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Jack doubted the validity of the man’s statement based on his inability to make eye contact.
If anything, the man was a neighbor who thought he had a relationship with Abby Conroy—yet another security issue Jack planned to talk to the woman about.
Jack flashed his shield, and the man uttered a quick good-night as he headed toward the house next door.
Abby pulled the door open, having apparently heard voices.
“Detective Grant?”
“You might as well start calling me Jack.” He jerked a thumb toward the neighbor’s house. “Does your neighbor make a practice of lurking outside your house?”
A crease formed between Abby’s brows and Jack noted her coloring seemed paler than it had been that morning. “Dwayne?”
Jack nodded.
“He hung the lights for me earlier. He was probably checking his work.”
Jack gave another sharp nod, saying nothing. Let the woman believe what she wanted to believe. As far as Jack was concerned, her neighbor’s actions were a bit too overprotective.
Jack had always been a master at assessing people and their situations, and this situation was no different.
Abby Conroy apparently trusted everyone, her postcard confessors and loitering neighbor included.
Jack trusted no one.
Any work they did together ought to prove interesting, if nothing else.
He chuckled under his breath, quickly catching himself and smoothing his features. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d found anything humorous. But if he was forced to work alongside Ms. Conroy in order to flesh out this lead, he might as well enjoy himself.
“Something funny, Detective Grant?”
Confusion flashed in the woman’s pale eyes, yet it was a second emotion lurking there that sobered Jack, an emotion visibly battling for position.
Fear.
Maybe Abby Conroy wasn’t as naive as Jack had thought.
He shook his head. “I meant no disrespect, but you and I need to talk about protecting yourself.”
He patted the door frame as he pushed the door shut behind them. The flimsy door boasted nothing more than a keyed lock.
He tapped the knob. “There’s this new gadget called a dead bolt. You might want to check it out.”
But his warning fell on apparently deaf ears. Abby showed no sign of having heard a word he’d said.
She hadn’t explained the reason for her call, and Jack hadn’t pressed her. He’d hoped she wanted to talk to him about a change of heart regarding the archived postcards.
But as Abby pointed to a stack of postcards sitting on an end table, then reached for one in particular, Jack’s stomach caught.
“He’s sent another, hasn’t he?”
She handled the card by the edges, handing it to Jack even as she spoke, not answering his question, but rather reciting the card’s message from memory.
“She shouldn’t have ignored me.” Abby’s voice dropped low, shaken.
Jack forced himself to look away from her face, to shove aside the ridiculous urge to reach for her, to promise her he wouldn’t let the man responsible for sending the postcards touch her.
He forced himself instead to reach for the card, to study the message.
The sender had once again used a nondescript white mailing label, printed in what appeared to be laser printer ink. The label had been adhered to the back of a plain white postcard.
Nondescript. Untraceable.
Again.
But there was nothing nondescript about the photograph glued to the opposite side.
Jack turned the card over in his hand and swore beneath his breath at the sight of the face captured in the black-and-white print.
His features fell slack, slipping like the strength in his body.
Abby placed one slender hand on his arm. “Detective? Are you all right?”
Her words reached him through a fog of semiawareness. The face on the photograph fully captured his focus, his senses, and yet he’d never seen this particular photograph before.
Never before.
Jack set down the card long enough to reach for his briefcase, extracting a small evidence bag. He slid the postcard inside, carefully touching only the edges even though he knew the card had been handled countless times during its journey through the mail.
“Detective?” Abby released his arm, but her tone grew stronger, more urgent. “Is she one of the five from New Mexico?”
Impressive. Abby Conroy had done her homework during the hours since he’d stepped into her life and world, something that didn’t surprise Jack in the least.
He steeled himself then nodded, tucking the card away before he looked up. “Her name was Emma. She was nineteen when he killed her.”
“Emma?”
Jack shoved down the tide of grief threatening to drown his senses.
“Emma Grant?” Abby asked softly.
Jack gave another nod, not trusting his voice at the moment and not wanting Abby to sense how much the card had rocked him.
The bastard had sent a picture of Emma. A picture Jack had never seen either in Emma’s personal belongings or the photos taken from Boone Shaw during the original investigation.
“I’m so sorry, Detective.”
“Are you ready to work with me now?” Jack purposely redirected the conversation, wanting Abby’s cooperation, not her sympathy.
Abby’s throat worked. “I’m sorry for how I acted earlier. I was being defensive and I was wrong.”
Jack pointed to one of the living-room chairs, gesturing for Abby to sit. “Tell me what you found out since this morning, then I’ll fill in the gaps.”
As Abby recounted the news articles she’d uncovered online, Jack leaned his hip against a second chair, and wondered whose face Shaw would feature in his next message. And when?
No matter. Jack was here now. He had eleven more years of experience than he’d had the last time he’d gone up against Boone Shaw, and this time he was ready.
Jack planned to do exactly what Herb Simmons had asked him to do—whatever it took to make sure Shaw didn’t get away again.
This time, Boone Shaw was going to pay for the lives he’d ended, the families he’d ripped apart and the heartache he’d inflicted.
This time, Boone Shaw was going away.
For good.
HE WONDERED HOW many people remembered the girl in the photograph—her blond hair bouncing around her shoulders in natural waves, her dark eyes bright and hopeful.
He remembered those eyes in death, still searching as if pleading for her life.
Her parents had died not long after she’d been found dead and battered, her body dumped in Valley Forge National Park. A freak accident in a snowstorm had taken their lives, if he remembered correctly.
His mind and sense of clarity might not be what they’d once been, but his sense of what drew people’s attention hadn’t faltered.
If he played this right, the Don’t Say a Word site might prove to be the opportunity he’d been seeking for years.
One more anonymous card confessing a murder, one more innocent face, one more blog and the story would take on a life of its own.
And there was nothing he loved more than a story—a good story.
A new postcard would launch this particular story into the national focus, and he’d be right there to reap the benefits.
What would the media call the sender? The Christmas Killer? The Christmas Confessor?
He laughed, enjoying the moment.
The Christmas Confessor.
He liked it. He liked it a lot.
He carefully adhered the print to the postcard then affixed the one-line message to the back.
No one likes a show off.
What would Abby Conroy say about this card? Would she call him an opportunist?
Perhaps.
But then, she wouldn’t be far from the truth, would she?
He thought about logging on to the Internet and visiting the confession site again to stare at the first card, to study the expression on Melinda Simmons’s young features, but he forced himself to focus.
Forced himself to finish the task at hand.
He carefully tucked the postcard into his briefcase, careful not to leave any prints. Then he reached for his coat. After all, the night air outside had gone cold and raw and he had miles to go.
Miles to go.
Things to do.
And confessions to deliver.
Chapter Four (#ulink_d0833679-a74b-536d-b0d3-9dece6e353ae)
Abby started a second pot of coffee while Jack Grant worked in the office’s shared conference room. She’d checked the schedule when she and Jack arrived late last night, and knew no one had the room booked for today. It was Saturday, after all.
“I need to raise a pertinent question,” she said as she headed back into the room where stacks of postcards covered every available space.
Jack grunted, his version of a reply, Abby had quickly learned during the hours they’d been working side-by-side, studying postcard after postcard.
“It’s Saturday. I need to post a new blog.”
The detective’s hand stilled on the card he’d been reading and he lifted his gaze to hers. “Any thoughts?”
Did she know what she wanted to say this week? Which secret confessions she wanted to feature?
She’d had three cards picked out and her thoughts ready to go, but that had been yesterday. Yesterday, before her sense of reality had been turned on its ear.
Today, she could think of only one message. One card.
She shouldn’t have ignored me.
“I want to flush him out.” She braced herself, expecting a harsh response from Jack.
Instead, the detective narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, reached for the outstretched coffee cup and took a long drink.
The man took his time before he answered, and Abby could almost hear the wheels turning in his brain. The depth of his concentration turned his caramel eyes chocolate and his sharp features smooth.
Abby swallowed down the sudden tightness in her throat at the precise moment the detective spoke.
“Do it.”
Abby blinked, surprised by his lack of objection. “Really?”
He shrugged with his eyes. “That’s the answer you wanted, correct?” Jack gestured to the piles of cards, the thousands they’d spent the night sorting.
Abby could follow his thoughts without him saying a word. They hadn’t found another card like the first two, and out of thousands and thousands of postcards, they’d found only a handful of cards without a postmark.
What were the odds the two cards—the photos of Melinda Simmons and Emma Grant—both happened to slide through the United States Post Office machines unscathed? Fairly high, she’d imagine.
