Cameron was silent a long moment. Max touched up her mascara, body tensed for his next words.
“Did you ever think, Max, that the need to control and the need for power comes from once having been a victim?”
She laughed outright, a harsh sound that almost bruised the tissues of her throat. “Traynor, a victim? He makes me believe in reincarnation. The guy was born evil.”
“If he had to face that he was a victim, he’d have to face there was a situation he couldn’t control. The mere idea that he can’t control everything must terrify him. The word victim would be anathema to him.”
Max had stopped, mascara wand in mid-air. “Total control above everything else,” she murmured.
“He might even have convinced himself he manipulated his own father into molesting him rather than admit he was a victim.”
Her breath stuck in the seemingly bruised membranes of her throat. She couldn’t quite move beyond opening her mouth and flexing her larynx. “That’s a lie. He’s evil. That’s all he’s ever been.”
“Is it? Abusers were usually once abused themselves. They learn how to control using the same methods. Their wives, their daughters, their goddaughters, their nieces. Maybe even friends like Lance. Didn’t he give Angela to Baxter for that kind of control?”
Yes. But so what? Max’s world started turning again. “This is an asinine discussion, Cameron. It’s getting us nowhere.” The tube of lipstick slipped, leaving a slash across her chin. “Damn.” She reached for a tissue.
“I’m simply agreeing with what you’ve always said, Max. Bud Traynor manipulated every death for a variety of reasons which all ended up ultimately being about power and control. So why did he want Lance dead, and who could he have enough sexual power over to use in his quest?”
Without a word, she fixed her mishap and reapplied her lipstick, not knowing why the question frightened her so. Cameron was right. It was what she’d said every time the body count climbed. Bud Traynor was behind it. So why did it terrify her this time?
“Don’t you know, Max?”
She shook her head.
“Because you’re like all his other victims.”
“That’s a lie.” She might have screamed the words. The lipstick tube smacked the tile wall, clattered to the floor, then rolled two feet. She couldn’t remember throwing it.
“Isn’t that what you told Angela? That you wanted power.”
“Yes, but I—” She cut herself off abruptly and sucked her lower lip between her teeth, surely smearing the lipstick.
“Yes, but what, Max?” Compassion leaked through his words. He was always pushing her, wanting her to face ... something, his murder two years ago, being raped by his killers, her mother’s death when she was eight, her entire bloody past.
Finally, this time, her answer was slightly different, slightly more giving, opening a door she’d always kept securely locked. “Not now. I don’t want to talk about me now. Not when I have to think about tonight and how I’m going to handle Angela.”
“Stalling, my love?”
“Yes.” This time. “But maybe not forever anymore.”
“That’s more than you’ve ever given me.” Were there tears in that heavenly voice? “It’s more than you’ve ever given yourself.”
She hiccupped as if she’d been crying herself. “Talk to me about Lance’s killer now, Cameron. I promise the rest. Later.”
“Get your lipstick.” His voice filled her mind, begging her to imagine his arms around her and his lips against her cheek. Nothing sexual, just loving comfort. She did as he directed, pulling another tissue from the box on the Formica counter.
“Sex, power, and who Bud could control,” Cameron said as Max wiped off the damaged lip wear. “We haven’t talked about Angela.”
“She’s definitely all about sex.” The knot in her stomach started to ease as she began to think once more of potential suspects. “But in the other murders, the killers always had their own reasons for killing.”
“Traynor exploited them,” Cameron agreed, roundabout.
“But Angela had a reason not to kill Lance. The apartment, the easy life. She’d be giving up that opportunity.”
“But you don’t know he told her. In your dream, you only saw him fail to tell her.”
Lips repaired, Max stared at her reflection in the mirror. Short dark hair, a little uneven for lack of a recent cut, dark circles she couldn’t hide beneath her eyes, and too-small breasts. Not a pretty picture. But the black bodysuit, silk skirt, and crimson lips did something. Made her attractive, sexy, her appearance as well as her emotions. Angela had said they’d get to the haircut later, but Max thought the jagged look actually gave her pizzazz.
Her gaze flashed to the corner of the room where the tile wall seemed to undulate like heat rising off concrete on a hot day. It was the most she ever saw of Cameron, a pulsating phosphorescent glow. And red points of light that could have been his eyes.
“He told her, Cameron. Angela had the bracelet.”