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Yet her ice blue eyes had remained as chilly as the temperature outside, faltering only when she realized Jack was telling the truth.
She’d been carrying around the photo of a dead girl, and she’d done exactly what the killer had wanted by publishing his message.
Even so, the woman had made it clear her first priority was the integrity of her site and the anonymity of the site’s supporters, but she’d no doubt change her tune as soon as another card arrived.
And it would arrive.
Jack hadn’t been so sure about anything since the day he’d first looked into Boone Shaw’s eyes and known the man had killed Emma.
Abby Conroy might think her precious blog site innocent in the sins of the past, but as long as she encouraged confessions, she sure as hell wasn’t innocent in the sins of the present.
And Jack had no qualms about blowing Abby Conroy and Don’t Say a Word sky-high.
He’d vowed long ago to do whatever it took to bring Emma’s killer to justice.
Now all Jack had to do was sit back…and wait.
ABBY RETURNED TO the broken photo frame after Dwayne left.
For once, her neighbor hadn’t lingered. Matter of fact, Abby was used to the man being quiet, but tonight he’d been more distant than ever. If Abby hadn’t known better, she’d swear there’d been something he wanted to tell her, a secret he wanted to share.
Abby knew Dwayne regularly read the blog. He’d told her so on various occasions over the past year—while they shared a glass of iced tea after he’d worked in her yard, or on the occasional evening she offered him a quick sandwich when he’d bring over her mail.
He’d never told her much about his life, his work, his past. Perhaps that was better.
The man was a loner in the true sense of the word, and yet he’d befriended Abby. He looked out for her, kept an eye on her property, trusted her.
He even went so far as to take Abby’s personal mail from the small box by her front door if she worked too late. He had a fear of the mail sitting out all day.
Perhaps he’d once been the victim of identity theft—who knew—but on the occasions Dwayne did take in her mail, Abby would thank him for his kindness and write off the odd practice as a quirk of a lonely mind.
The fact Abby hadn’t put a stop to the practice drove Robert and Gina insane, but Abby knew Dwayne was only trying to be neighborly.
Both Robert and Gina felt Dwayne’s overfamiliarity was just that. Overfamiliar. Robert had gone so far as to say Dwayne’s behavior bordered on stalking, but Abby didn’t agree.
Dwayne was lonely and more than a little paranoid. End of story. And as far as Abby knew, none of the other neighbors gave Dwayne the time of day.
Well, she, for one, wasn’t about to ignore him.
Abby dropped her gaze to the scarred picture of herself with Gina and Vicki. Just look where ignoring a friend had gotten her once before.
Vicki’s death was the reason Abby spent so much time with each postcard she received. She tried to put herself in the sender’s position, tried to imagine the anguish, the guilt, the relief each felt at finally coming clean.
She was no therapist, nor did she profess to be one, but she could offer space. Space to come clean. Space to confess. Space to shed the burden of a secret’s weight carried for too long.
Abby understood the pain of holding a secret inside, she understood how the truth could slowly eat away at you, uncoiling like a snake.
She’d never told a soul—not even Robert or Gina—about the call she’d ignored from Vicki.
Perhaps someday she’d send herself a postcard.
She laughed at the irony, glad she could laugh at something today.
A mental image of Detective Jack Grant flashed through her mind and her belly tightened. The man’s intensity was breathtaking, albeit foreboding. If he hadn’t scowled so intently the entire time he’d been at the office, she might be tempted to call him handsome. But she wasn’t about to make that leap, not anytime soon.
She thought again about the case information she’d uncovered on the New Mexico murders.
Seemed Detective Grant had left out a bit of information himself. So much for full disclosure.
No matter. Abby recognized his type.
He’d tell her what she needed to know, when he thought she needed to know it. He probably believed he was protecting her by sparing her the gory details—like the killer’s signature.
She shuddered at the thought.
Abby had been too harsh with the detective, too defensive about her work and the site, and she knew it.
The detective had called briefly later in the day, asking to go through the archives in order to check each postcard for any sign the sender had reached out before.
Abby thought the exercise would be nothing but wasted time, but if that’s what Jack Grant wanted to do, that’s what she’d help him do.
And then it hit her.
Postcards.
She’d never so much as flipped through the contents of the post office box that morning. She’d been so taken aback by the detective’s visit and the harsh reality of his disclosure she’d forgotten about today’s mail.
Abby retraced her steps to the living room and dipped her hand inside the large pocket of her coat. Today’s stack of cards hadn’t been quite as cumbersome as those in recent weeks. Perhaps the onslaught of submissions that had followed the People magazine article was finally tapering off.
Maybe now business would return to usual.
She checked the thought immediately. Business as usual did not include an apparent murder confession.
Abby sank into her favorite chair and flipped through the cards one by one, reading each message before she studied the accompanying graphic.
I never told my father I loved him.
Abby’s heart ached as she studied the apparently scanned image of a scribbled crayon drawing of a house and tree on the reverse side of the card.
I cheated on my bar exam.
The submission featured a store-bought, glossy image of a lush tropical resort.
Apparently this particular confessor didn’t suffer remorse. Abby laughed and moved on.
She shouldn’t have ignored me.
Simple black type on a white label.
No postmark.
Abby choked on her laughter.
She dropped the card into her lap and reached for her gloves. She pulled them from her coat pocket and slipped them over her fingers before she reached for the card again, this time turning the simple card over.
Surely she was overreacting.
This card couldn’t be the same, couldn’t be another confession, another photograph of some poor girl who’d thought she had a shot at a modeling career and ended up dead.
Abby held her breath, gripping only the edges of the card as she turned it over.
A beautiful young woman looked back from the black-and-white shot. She smiled, and yet her eyes hinted at something other than joy. In them, Abby saw nervousness…and fear. Had she known she was in danger at the moment this shot was taken?
The coffee Abby had shared with Dwayne churned in her stomach as she turned back to the message, reading it again.
She shouldn’t have ignored me.
Dread gripped her by the throat and squeezed even as the bright white lights twinkled through her sheer curtains from the bushes outside—an ironic juxtaposition of holiday present and past.
Abby carefully placed the card on an end table and reached into her coat pocket again, this time in search of Detective Grant’s business card.
Her own words echoed in her brain.
What if he doesn’t send a second card?
She’d been so sure of herself, even after the detective’s explanation of the case and the killer’s cruelty.
Detective Grant had been equally sure, and he’d been correct in his prediction.
He will. He will.
Little did the detective know the second card had been in her coat pocket even as he’d spoken.
Abby dropped her focus to Jack Grant’s business card and studied his cell phone number.
The man had traveled all the way from Arizona to Delaware to chase a single lead. She had to admire him for that.
Then Abby took a deep breath, reached for her phone and dialed.
Chapter Three (#ulink_c45d7508-8901-5ab4-8f0d-f846d799aa60)
Jack pulled his rental car to a stop in front of the quaint townhouse. Small white lights twinkled from the short hedge lining the home’s oversized windows.
Figured Abby Conroy would have holiday lights.
Based on the tone of her voice when she called, Jack’s earlier visit had served to snap her out of any holiday cheer she’d been experiencing.
Jack unfolded himself from the car and headed toward the door. Around the side, she’d said.
Dark sidewalk. Isolated entrance.
The woman was nothing if not a picture of what not to do when devising personal security.
She’d provided him with her home address, but Jack had already been able to ascertain that information without so much as pulling a single departmental string.
He’d tracked her by working backward from her postcard confession site through the registration database and public contact information he’d pulled online.
If Boone Shaw—or anyone, for that matter—decided to target Abby Conroy, nothing about the woman’s life would make finding her a challenge.
Now that Jack had had time to stew on the information he’d received, he was certain Boone Shaw had gone underground for a reason.
Shaw had never vanished so thoroughly before, and even though he’d never been picked up on any sort of charge during the eleven years since the trial, he’d left a trail.
Until now.
Business dealings. A new photography studio. Credit card and mortgage debt.
The man had led a normal life, a full life, a life he didn’t deserve.
A calm sureness slid through Jack’s system as he headed toward Abby Conroy’s door.
There was always a chance Shaw wasn’t the person physically sending the cards, but Jack had no doubt he was responsible. Somehow.
The man had killed Emma, just as he’d killed Melinda Simmons and the others.
Jack had seen it in Shaw’s eyes the day they’d pulled the man into custody along with the piles of so-called modeling shots he’d accumulated during his time as a photographer.
The man had been guilty—a sexual predator with a camera. And his victims had been only too willing to pose, believing his promises of bright futures, bright lights, big dreams come true.
“Can I help you?” A thirtysomething man wearing only a pair of jeans, sneakers and gray sweatshirt stepped into Jack’s path.
Jack’s hand reached automatically for his weapon before he remembered he’d left his service revolver back in Arizona, part of the agreement he’d struck with his chief.
The weight of his backup weapon in his ankle holster provided comfort, but reaching for the gun didn’t fall under the subtle category, nor was the move necessary.
The ghost of Boone Shaw had Jack jumping like a rookie.
Besides, the man before him was more than likely nothing but a neighbor, someone suspicious of a man approaching Abby Conroy’s door.
Jack couldn’t fault him for that, but he could ask questions.
Jack measured the man, from his feet to his face. “A bit cold to be outside without a coat, isn’t it?”
“I spend a lot of time over here.” The man’s dark eyes shifted, their focus bouncing from side to side, never making direct eye contact. “With Abby,” he added, as if use of her name would prove something to Jack, somehow put him in his place.
Jack extended his hand. “Detective Jack Grant. I’m here on official business.”
The other man blinked, his expression morphing from aggressive to vacant. “Dwayne Franklin. Abby and I have a…relationship.”
