Torn - Cynthia Eden Page 0,112
toward him. “Are you sure about that? Because according to your credit card statements, you make pretty frequent trips to Atlanta. It certainly looked as if . . . you were consistently visiting a friend in the Atlanta area.”
His face became a blank mask.
“Why would you access my client’s private financial reports?” The lawyer demanded. “This is outrageous, outrageous!”
Victoria didn’t look at Moore. She kept her gaze focused on the prey that mattered. “Before he died, I was in that back alley with Flynn for a long time. Too long. He’d tried to slip me a drugged drink—I suspect it’s a technique he used before. Seeing as how he was a pharmaceutical rep, I bet he had all kinds of tricks he liked to use with his drugs . . .”
“I’m sorry you were attacked,” Matthew said flatly. “But I don’t see what I am—”
“He thought I’d been drugged, but I hadn’t. So maybe that’s why he spoke so freely with me. Or maybe he just figured I’d die soon, so what he said—or who he incriminated—didn’t matter so much.”
Matthew’s gaze slid down to her throat. And to the red mark still there.
For an instant it almost looked as if he smiled.
They were right. You are a dick.
“He told me about his friend in Savannah,” she said. “Interesting, the things he revealed to me . . .”
Matthew pushed to his feet. “I’m done with this—”
“Dr. Troy North wasn’t involved in any murders. He was just the perfect fall guy, wasn’t he? Serve him up, plant evidence in his office, and bam—all the focus is off you. And the LOST agents—well, we left town. We lowered our guards. We were distracted.”
The lawyer, Bob Moore, was standing now, too, as if ready to leave. The light gleamed off his bald head. She’d known the attorney would be difficult. She just had to play Matthew the right way . . .
I’m not Sarah, but I can do this. I will do this.
And, lucky for her, Sarah had given her some advice on just how to handle this particular monster.
“Troy and Flynn Marshall went to school together,” Victoria said. “Northwestern University.”
Matthew smirked at her. “Well, there you go. More proof that Troy was the killer. He and that Flynn guy must have teamed up to—”
“They didn’t team up for anything. But five years ago Flynn did come to Savannah for a visit with Troy. He was catching up with his old college roommate. And it was during that visit that Flynn found a guy who he could really understand . . .”
Matthew just shook his head and gave her a confused glance. “I’m certain I have no clue about Flynn or his visit or anyone who understood him . . .”
“Liar.” She called him out on it.
His eyes narrowed.
“The police searched Flynn’s house. It seemed he liked to keep mementos of things that interested him. He had . . . a scrapbook, of sorts. Clippings—old newspaper accounts of my father’s trial.”
“Guess that’s why he was obsessed with you.”
“That’s why he came up here to visit Troy, actually. To learn more about my father. He interviewed Troy on and off over the years. Seems they even talked about doing some kind of book on my dad. ‘The Monster Next Door,’ ” she murmured.
That had been the title the cops found scribbled in Flynn’s scrapbook.
“We need to leave,” the lawyer ordered.
But Matthew wasn’t leaving. Arrogant, cocky Matthew. “All I’m hearing,” he said, “are links between Troy and that Flynn guy.”
“There were a lot of links there,” she agreed quickly. “They were both psych majors, back in the day. But Flynn couldn’t handle the master’s program. He flunked out. Troy didn’t. He excelled. Because he was doing so well, Troy was the one who got to attend my father’s trial, not Flynn.” She lowered her voice. “Between you and me . . . I think that really pissed off Flynn. He didn’t like thinking he was second best, and his college roommate proved—every single time—that he was better than Flynn.”
A flicker of worry passed over Matthew’s face. Just for the barest moment, and then it was gone.
But I saw it.
“A scrapbook?” Matthew asked.
“Matthew,” the lawyer called. “Now.”
She nodded. “Very interesting photos were in there, too.” Now she lifted the file that she had carried into the room. “Photos of Kennedy, before her death. Photos of her being taken off a jogging trail . . . photos of her abductor.”
Matthew brushed past her. “Well, her abductor is dead,