts he’d rob of a paycheck if he was too obvious. He could see them now, pale-faced professors scrabbling over their stacks of books. A jolt of excitement in flatlined lives. Who was he to take that from them?

Tagging along behind a group of chattering retirees, he followed Jaxson to the edge of a conservation area. As the seniors stopped to snap photos, Jaxson’s light gray sweatshirt disappeared down a wooded path and he had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing out loud. If he believed in ESP, he’d almost think that somehow he’d sent out signals, directing Jaxson to the best possible spot for a kill. The strong mind dominating the weak.

He allowed himself a brief smile, broke away from the tour group and headed into the woods.

In the beginning, there was a plan. And it was a good plan. But it wasn’t very interesting. It wasn’t supposed to be interesting. But, to his surprise, after all these years, the act of killing came with a rush of power, a charge of adrenaline, an excitement that bordered on the sexual. It was as astonishing as waking one morning and getting a hard-on from brushing your teeth.

Jaxson’s pale shirt flashed between trees, appearing and disappearing like a lighthouse beacon in a storm. He kept his eyes trained on his target, ears mapping its path when that shirt slipped from view. Undergrowth crunched steadily under the young man’s footfalls, and the birds quieted as he approached.

Time to get closer.

He was near enough to smell the actor’s cologne, harsh against the subtle smells of nature. Near enough to hear him breathing. Inhale, exhale, the rhythm of life. Moving faster, closer, he felt the first twinge in his crotch, a spark of excitement that would remain but a spark. The power of control. He slid his finger along the ice pick and pulled it from his jacket.

Then, with only a curtain of forest between them, he stopped. It suddenly occurred to him that he had more choices than how to kill and whom to kill and where to kill. He could choose whether to kill. Push to the brink and stop.

When he stopped short, he expected the spark to dwindle, to recede into disappointment. Instead, it surged into a full-blown, fly-splitting erection. He stood there, the ice pick in one hand, and let the other fall to his crotch. One caress, so firm it made his eyelids flutter. Then he put the pick back in his pocket, turned and walked away.

The power of control.

The power of choice.

* * *

EIGHTEEN

It was only after we left Evelyn’s house that I realized I was hardly dressed for dinner. The jeans and pullover were bad enough, but the wash-and-wear hair and zero makeup had me cringing. Jack was still in a variation on his “aging biker” getup, complete with garish forearm tattoo, so obviously we weren’t dining at any place with a dress code, but I still vowed to make a dash for the washroom when we arrived.

As it turned out, I was glad I had some grooming supplies in my purse, because his choice of restaurant was a steak house. Not a “slap the meat in a frying pan” type, but one where the server brings out a steak for your inspection before cooking it. We had to wait as the hostess scrambled to clear tables for the extended family in front of us, so I had time to slip into the bathroom to touch up and to scrub for dinner. When I came back, Jack was still waiting.

“Is Evelyn going to be upset?” I whispered as the server showed us to our table. “Us taking off on her?”

“Nah. Not here. Hates this place. She likes fussy food. Fancy.” He glanced over at me, frowning slightly. “This okay? With you? Should have asked.”

“This is great. I like food that covers the plate, not decorates it.”

A small smile. “Good.”

The hostess tried to seat us near the kitchen doors, but Jack redirected her to a small room they hadn’t started filling yet. Our table was tiny, but private, the noise of other diners only a distant murmur. The lights were low. Too low really. Nice for atmosphere—not so good for reading menus. When I noticed Jack squinting at his, I borrowed his matches and