about a picnic that had been canceled because of Catherine’s death and another notice about a postponed collection for the homeless. Scanning the monthly schedule, Zoe saw a weekly “senior street painting” event every Tuesday and an event for donating clothes for a women’s shelter.
She could feel a deep sense of community in this church.
“Glover would have been drawn to this place like a moth to a porch light,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Tatum asked, looking around him.
“Well . . . he lived in Maynard for years. A small town.” She thought back to her childhood. “Everyone on our street knew each other by name, and you couldn’t step out of the house without meeting someone you knew. I used to love it. And then, as a teenager, I hated it.” She smiled despite herself.
“It was the same in Wickenburg, I guess,” Tatum said.
She remembered that there had always been random pieces of light gossip flying around. She could almost hear her mother’s conversations with their neighbors. So-and-so’s daughter came from Alaska to visit—why did she move there in the first place? It’s so cold. Did you hear about the thing at the barbershop last week? They’re still cleaning up the foam. Mrs. Godfry, the third-grade teacher, is sick again; those poor kids should have a proper teacher. Tidbits of familiarity and kinship.
“It was a real community,” she said. “Everyone was part of the Maynard tribe. And Glover loved it. He was always superfriendly with everyone. Happy to chat, to pass along things he’d heard.”
“What, like gossip?”
“Or national news. And sometimes he’d make up lies, thread them into the truth, to make the conversation more interesting. To make himself more interesting.” As a child, she’d just accepted it as who he was. Now she knew better. Psychopaths were often great at imitation, watching the people around them, figuring out what worked and what didn’t. What made people like you more.
Tatum saw where she was going with this. “And then he gets to Chicago. And it’s not the same.”
“Right. A fast city, with too many people. At first, maybe that’s what he was looking for. A place to hide, to blend in with the crowd. But after a while he began missing the casual talks, the chummy hellos.”
“He didn’t get it at work either,” Tatum said.
“No, he didn’t.” They’d been to the office he’d worked at. People working in separate cubicles, a huge tech company, everyone in his department constantly on the phone with angry customers. “And then he sees this place. This church’s community, brimming with a sense of kinship. He probably passed by them once or twice—a congregation picnic or a group of them standing outside the church, talking. And that was it. He saw his prey.”
Zoe stepped away from the board, paced between the pews, looking around her. Glover would have come here on Sundays, when it was fullest—more people to meet. More people to see him there, the pious Christian. First just showing his face, then maybe joining their conversations, their activities, volunteering here and there. Becoming the “good man” Patrick Carpenter had mentioned.
People would crowd this space, listening to the pastor, and Glover would be there as well, watching around him, passing the time by checking out the younger women, fantasizing. Where would Catherine be sitting? In plain sight? How many times had he leisurely spent his morning glancing at her, imagining her naked, a tie wrapped around her throat?
And there was someone else here. Unsub beta. Zoe chewed her lip. Someone else who’d developed an obsession with Catherine. Maybe wondering how her blood tasted.
Churches and crosses didn’t keep you safe from vampires in the real world. At least not from this one.
How had he and Glover met? What made them see that they shared a common dark interest? This wasn’t a normal church community chat. I thought the sermon today was powerful. What about you? I wasn’t really listening; I was fantasizing about killing the woman sitting in front of me. Oh, same here.
Somehow, Glover had found him. She needed to know how.
“Zoe,” Tatum said. “Check this out.”
He pointed at one of the photos. Zoe returned and studied it.
One face, blurry, out of focus, hardly noticeable.
Glover.
He was talking to someone who stood just outside the frame of the photo. Zoe leaned forward, frowning, trying to glean info from the photo, but found nothing. A picture of Catherine and others from the congregation at a picnic, all of them laughing and talking, ignoring the camera.