This is no single-girl’s love nest, he thought.
The place didn’t feel feminine. There was nothing ladylike about the furnishings; they were purely functional. And something else was missing. It took him a second to realize what it was—pictures. No paintings or prints gave the rooms personality. No photos gave insight as to whom Zo? held dear. It was such a minor thing, but it made such a difference.
He couldn’t decide if the austerity was a sign of Zo?’s reformed ways or not. When he’d encountered her last year, she’d been a loud and bawdy party girl. Now she lived like a nun but was a gung-ho rent-a-cop, willing to put her life on the line for a stolen cell phone. But that wasn’t strictly true. Rick Sobona’s run-in with her clashed with the nun image, as did that skimpy dress he’d seen her wearing the night of Laurie Hernandez’s death.
He went into the bedroom and slid back the closet door. Among the mall-security uniforms, he found jeans and T-shirts, workout clothes, and four skintight dresses fit for a slut. He touched one and fingered the material.
“You’re a conundrum, Zo? Sutton,” he said, closing the door.
He sat down on the corner of the bed and took in this window on Zo?’s life. He’d come here purely for scouting purposes, but he’d come prepared to take matters to a final conclusion, if needed. His Taser was in one pocket, as was a chloroform-soaked rag. It would be nothing to take her the second she walked through the door.
But should I?
That had been the big question plaguing his thoughts since seeing her on the news. His investigation had revealed a changed woman. Part of him said let her go. He’d made a difference in her. Besides, there were worse examples of human life out there that needed reeducating.
But . . . there was always a but. Those whore dresses in her closet. He couldn’t get past those damn dresses. They shrieked of Zo?’s failure to reform. If she hadn’t changed, after getting a second shot at life by the skin of her teeth, well, she deserved his originally intended outcome.
Pursuing her now came with great risk. The cops were watching her. He couldn’t come at her with the same freedom he had with the others, and she wouldn’t be a clean kill. The best thing was to leave her alone. He’d left his mark on her, and it was more than just a scar. Forgetting her was the smart move, but he felt his personal pride picking at him. He’d screwed up and she’d gotten away. He needed to finish what he’d started. That was his failing and his strength.
He moved to the living room and waited for Zo?. And he waited. The clock on the cable box went from midnight to 1:00 a.m., then to 2:00 a.m. At 3:00, it was clear she wasn’t coming home tonight. He could just imagine what she was up to in one of those dresses, with someone like Rick Sobona. That red getup he’d seen on her was missing.
“Where are you, Zo??” he said with contempt. He had the feeling she’d gone somewhere. He’d dropped by the mall earlier in the day, and she hadn’t been there. Had she skipped town? That absent red dress said no. No one skipped town leaving all her clothes but taking her party dress.
Any thought of sparing her left him. He let himself out, knowing he would return.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Zo? waited until a couple of hours prior to dusk the following day before leaving Las Vegas. That was when she and Holli had left for home, so it was when she left this time. That meant she’d been forced to spend the day kicking around the Strip, but that had been fine. Vegas had plenty to keep her occupied before she’d begun her long journey of discovery.
She remembered the route they’d started with for their trip back home. It was one of the few things she did recall. They took US 95, which headed to Indian Springs, then threaded between Creech Air Force Base and Death Valley. Eventually, they had planned to cross back into California and return to San Francisco by cutting through Yosemite, a drive that showed the changing landscape of California and Nevada. It should have been fun, not the nightmare it had become.
She had to retrace only the first 250 miles of the 600-mile drive because the police had found her in her wrecked Beetle on US 395, halfway between Mammoth Lakes and Bishop. Confusingly, she’d been heading in the wrong direction, away from San Francisco.
What does that mean?