him about them, and he’d explained in embarrassment that the cancer medication made his skin dry and that he itched all night and sometimes scratched himself until it bled.
Such a specific explanation. And he’d said it instantly, without hesitation. Surely if it was a lie, he would have taken a moment to come up with something. She’d even given him some of her moisturizing cream, and he’d later told her it was helping already.
She thought back to his earnest face when he talked. Scratching as he explained it and then laughing as he realized what he was doing.
No one lied so well. It was impossible.
He’d never tried to hide that he’d been living with Terrence Finch. It was the first thing he’d told Patrick when he’d called. He had been staying there and had recently found out that Terrence might be involved in something illegal. He also said that Terrence’s behavior was getting more and more erratic. He said he just needed a place to stay a few nights, until the next treatment. And then, later, when they’d found out that Terrence had been arrested on suspicion of killing Catherine, Daniel had blamed himself. Saying he should have seen the signs. Pain and shame had shimmered in his eyes.
But now she wondered. Was it really possible for Terrence to kill those women while Daniel lived in his home without Daniel noticing it?
And whoever had taken that picture of the strangled girl wasn’t the attacker. The angle was wrong. So if Finch had taken the picture . . .
Those three scratches.
She regretted not saying something when the agents were there. She didn’t have to tell them Daniel was in the back room. She could have just suggested that she come with them to make a statement at the station. Or tell them to wait until Patrick came back.
Because she was now alone in her home with Daniel. And she knew him—he was a good-hearted man, but . . .
It was impossible to get those scratches out of her mind.
She was just overreacting. She saw a violent picture, and it affected her badly. But she needed help.
She picked up the phone and dialed Patrick.
“Hey,” he said, picking up almost instantly.
“Patrick,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Can you come home?”
“Why, what’s wrong?” He sounded alarmed. “Is it the baby?”
“No . . . I just really need you here.”
“Sure, I’m already on my way. Hang tight.” He hung up.
She exhaled. Even the short conversation with Patrick already made her feel better. And a bit silly. It was just a dumb overreaction.
The sudden feeling of a cloth noose tightening around her throat took her entirely by surprise.
CHAPTER 78
Tatum switched off the engine, already opening the car door. Zoe followed closely behind as he half ran to the door. He seemed about to knock when they heard a crash from inside the house.
Tatum pulled his gun and opened the door. “Wait here.”
She ignored his instruction, stepping inside behind him. Tatum advanced silently, his movements fluid, his gun aimed forward, gripped in both hands. He stepped into the kitchen doorway and shouted, “Stop! Let her go, and put your hands up!”
Zoe looked over Tatum’s shoulder, heart in her throat.
Glover was standing by the counter at the far end of the room, a sharp knife held to Leonor’s throat. Leonor’s face was red, and she was wheezing, eyes panicky and wide. A pair of stockings was wound around her neck, though the noose seemed to dangle loosely. Glover had probably let go of it when he’d heard their car parking by the house and had grabbed for the knife.
“I’ll kill her!” Glover shouted. “Put down the gun, or I cut her throat.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Tatum said. “Put down the knife, and no one gets hurt.”
Glover barked a laugh. “I think we’re beyond that point. Zoe, step inside the room—I want to see your hands.” He moved his head slowly from left to right, like a snake.
Zoe slowly crept around Tatum, her palms held up. “I’m unarmed.”
“Please,” Leonor wheezed. “I need—”
“Shut up,” Glover snapped. “Or I swear I’ll drive this knife into your belly.”
Zoe’s heart hammered, her eyes locked on Glover’s. She saw the darkness there, the emptiness. That same look he’d had all those years ago when he’d figured out she’d broken into his house. The same look he’d had when he’d attacked her months ago. A look that meant death. A face of pure evil. Death hovered behind him, waiting to strike. She had trouble