Derrick filled Bryce in on what they’d discovered at Cord’s. “I’m going to lay our cards on the table and show him the evidence we have against him.”
“You can go in with me. But not Ellie,” Bryce said, tugging at the waistband of his pants.
Outrage seethed through Ellie. “That’s not right, Sheriff. Cord might talk to me.”
“You’re not objective,” Bryce replied.
Ellie opened her mouth to protest, but Derrick touched her arm. “Watch the interrogation and let us know if you pick up on anything.”
So, he thought she shouldn’t be in there either. “Just be fair,” she said. “We want the truth, not to railroad an innocent man into jail for a crime he didn’t commit. Shondra’s life depends on it.”
Bryce’s look said he didn’t appreciate her comment, but she didn’t give a damn. Cord was not a killer. He couldn’t be.
Yet you believed in your father, and he betrayed you.
She shook her head. No, it couldn’t happen again.
As Derrick followed Bryce through the double doors, Ellie slipped into the observation room. Five minutes later, Bryce escorted a handcuffed Cord in and Ellie wanted to scream at Bryce to remove them.
But, despite her faith, questions nagged at her. Like where had Cord been all those years between juvie and meeting her father? Had he suffered a trauma that had turned him into a monster? Had he been able to hide the truth from her? Had she, yet again, been blind?
The questions piled up in her head. What motive would he have to take Shondra and the others? Why had he refused to answer Derrick’s questions? And who would know enough about Cord to frame him?
The ranger dropped into the chair with a sullen expression, anger radiating from him in waves. He spotted the small camera in the corner and turned his brooding eyes toward her.
Derrick claimed the chair across from him while the sheriff stood, as if to intimidate Cord by towering over him. But Cord simply stared at his battered hands, which he flexed on the wooden table. The scratches there looked fresh. She remembered seeing blood on his hands before when they met on the trail. He’d been running, panting, sweating.
“Why don’t you start by telling us the truth?” Bryce began.
“The truth is that you’re wasting your time. You have the wrong guy.”
“Really?” the sheriff asked in a sardonic tone. “Because all the evidence we found points to you.”
A twitch of Cord’s mouth was his only reaction.
Derrick laid the pictures of the victims on the table, naming them as he did. “These are the four women the Weekday Killer has killed so far.”
Cord stared at them, saying nothing.
“Ellie received texts about the murders,” Derrick paused, then added photos they’d found at Cord’s. “Look at these,” Derrick said. “We found these at your house.”
“That’s impossible,” Cord said. “I’ve never seen them before.”
“They were in your workroom, McClain, along with all those knives you collect.”
Sweat beaded on Cord’s upper lip, and he rubbed his hand over it, distressed.
“We believe the killer took Shondra to get Ellie’s attention.”
Cord lifted his head and stared directly at Derrick. “Why would I do anything to torment Ellie?”
“Because you want in her pants but she turned you down,” the sheriff snapped.
Ellie gritted her teeth at Bryce’s crude remark, while Cord gave the sheriff the coldest look Ellie had ever seen. “That’s your problem, Waters, not mine.”
Bryce pounded the table with his fist. “You’d better watch it, McClain. We have enough evidence to put you away for life.”
As Derrick held up a warning hand to silence Bryce, he laid the photos of the jar of blood and the fingerprint evidence on the table. “When we searched your house, we found your collection of books, which matches the MO. And when we test this blood, I have a feeling it’s going to match the blood left on Ellie’s door. Blood that was Shondra Eastwood’s.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cord said, shaking his head in denial.
“We also have your print on Shondra’s truck,” Bryce said with a smug look.
Cord blinked, his expression earnest. “I didn’t kill those women, and I sure as hell wouldn’t hurt Ellie.”
“Come on, these photographs are proof, what we call souvenirs,” Derrick said tersely. “We know about your foster father. That he told the social worker you liked to play with the dead bodies. You dressed them up and put makeup on them and—”
“No,” Cord said through clenched teeth. “That wasn’t