He glanced up long enough to meet Daisy’s terrified, shocked gaze. “Yes, honey,” he said as gently as he could. “She’s dead.”
The blood covering the woman’s torso was dry, her skin gray. Her ankles were bound with duct tape and Gideon assumed her wrists, hidden behind her back, were also bound. Lying on her back, her eyes stared at the ceiling, unseeing, petechiae mottling the whites. The bruises around her throat were familiar—they were the same that Daisy wore. Only those on Trish’s throat were wider and accompanied by smaller oval bruises. Those and the petechiae indicated strangulation.
Daisy’s hands shook as she searched her pockets. “Wh-wh-where did you get the gloves?” she choked out.
“I keep a pair of gloves in my pocket,” he told Daisy calmly, because she was still patting her pockets frantically. “Take a breath, honey.”
“Oh my God,” a woman gasped behind them. “Trish.”
Gideon held up a hand to keep the woman from running into the apartment as Daisy had done. “Stop, ma’am. You can’t come in here.” He pulled his badge from his pocket. “Special Agent Reynolds, FBI. Please step back.”
The woman nodded and backed away, clearly shaken. Gideon turned his attention to Daisy as he dialed 911 on his own phone. She was staring down at Trish, her expression blank. Brutus was fervently licking Daisy’s fingers and bumping her hand with her head, but it didn’t appear to be distracting her back to awareness. Daisy was going into shock. Gideon rose and was carefully walking around the body as the 911 operator answered.
“This is Special Agent Reynolds with the FBI.” He gave the operator the address and asked her to send the police and an ambulance, as was protocol. Then he crouched next to Daisy, pulling off his gloves before gently urging her to her feet. “That’s my girl,” he murmured when she followed him up robotically. “I’ve got you. Come on, honey. Come with me.”
Leading her out into the hallway, he stood sentry against the curious tenants who had begun to congregate. Pulling the door almost closed, he turned Daisy so that she hid her face against his chest. After texting Rafe the address, he dialed his cell. “I just texted you an address. Get over here now.”
“On my way,” Rafe said. “Why?”
“Daisy’s friend Trish is dead.”
Rafe sucked in a harsh breath. “Fucking hell, Gid.”
“I know. You need to hurry. I’ve called it in to 911 and the cops should be arriving soon.”
“I’ll call in, make sure they don’t touch anything until I get there. How is DD?”
“In shock.” She was shaking with silent sobs, her teeth chattering, the dog whimpering. “It’s . . .” Gideon trailed off, unwilling to give the avidly curious bystanders any more gossip.
“Got it,” Rafe said grimly. “Be there in fifteen.”
Gideon dropped his phone into his pocket and wrapped his arm around Daisy, pulling her closer. “Please stand back,” he said to the waiting group of tenants. They’d crowded the small landing and the stairs, both up and down. “The police will need room to work.”
Surprisingly, they obeyed and so he stood there, holding Daisy until she looked up at him, her face drenched with tears. “Her necklace was missing.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Her necklace,” Daisy whispered. “A turquoise cross. It belonged to her mother. She never took it off. It wasn’t around her neck.”
A souvenir. Like the locket that had belonged to Eileen.
Her hands clutched at his jacket, her eyes desperate. “He wasn’t after me that night, Gideon. He was after Trish.”
Gideon wasn’t so sure about that, but he didn’t refute her words. Not right now. He could only hold her while she fell apart in his arms. Because they’d all been wrong. They’d all misjudged the threat. The danger hadn’t been only to Daisy. Now her friend was dead. And they were no closer to the identity of her killer.
He’d brutally killed Daisy’s friend and he would have done the same to Daisy if she hadn’t gotten away. He still might if he believed Daisy could identify him.
And he’d killed Eileen.
One look at Trish’s body had shredded any remaining hope Gideon had of finding his old friend. You’ll be begging my forgiveness before I’m done, Daisy’s attacker had said. They all do.
There were definitely others. This changed everything. And nothing at all. The goal was the same. They needed to stay their course, needed to trace Eileen’s steps.
Daisy lifted her face, her tears still falling unchecked. But her eyes were hard, her jaw set. “We need to go to Redding,” she whispered.
He didn’t marvel that she’d all but read his mind. He could only answer, “Yes.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 2:35 P.M.
Zandra was jerked out of a restless sleep by the sound of a key turning in the lock. He’s back. Dammit, he’s back.
She closed her eyes, unwilling to participate in his game. He’s going to kill me either way. She was not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear.
Because she was afraid. So damn afraid.
“Hello, Zandra,” he drawled, then closed the door behind him. “Have we been thinking about our behavior?”
She wanted to roll her eyes but refrained.
“No?” he asked. “I was hoping you’d say so. I like your spirit, Zandra. I’m going to have such fun breaking you.”
No. No, you won’t. She wasn’t going to give him any pleasure.
He leaned over her, running his lips across her cheek. “If I take out your gag, will you tell me that you’re sorry?”
She didn’t respond. Didn’t open her eyes. But her eye twitched as he licked a trail along her jaw.
He laughed delightedly. “You are exactly what I needed, Zandra Jones. I’ve had a difficult few days, but you are a breath of fresh air, I have to say.”
She heard the jangle of keys, followed by the creak of . . . hinges? She lifted her lashes enough to see what he was doing, relieved to find his back to her.
He was opening a cabinet. She sucked in a breath through her nose as the contents became visible. Driver’s licenses. Dozens of them. And jewelry hanging from hooks.
He was placing a driver’s license in what had to have been a groove in the shallow shelf because the plastic license stood straight up.
“There you go, Trish,” he murmured, giving the top of the license a quick stroke with his thumb. “You did good. Protected your friend until the bitter end, no matter what I did to you. And now for the changing of the guard.” With dramatic flair, he removed the chain he wore around his neck and hung it below the second-to-last license. Hanging from the chain was a horseshoe, made of crystals. He gave it a tap, sending it swinging.
Then he pulled another necklace from his pocket and held it up so that the turquoise cross hanging from the chain spun in the air. He put it around his neck and gave the turquoise a stroke.
“Did you enjoy my little show, Zandra?” he asked, turning to her with a smirk. “You think you’re hiding from me, but I’ve had a lot of guests on that bed. I know all the tricks. Now . . .” He opened a drawer, and when he turned, he held a thin blade. “It’s time for me to get to work. The ‘S’ that I scratched into you yesterday is starting to heal already. I’ll just go over it again. And then you’ll be ready for the ‘Y.’”
He removed the gag from her mouth and she coughed until her head pounded and her chest ached. “How loud can you scream, Zandra? I’m betting pretty loud. I hope you won’t disappoint me.”
I won’t scream. I won’t.
But she did.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 2:45 P.M.
Daisy only resisted the compulsion to rock her body because of the crowd gathered in the doorway of Trish’s neighbor, Mrs. Owens. Even though Daisy’s eyes were tightly closed, she knew that they watched her every movement, cell phones at the ready, waiting for anything newsworthy.
Because Trish was dead.
No. No, no, no. Daisy wanted to scream it, wanted to scream that it was a mistake. A trick. An awful joke. But it wasn’t a mistake. She’d seen the body. With her own eyes.
The body. Trish’s body. All bloody and—
Oh God. Trish.
Daisy heard a sharp keening sound, then felt a warm palm cup her cheek.
Gideon. “Hey,” he murmured. She turned into it, drawing Gideon’s scent into her lungs, needing it to fill her head. “Look at me, honey.”
She forced herself to open her eyes, blinking away new tears when she saw his face, inches from hers. He was crouching in front of where she sat on a folding chair on the landing outside Trish’s door. The chair had been provided by one of Trish’s kinder neighbors—not the nosy woman avidly watching from her doorway along with the majority of the building’s occupants.
Gideon tugged at her hand. “Let Brutus breathe, honey. You’re holding her too tight.”
Horrified, Daisy dropped her gaze to Brutus, who, now that she could breathe, was desperately snuggling up under her chin and licking her fingers. “I’m sorry,” she rasped. “I didn’t know.”