He turned back to meet her suspicious gaze. “Where else would you go?” he asked. “It’s the only place you know for certain the killer was at.”
She jerked, a strange expression touching her face. “The killer? Does that mean you believe me?”
He considered his answer. Only a fool would encourage her to continue her investigation. On the other hand, he needed her to understand that if the pictures were real, she was in danger.
The kind of danger that got people dead.
“I believe someone sent you those pictures,” he finally said. “And that there’s a good possibility those women were murdered.”
She clutched her hands together, her knuckles white with tension.
“Did you send the pictures to your FBI contact?”
“This morning before I headed to the airport.”
“What did you find out?”
His lips twisted at her impatience. “Nothing yet. The pictures won’t arrive until tomorrow,” he pointed out in dry tones. “Plus, when I called my contact I was reminded that it’s the holiday season. My ears are still ringing.” He grimaced. “And not from ‘Silver Bells.’”
She blinked. As if shocked that he might have a sense of humor.
To be fair, it surprised most people. Apparently, computer nerds weren’t supposed to be funny. At least not ha-ha funny.
“Then why are you here?”
He held her gaze. “I noticed something in the pictures when I was packing them up to send to my contact.”
“Noticed what?”
“The women were all blond.”
“So?”
He stepped toward the chair, unbuckling the straps on his backpack to pull out the book he’d stuck in before leaving his house.
“I was looking at Neal Scott’s victims,” he said, swiveling back to Carmen as he flipped through the pages to find the pictures that had been included at the end of the chapter.
“You have my book?”
He glanced up to discover Carmen looking at him with an odd expression. On cue, he felt a flush crawl beneath his skin.
“It was a present,” he said, silently assuring himself that it was close enough to the truth. He’d used a gift certificate to buy it at the local bookstore.
“Of course.”
He ignored the disbelief in her voice, moving to stand at her side. He held the book so she could see the pictures.
“Scott’s victims had one thing in common, right?”
She frowned, as if he’d just asked her a trick question. “They were all prostitutes who worked at truck stops.”
“Exactly,” he said. “They were all various ages and ethnicities.”
“If you read my book, then you know that I thoroughly researched the victims,” she said, not bothering to hide her impatience. “There was no obvious connection. They were all from different towns, they all worked different truck stops, and they had different pimps. As far as I could tell they’d never met one another.”
“So if there is a copycat killer out there who is following Scott’s pattern, then his victims should look like this.” He tapped the tip of his finger on each picture of dead women. “Young, old, black, brown, and white.”
“What’s your point?”
He tossed the book on the rumpled bed and returned to his backpack. Reaching in, he pulled out the photocopies of Polaroids she’d left on his desk.
“Look at the newest victims,” he said, moving back to stand at her side.
Reluctantly accepting the papers he shoved in her hand, she glanced down at the pictures.
“I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”
He once again pointed to each picture. “They’re all young, they’re all white, and they’re all blond.”
She stilled, her gaze locked on the pictures. Even in the dim light Griff could see her face lose a shade of color. Then, sucking in a deep breath, she gave a shake of her head.
“It could be a coincidence,” she said. “A lot of hookers bleach their hair.”
“Carmen.” Before he could halt the impulsive gesture, he reached to cup her chin in his palm, tilting back her head to meet his worried gaze. “They all look like you.”
Chapter Six
Carmen cleared the lump from her throat. “There might be some similarities,” she conceded.
“Too many,” he said.
She wanted to argue. There were millions of women in the world. And a huge number of them were young, white, and blond. It could be that simple.
But as soon as he’d pointed out the obvious, a familiar chill had snaked down her spine.
She hadn’t consciously associated the women with herself. It had been more of a vague sense of dread that she hadn’t wanted to accept.
Now, however, Griff had made sure she couldn’t ignore the ugly suspicion any longer.
She dropped the photocopies on the bed and folded her arms around her waist. Having Griff standing so close, staring at her with such genuine concern, was unnerving.
Perhaps because she was still feeling raw after she’d traveled to California to plead for his help. Or because he was the last person she’d expected to see.
Or because she was acutely aware that her hair was a rat’s nest, and her robe was wrinkled, and there was a distinct possibility there was drool on her chin.
Not the way she wanted any man to see her. Let alone this one . . .
She slammed her mind shut on her ridiculous thoughts, glaring at Griff, who was watching her with a searching gaze.
“Okay, I’ll agree it’s creepy,” she said. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
The lean, chiseled face was impossible to read in the muted light. “I wanted to warn you that I think you might be in danger.”
“You could have called.”
“I tried.”
With a frown she glanced toward the nightstand, then she grimaced. Oh yeah. After she’d stumbled into the shower to wash off the blood dripping down her arm, she’d felt like a zombie. She had a vague memory of leaving the bathroom and pulling on her robe before she’d collapsed on the bed.
She hadn’t even thought about plugging in her phone. Which meant that the battery was probably dead by now.
She glanced back at Griff. “Why would you care?”
“You came to me for help.”
“And you turned me away.”
He frowned, as if he didn’t want to be reminded that he’d been less than encouraging when she’d been on her knees pleading for his help.
“Are you saying you don’t want me to stay?” he demanded.
She pivoted away. She wanted to tell him to march his very fine ass out the door and return to California. He’d had his opportunity to be a part of her investigation and he’d refused.
But she wasn’t stupid.
She had many talents, but Griff was a tech god. And she suspected that he had the ability to tap into law enforcement resources. The sort of resources she didn’t even know existed. Plus, she was still jittery from the weird encounter with the stranger.
On cue, Griff reached out to grasp her upper arm. His touch was light, but it was enough to press against her tender wound.
A sound of distress was wrenched from her throat before she could squash it. Instantly Griff released his grip and Carmen started to blow out a breath of relief.
Then her eyes widened when she felt the belt of her robe being undone so Griff could peel the thin material off her left shoulder.
“Hey.” She glanced around in shock, her hands lifting to keep the robe pinned to the upper curve of her breast as he continued to tug the material down her arm.
Not that Griff was interested in her naked body. Instead, he was unwrapping the layers of tissue paper that she’d stuck to the thin cut to sop up the blood that had thankfully stopped leaking in the past couple of hours.
“What the hell?” he rasped.
“It’s nothing,” she said, taking a step back.
His gaze continued to study the gash that marred her pale skin.
“That’s a knife wound,” he growled.
Her brows lifted in surprise. Was he psychic?
“How can you tell?”
He reached to pull up the faded Green Day T-shirt that he had tucked in his jeans.