Tessa studied her cousin’s face. “Why do you say that?”
“Never mind. Just know some of us are just meant to be alone. I never liked Sharp because I see a lot of myself in him.”
Despite the wisdom, she still couldn’t accept it. But for her cousin’s sake, she said, “I’m not in the counseling business. I’m focused on my job now. I respect the people I work with, and I won’t screw it up over a man.”
“In all seriousness, do me a favor: fuck the guy, file divorce papers, and move on with your life.”
It was past 1:00 a.m. when Sharp pulled into his apartment complex. His hope was to catch a couple of hours’ sleep, shower, and be ready to roll in the morning when Dr. Kincaid did the autopsy on his Jane Doe. Right now he had little to go on. Uniforms had searched the area around the body but found no additional evidence. No ID on the victim.
He shoved his key in the lock and noticed the apartment felt off the instant he stepped inside. His hand went to his weapon before he remembered Jacob McLean was here.
“Don’t shoot me”—the deep voice sounded from the dark—“and I won’t shoot you.”
Sharp flipped on the lights and found McLean lying on the couch. One hand was flung over his eyes; the other lay on the grip of a Beretta lying on his chest.
Letting go of his weapon, Sharp shrugged off his coat. “You made it.”
“A few hours ago. Thanks for the shelter.”
“You still fixing up your mom’s place to sell?”
“That’s the plan.” McLean had hated living with his mother as a kid. She’d struggled with alcoholism for years until it killed her five years ago.
“I’d have welcomed you with a steak dinner, but I’ve been at a murder scene.”
McLean swung his long legs over the side of the couch and sat up. He ran his fingers through lengthy hair that brushed the tops of his shoulders. “Beer?”
“Love one.”
Sharp removed his shoulder holster and placed it on a rented dining room table, which like the rest of the furniture had been chosen in less than five minutes online.
McLean opened the fridge and grabbed a couple of longnecks as well as a few packages of freshly cut luncheon meat and bread. “You look like shit.”
Sharp accepted the beer, twisted off the top, and drank, savoring the cold liquid. “You didn’t come all this way to talk about my pretty face.”
“I wasn’t going to launch into a Q and A session on Shield Security right off the bat.”
He loosened his tie. “Catch me while you can. There’s no telling when I’ll get home again. What kind of job are you interviewing for?”
“Security. They’ve got contracts all around the world.” McLean absently tugged on the beer bottle’s label.
Sharp slapped cheese and roast beef on fresh bread. He was hungrier than he realized and quickly consumed it. “That will be a good fit for you. Means putting down roots.”
“Maybe it’s about time.” McLean tipped the neck of his beer toward the living room. “Speaking of roots, there’s no sign any woman has had any influence on the decorating,” he said. “Classic postmarriage pad.”
“Tessa and I are separated.” Sharp drained the last of his beer, unwilling to travel this stretch of memory lane.
McLean walked to the mantel and studied a picture featuring a group of ten marines dressed in full battle gear. He gaze shifted to the picture of Kara. “Sorry to hear it.”
“Thanks for the beer and sandwich. I’ve got to get some sleep. Keep me posted on the job?”
“Will do.”
An hour before dawn, the Dollmaker fingered the red tips of the matches as he saw her returning to her apartment, running through the cold. She was dressed in jogging shorts, a top, athletic shoes, and a hoodie. Her dark hair was swept into a ponytail, and she carried a water bottle. She returned from the gym every morning at this time. She was dedicated to keeping her body as hard and fit as it had been when she was a teenager.
She always spent about an hour inside her apartment dressing, then left for work by seven fifteen. He never liked her choice of clothes, which were often peasant tops, jeans, and heels. He understood trends, but his tastes always ran to the classics.
As she fumbled with her keys at the front entryway, he was so tempted to approach her. The more he watched, the greater his desire to own her. He imagined her strapped in his chair and transforming her from beautiful to absolutely perfect.
The process wouldn’t take long. Maybe a few weeks. He’d honed his skills over the years and knew exactly how long the deconstruction and reconstruction process took.
His design for Harmony would be different from Destiny’s. This one would be his dark exotic beauty. He’d been sketching geisha designs as well as Russian nesting dolls for days. He’d yet to decide and knew final choices would be made when he could touch her face with his fingertips.
She would be his little exotic beauty.
Simple. Obedient. Pliable. Perfect.
As he thought about touching Destiny’s cool pale skin, he grew hard. Already he missed Destiny and was sorry now he hadn’t kept her a little longer. Why had he been in such a rush to show her to the world? He should have kept her longer. He ached for her.
The Dollmaker was anxious to begin again. But he had to wait one more day, when this doll was scheduled to take a week at the beach. She’d blocked time away from friends and family. He couldn’t ask for better timing. Just one more day.
He’d be patient, and he’d wait until she’d closed up her apartment and told her friends good-bye, and then he would take her.
And after her week off, it would simply be a matter of sending texts explaining that she was extending her vacation. Some might question. But if he were calm, the texts would buy him precious time. People were easy to fool if you fed them believable lies.
He would not rush this transformation process. He would take exquisite care with Harmony. And he just might keep this doll for a good long time.
CHAPTER TEN
Thursday, October 6, 6:00 a.m.
Andrews glanced up from his computer screen when Bowman appeared with two cups of fresh coffee. “If I had to bet money, I’d say you were here all night,” Bowman said.
Andrews glanced at his watch. “I took a break about three a.m. Went home and grabbed a couple hours of sleep.”
He stood and straightened, unkinking stiff and protesting muscles impaired by scars and nerve damage, which were a constant source of “irritation,” as he called it.
Andrews accepted one of the coffees. “Tastes good.”
“How’s it looking?” Bowman asked.
Andrews glanced at the two dozen stacks of paper piled on the floor around the room. “I’m still sorting. Mr. Knox amassed a great deal of information, but as I said before, he didn’t organize it at all. The man’s mind must be chaos.”