She stared at him angrily, and he looked back at her, challenging. Neither averted their gazes.
“Here’s what I think,” he finally said. “Rod Glover probably did kill those two women back in 2008. Hell, he admitted to killing one of them, with no prompting from you, right? But other than that, he’s messing with your head. He went to all those sites to leave those envelopes for you after seeing you in the news. He decided to follow you around, maybe hoping to get you in some alley. And to his delight, you went straight to one of his favorite locations, where he had already killed Pamela Vance. This guy who is killing women and embalming them . . . I think he’s someone else.”
“You’re wrong,” Zoe said.
“Why?”
“Because my gut says you are,” she said sharply. “Yeah, sure. I’m good at what I do. But it’s not all experience and deduction. It has a lot to do with instincts, and my instincts say it was Glover.”
“And I’m telling you that your instincts can’t be trusted when it comes to that psycho. He’s got an obsession with you—there’s no doubt about it. But you know what, Zoe? You’re just as obsessed about him.”
“Go to hell.”
He looked at her, saying nothing. There was nothing but fury in her eyes, the anger underscored by the blue bruise that circled one of them.
Finally, he sighed. “It’s late,” he said. “Get some rest, okay?”
She hardly moved as he got up to leave. He opened the front door and took a final look at her. Then he walked out and closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER 58
The idea popped into his mind as he was driving past another corner. A row of dead, empty eyes followed his car as he slowed down, voices calling out to him, offering unattractive short pastimes for little money. He no longer saw the potential in any of those women. He now knew them for what they were: conniving, lying bitches, ready to stab him in the back as soon as he looked away.
His foot pressed the gas pedal, and he drove away, gritting his teeth in anger. They didn’t deserve his treatment, his eternal offer, his affection.
He needed something else.
He parked his car near a club. A line of teenagers stood outside, waiting to be let in. He stared at the young girls. Was this what he needed? Had his problem been the women’s age? After all, these young girls were still innocent. Some had probably never been with a man before. He gripped the wheel tightly, looking at one of the girls. No visible tattoos, barely any makeup compared to her friends, her skin smooth.
He had already begun concocting a plan. He would wait outside until they left the club and follow her from afar. Either he’d get an opportunity to grab her tonight, or he’d find out where she lived.
And if not her, there were others. Thousands and thousands of innocent young girls who were only looking for a grown man to—
Her friend pointed straight at him, and she turned to look. Their eyes locked, and after a second, he gave her a bashful smile.
She flipped him the finger, her face twisted in contempt. Panicking, he quickly hit the gas pedal, lurching into the traffic. A car honked at him and swerved to avoid collision. His heart thrummed in his chest.
Innocent. Right. Damn whores.
Maybe there wasn’t such a thing as real love. Maybe he had been wrong. Woman after woman, they had all disappointed him. Perhaps he should just take them for one night or two, silence them, and enjoy their company before the smell became a problem.
The idea was attractive, but he fought it. He was better than this. He wasn’t one of those sad, empty people, swiping left and right on their dating apps, looking for a one-night release.
He was searching for something real. Something that would fill the void, dispel the loneliness.
It was then that it came to him. He was thinking about it all wrong. He was looking for a woman to be his companion for years to come. But a woman couldn’t really be enough. After watching all these happy couples on television and in real life, he should have figured it out long before.
A woman was just another lonely soul, like him. Two lonely people couldn’t fill the void for each other. Such a relationship was bound to end in disappointment.
What he really needed was a family.
CHAPTER 59
It was just after ten when Tatum got back to his apartment. He took a deep breath, prayed to the saint of lost apartments, and opened the door.
The living room was almost its former self. One of the couches had a weird new stain, the TV had a three-inch crack in its top-left corner, and two potted plants were mysteriously missing. But other than that, the place was nice and neat, and the unholy horrors Tatum had seen the night before were mostly gone. The fish, the only model citizen in the house, swam in its aquarium, looking pleased. There was a strange item decorating the aquarium floor, and when Tatum came closer, he saw it was a beer bottle. The fish didn’t seem to mind, so Tatum left it there.
He checked out his bedroom. The bedsheets were missing, and Tatum hoped someone had burned them. There was a sealed bag, and he could barely discern the shape of his brown shoes inside. He took the bag to the kitchen and threw it into the trash. Freckle sat on the kitchen table, a look of deep disdain in his eyes. Tatum made sure he had food and water. He tried to pet the cat, who morphed from calm feline into crazed scratch monster in less than a nanosecond. Tatum withdrew his newly bleeding hand.
“Asshole,” he said.
Freckle hissed at him and lay down, content to plot his evil plans undisturbed.
Tatum walked over to Marvin’s bedroom and knocked on the door.
“Hey, Marvin?” he said.
His grandfather opened the door and grinned. “Welcome back,” he said.
“Thanks for cleaning up the place,” Tatum said.
“I didn’t clean it up. Are you insane? Did you see how it looked? I hired a nice woman to do it.”
“Well . . . that’s almost as thoughtful, so thanks.”
“Sure, sure. You want some tea?”
Tatum nodded and followed his grandfather to the kitchen. Marvin stopped at the doorway, looking at Freckle, who stared back, narrowing his eyes.
“Get out, Freckle,” Tatum snapped, still annoyed about his scratched hand.
The cat stood up, stretched, bounced off the table, and walked out of the kitchen slowly, radiating contempt.
“There’s something very wrong about that cat,” Marvin said, getting two mugs from the cupboard.
“True,” Tatum said. “I noticed the fish was fine.”
“Yeah.” Marvin nodded. “I think it’s happy in its new home. So how was Chicago?”
“Not so good. I kinda messed things up.”
“That’s some nasty killer they have there. I read about it in the paper. Is he the one you were investigating?”
“That’s the one.”
“I also read that they sent a cute woman with you.”
“Did the paper say she was cute?”
“No, but there was a picture of you two at one of the crime scenes, and I determined with my own two eyes that she’s cute. Was she any good?”
Tatum shot the old man a look and realized to his relief that it was an innocent question. Marvin was referring to her profiling abilities. “She’s . . . incredible, really.”
“Then why didn’t you catch the guy?”
“We got distracted,” Tatum said. “There was another serial killer . . . or maybe he’s the same guy. We’re not sure yet.”
“Is there a serial killer convention in Chicago?”
“Sounds like it, huh?” Tatum sat at the kitchen table.
Marvin put a steaming mug on the table in front of him, then sat on the other side, drinking from his own mug. “So,” he said, “are you going to catch the guy?”
“The police will probably catch him,” Tatum said distractedly, frowning. He was thinking over the story Zoe had told him about the Maynard serial killings.
“There’s a place called Maynard,” he said.
“Sounds like some kind of sauce.”
“No, it’s a town. In Massachusetts.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Not surprising. It’s a small town.”
“Like Wickenburg?” Marvin asked. There was distaste in his tone.