To hide the fear that slithered, snake-like, just below her skin, making the hair on her arms stand up, Evelyn paced across one end of the small, concrete cell, pretending to be absorbed in her notes. It’d taken a few days, but she was back at San Quentin, and they were bringing Hugo Evanski to meet with her. Only this time she was prepared for anything he might do—and so were they. The warden had told her that Evanski would be escorted by two correctional officers instead of one, and he wouldn’t be allowed to get out of control again.
When he didn’t appear as soon as she’d expected, however, she set her notes aside and leaned on the desk to draw a deep breath. She’d only been released from the hospital two days ago, still had a bandage covering her stitches and a black eye to show for that earlier incident—embarrassing proof that she’d allowed herself to be hurt by someone she’d known was dangerous. There was no excuse for that, especially because her detractors wouldn’t hesitate to use what Hugo had done to undermine her efforts, if word ever got out. She had to be careful about what showed up in the press; she couldn’t allow Hugo Evanski to jeopardize a program that was still in its infancy and needed time and support in order to grow.
When a clang signaled she’d soon have company, she snatched up her notepad so that no one would be able to tell that her hands were shaking. Although she told herself that the same thing wouldn’t happen twice, no amount of self-talk could overcome the emotional response that welled up whenever the slightest sound, smell or other trigger reminded her of what Jasper Moore had done twenty years ago. And Hugo’s attack definitely reminded her of Jasper. Just about any violence did.
She watched as the heavy metal door slid open and two hulk-like correctional officers walked their charge into the room. They tried to seat him in the steel chair bolted to the floor, probably so that he couldn’t launch himself at her again, and, when he stiffened instead of bending, forced him into it.
“Sit your ass down,” one of the guards growled.
Hugo gave his chains a rebellious jerk but eventually complied, lifting his nose in the air and smiling at her as if he was too preoccupied with and delighted by what he’d done to her face to be bothered by correctional officers who were determined to show him they were in charge. “Looks like you’ve had an accident,” he said to her.
She fingered the tender spot near her temple. “It’s nothing. Someone of your reputation...I would’ve expected you to be able to do a lot more than simply knock me into a table.”
When the two officers on either side of him barked out a laugh, obviously surprised by her response, the smile disappeared from Hugo’s clean-shaven face. “Maybe it won’t go quite so well for you the next time.”
Evelyn’s heart was racing so fast she could scarcely breathe. Like Jasper, this man wouldn’t hesitate to kill her if he had the chance. But she leaned forward anyway. “There won’t be a next time, Mr. Evanski. I’m not stupid enough to allow you another opportunity. At least, you’ll have to work a lot harder for it than you did a few days ago. I merely wanted to come by and tell you to pack up whatever few items you possess.”
“You’re having me transferred to Alaska?”
“You’re brighter than you look.”
The clenching of his jaw gave her some satisfaction. He wasn’t pleased by this news, as she’d guessed he wouldn’t be. She’d just let him know that he wouldn’t control her, certainly not through fear. If she had to guess, that bothered him, too. He wouldn’t like a woman having any authority over him. But, oddly enough, even when he was angry he didn’t look overtly dangerous, didn’t look much different than the middle school teacher he’d once been—before his wife stumbled upon the body he’d temporarily stowed in the shed of their cabin in Bakersfield, California. As a matter of fact, he was so plain Evelyn would even call him nondescript. He had short, dark hair and, after ten years in prison, no scars or tattoos, no evidence of gang affiliations. He wasn’t even particularly muscular, not like so many of the other inmates she saw as she visited various institutions—those who spent the majority of their time lifting weights.
Maybe that was why he’d blended in for so long, why no one had suspected him in the murders of the young women he’d killed even though he’d taught them all in school and had, at two different points, inserted himself into the various police investigations.
The only thing that might’ve tipped anyone off was his eyes. They were brown, not black, but they were just as cold and lifeless as a shark’s. He seemed to have that in common with other psychopaths. Difficult as it was to define, there was always something about the eyes. They held no light, no humanity. Evelyn had heard many victims state the same thing and, as a victim herself, she could attest to the truth of it—at least she’d noticed the lack of emotion in Jasper’s eyes once he’d turned on her and revealed himself to be the homicidal maniac he really was. Before that, she’d detected no appreciable difference between him and the other boys at school.