“But I do,” I said. “There has been a lot of crazy stuff going on in a short period of time. It’s been stressful.”
“I’m okay, honey.”
I stared at her, wondering if the skin had been creased between her brows before, and I just hadn’t noticed it. “I . . . I don’t know what I would do if something . . .” I couldn’t even bring myself to finish the sentence.
Smiling at me, she leaned forward and patted my knee. “I’m not going anywhere for a long, long time. You’re stuck with me.”
I hoped—no, I prayed—that was the case.
“You better call Cole,” she said, gripping the arms of the chair. I stood, giving her room as she rose. “And let’s hope that what happened today is . . . the end. I feel terrible for saying that, but if it was him, then it’s over.”
Mom kissed my cheek as she passed me, and I turned at the waist, watching her head toward the kitchen. Was it over? Had it been Coach Currie, the man Miranda and I drooled all over when we were in high school? The man who apparently had been sleeping with Angela, who we all believed was madly in love with her boyfriend Ethan, hoping for an engagement? Mom was right. Something didn’t add up, I didn’t think we had the whole story, and I didn’t think it was over.
Updating Cole via phone had not gone exactly well. He’d been pissed that he hadn’t been here, as if he was my personal bodyguard and had failed somehow. Then he was relieved to know that Jason had been there, and the call ended with him saying that once he could get out of the office, he was coming straight here.
After that, I took care of a minor housekeeping issue. More towels were needed in one of the suites, and once that was done, I was planning to spend the rest of the afternoon finishing off the bookkeeping. It was possibly the only thing that required my 100 percent focus, and I really needed that right now.
I came back down the main staircase, and when I reached the main landing, I cursed under my breath. Today just . . . it sucked.
Leaning against the desk was the reporter named Striker. His brown hair was messy, but he wore the same neatly pressed clothes I’d seen him in before. He lifted his gaze and smiled faintly when he saw me.
I clenched the railing. “I so do not have the patience for this today. You need to leave.”
Pushing off the desk, he lifted his hands. “I know I’m probably the last person you want to talk to.”
“The very last,” I agreed, coming down the steps. “And I will call the cops to have you removed. And I will also file a restraining—”
“I know that Donnie Currie was over here and he got taken to the hospital due to a little blunt-force trauma.”
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I resisted the urge to pick up the vase and swing it over his head. “Are you even supposed to know these things?”
He ignored my comment. “Donnie Currie is a cheater with an eye for younger women and then some, but he’s not the type of man to cut off a finger and mail it to the only known survivor of a serial killer.”
My mouth opened, but there were no words.
“Yes, I know all about that too.”
“And you haven’t plastered that all over the front page?” I challenged.
A wry smile formed. “Only because I just heard about that.”
Irritation prickled my skin. “But I guess I know what’s going to be the headline tomorrow, then?”
“Even I have my limits,” he replied. “That’s not particularly something I’m willing to put into print.”
I wasn’t sure if I believed that or not.
“The mayor is convinced that Donnie Currie is the very bad man who killed poor young Angela Reidy, and the people need to realize there is absolutely no evidence supporting that.”
“If there’s no evidence then it doesn’t matter what the mayor thinks or says.”
“That would be true if the power of public opinion didn’t outweigh the power of common sense, but if the people knew that we most likely have a copycat serial killer on our hands, they’ll be prepared and therefore safe.”
I almost laughed. “Oh, so your motives are altruistic then?”
“Not really,” he admitted with another smile.
“This—all of this—makes you happy, doesn’t it?” Disgust rose.
He rolled his eyes. “Not happy. Eager? Yes. It’s my job. I love digging things up and pulling back the veil. My job is to report the truth and sometimes expose it.”
“You know I’m not going to give you information about the Groom. So why are you here?” I asked.
Striker was quiet for a moment. “Aren’t you frightened?” he asked quietly. “You know what kind of horror a person is capable of, and you received a severed finger in the mail. Whoever is behind this knows you’re here. That finger is a message of some sort.”
My eyes narrowed. “Yes. I am frightened. Who wouldn’t be? But again, that has nothing to do with you.”
“Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot, but I’m not here to do a story on what happened to you. That’s not why I came here in the first place. I’m hoping you can answer one question for me.”
I said nothing, partly because I didn’t believe him and I was also curious what his one question could be.
“Can we sit?” He gestured at the chairs in the lounge area.
My eyes narrowed but I nodded. Walking over to them, I sat and he did the same. He shifted to the side and reached into his pocket, pulling out a tiny recorder. I stiffened.
“It’s not on. I wanted to show you that.” He also pulled out his cellphone and showed the home screen. “I don’t have this recording either. This conversation is off the record.”
I smirked. “Am I really supposed to believe that?”
“I can’t make you believe that, and while I do think people want to hear your story of survival, I’m not here to report on it.” Striker bent forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I was just out of journalism school when the Groom hit this town. I didn’t cover the story. It went to one of the more veteran reporters, but I followed it closely. Even after you escaped and he was dead, I read everything I could on it. You can say I became a couch expert on him and other serial killers.”
My upper lip curled. “That must be something to be proud of.”
He smiled. “There’s something . . . fascinating about a person who understands right and wrong, but does not operate on any social norm and has their own moral compass.”
“More like terrifying,” I corrected.
“That too.” His head tilted to the left. “Anyway, I’ve read everything there is on Vernon Joan. I know what he did to the other victims. I know what he was planning to do to you when he led you out of the house. I know everything except one thing. That’s why I’m here.”
I took a deep, even breath as an idea formed. “I’ll consider answering your question if you answer one of mine.”
Striker tensed. “What do you want to know?”
“You seem to know a little bit about everyone,” I said, choosing my words wisely. “How well do you know the mayor?”