Spooky Business (The Spectral Files #3) - S.E. Harmon Page 0,1
never found.
“When the wife of a serial killer goes missing, certain conclusions are drawn.” I mentally issued myself an award for tact. “Are you saying you didn’t?”
“Would it matter?”
“Yes, it would.”
He continued to stare at me, his eyes hooded, unreadable, and green as polished emeralds. His skin was only a little weathered, his salt-and-pepper hair still thick and curly, even in his late sixties. He was a handsome man who was aging well and knew it. He was built like an ox, and he’d added substantial muscle during his imprisonment… because there was nothing smarter than giving men with no options, and nothing except time on their hands, the opportunity to finally achieve that elusive beach body.
I must’ve passed his test because his shoulders relaxed infinitesimally. “I didn’t kill Delilah.”
“What do you know about the other three girls who went missing near Route 10? The FBI thinks they should be added to your body count.”
“Yeah? And what do you think?”
“I think the methodology was impeccable. I think the families of the three women received delivery of a dozen roses, exactly seven days after they disappeared. I think it looks bad for you.”
“I think you’re wrong. As usual.” Another cloud of smoke came my way, and I pressed my lips to keep from coughing. “There are only eight Roses.”
“Twelve is an important number to you, though. And roses come in dozens.” I paused. “Do you deny you were trying to create a human art installation of a dozen roses?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, my math could be a little rusty, but if you add the eight you copped to with the three missing from Route 10, that’s eleven. Delilah makes twelve.”
“Nothing wrong with your math, but there must be something wrong with your fucking ears, boy.” His tone was sharp. “I didn’t kill Delilah Rose.”
“Then where is she?”
“You know what? I think we’re about done here.” Kane tossed the wrinkled cigarette pack across the table and it landed on the screen of my iPad. “No more fucking smokes, no more fucking conversation.”
“You should be more careful. These things could kill you.” I tossed the pack back in his direction, letting him know I wouldn’t be taking his trash—literal or figurative. “First.”
That certainly wiped the smile from his face. Thinking about your pending execution tended to do that. From her corner, Bee let out a surprised laugh. “Don’t let that fake calm fool you,” she said. “That’s going to have him stewing for a while.”
I sent her a little smile and Kane’s watchful gaze sharpened. “You like smiling at empty corners, Doc?”
“I like all sorts of things. Like talking to cooperative prisoners.”
“It’s her, isn’t it?”
“Her who?”
“I brought you here for two reasons, and she’s one of them.” His face hardened. “I want her to leave me alone.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I read the articles. I’ve done my homework. You want me to tell you anything, you get her to stop.”
I didn’t dare look in Bee’s direction, but I heard a snicker. “Stop what?”
“Stop the noises. The moaning. The eerie whistling. Stop tripping me in the hall. The scratches on my body.” As he talked about his problems, he grew increasingly agitated. “I want the haunting to stop.”
“You kill twelve people and one of them has a grudge about it.” My voice was cold. “How unreasonable.”
“Eight,” he snapped. “Have you ever heard of a copycat?”
“Have you ever heard of therapy?” The rejoinder popped out of my mouth despite my better judgment. I suppressed a sigh. Chalk it up to stress from my four-hour playdate with a serial killer.
He stared at me so long I started to feel a little itchy and then he cocked his head. “You’re not scared of me, are you?”
Terrified. “Should I be?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
I kept my tone light. “Sorry to disappoint.”
He smiled without humor. “You would’ve made a fascinating addition to my collection.”
Your collecting days are over, Kane. I held his stare, ignoring the goose bumps rising along my flesh. “You said there were two reasons you brought me. What’s the other?”
“I want you to find out what happened to my wife.” At my hesitant expression, he made a frustrated noise. “I didn’t kill her.”
“But you wanted to.”
He didn’t need to speak. The answer was written all over his face. “You tell me what happened to her and stop the haunting, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”