to end your life. Someone’s threatened you several times on paper. Now some psycho has been bold enough to put a dead cat in your car? Hell, I’m shaken.” He smoothed his palms up and down her arms, probably not missing how she trembled. “I could use some comforting, even if you can’t.”
“Simon—”
“It’s been a rough year for me, you know,” he said.
Because his girlfriend—his psychiatrist girlfriend—had been murdered by a serial killer? Was he actually bringing that up, actually copping to the difficult time he’d been having as a result, in order to play the sympathy card to get inside her house? Or was it possible that Anne’s behavior and finding Six really had shaken him? That being closer to her would make him feel better?
“You’re ruthless,” she accused.
“Ruthless? Normally, I’d agree. Right now I need some TLC. Sex would be the ultimate, but I’m not asking for that. A cup a coffee will do. I’ll come in. I’ll take a quick look around. We’ll talk. And when you’re ready for me to leave, I’ll leave. Sound good?”
It sounded like both a temptation and a mistake.
Nina knew once she got Simon inside her house again, she wasn’t going to have the strength to ask him to leave. Not until she gave him the comfort he’d been asking for, and took some for herself, as well.
But she invited him anyway.
He checked the house while she made them coffee. When he was convinced everything was clear, they sat on her sofa, chatting civilly until Simon’s cell phone rang. He answered but kept his gaze on her as he spoke to Jase for a few moments, then hung up. “You were parked near security cameras. We should have been able to get the guy on tape. The bastard didn’t wear a disguise, but he didn’t have to. He knew where the cameras were. Knew the angles well enough to keep his face hidden. We can get a general sense of height but not weight. He was wearing a bulky jacket with a hood. Baggy pants. And, Nina—”
She didn’t like how he hesitated. Or the concerned look he gave her. “What?” she prodded.
“Your patient. The one who committed suicide. Her name was Elizabeth, but you’ve called her Beth. Beth Davenport, right?”
“Yes, she preferred Beth. Why?”
Simon leaned forward and held her arms, as if trying to brace her for what he had to say. “The coroner’s a friend of mine. He took a quick look at Six. She had the initials BD carved into her fur.”
Shock hit her like a slap in the face.
She swallowed back bile. She knew humans could cross the commonly established lines of decency for myriad reasons, grief being one of those reasons. She knew how dark a person could go in the throes of despair. Sociopaths and psychopaths weren’t the only people out there capable of carrying out horrific acts—one only had to look at the Nazis to know this to be true. But she still found the idea of Lester Davenport trying to pay her back for his daughter’s death by killing and mutilating her cat to be beyond repugnant. “Do you still think Beth’s father hired someone to come after me?”
“If your friend’s husband was right about him being in Charleston, then yes. The cat was still...warm. She hadn’t been dead that long.”
She nodded and blinked rapidly, suddenly overwhelmed with sadness.
Coffee and civility forgotten, he pulled her into his arms and she didn’t even bother resisting. She allowed herself to cry. Briefly.
Sooner than she wanted to, she swiped at her eyes and straightened. “I moved here to escape death...and I know she’s just a cat...but...but she was my cat. And—and seeing her that way...all I could think about was...was...”
“Was your sister?”
She nodded. “My sister. And Beth. I found her, you know. So I understand the pain Beth’s father is feeling. Why he would be angry and want vengeance. Do things that are out of character—”
Simon pulled back sharply. “Don’t try to justify what he’s done by the fact that he’s grieving. Not anymore.”
“I’m not justifying it. I’m explaining it. There’s a difference, remember? At least, that’s what DeMarco said. Even if he is responsible for this, it doesn’t necessarily make him a monster.” Or did it?
Simon stood and began pacing, running his hands through his hair in obvious frustration. “Jesus. Just what would make him a monster? If it wasn’t a cat he killed and mutilated, but a person? Would you believe he was a monster then?”