represented something, just like the others had. And failing with me, he needed to inflict punishment? Do you think punishment?”
“It’s a good enough word for it.”
“It had to be more severe than the others. Death ends—though I imagine if he hadn’t been caught he’d have come for me again. Because he’d have needed to end it—to tie off that thread. How am I doing?”
“Keep going.”
“He understood it’s hard to live when you know, when you understand someone you love is dead because you lived. He knew that, understood that, and used that to make me suffer for... breaking his streak, spoiling his record. What then?” she asked when Simon shook his head.
“For leaving him.”
She sat back. “For leaving him,” she repeated. “I got away. I ran away. I didn’t stay where he put me, or... accept the gift. The scarf. All right, say that’s true, what does it tell me?”
“He’s never forgotten you. You left him, and even though he managed to scar you, he was the one who was punished. He can’t get to you, can’t close that circle, tie off the thread. Not with his own hands. He needs someone to do it for him. A stand-in. A proxy. How does he find one?”
“Someone he knows, another inmate.”
“Why would he use someone who’s already failed?”
Her heart knocked at the base of her throat. “He wouldn’t. He waits. He’s good at waiting. So he’d wait, wouldn’t he, until he found someone he believed smart enough, good enough. The women he’s killed—this proxy— it’s a kind of building-up. I understand that. They’re a horrible kind of practice.”
“And they’re bragging. ‘You locked me up, but you didn’t stop me.’ ”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Good.” For an instant those tawny eyes went fierce. “Be scared, and think. What motivates the proxy?”
“How can I know?”
“Jesus, Fee, you’re smarter than that. Why does anyone follow someone else’s path?”
“Admiration.”
“Yeah. And you train someone to do what you want, how you want, when you want?”
“Praise and reward. That means contact, but they’ve searched Perry’s cell, they’re monitoring his visitors— and his sister’s the only one who goes to see him.”
“And nobody ever smuggles anything into prison? Or out? Did Perry ever send a scarf before he abducted a woman?”
“No.”
“So this guy’s deviated. Sometimes you follow another person’s path because you want to impress them, or outdo them. It has to be someone he met, more than once. Someone he was able to evaluate, and trust, and speak to privately. A lawyer, a shrink, a counselor, a guard. Somebody in maintenance or prison administration. Somebody Perry looked at, listened to, watched, studied and saw something in. Someone that reminded him of himself.”
“Okay. Someone young enough to be maneuvered and trained, mature enough to be trusted. Smart enough not to simply follow instructions, but to adjust to each particular situation. He’d have to be able to travel with nobody questioning him about where he’d been, what he’d done. So, single, someone who lives alone. Like Perry did. The FBI must already have a profile.”
“He’d have to have some physical stamina, some strength,” Simon continued. “His own car—probably something nondescript. He’d need enough money to carry him along. Food, gas, hotels.”
“And some knowledge of the areas where he abducts them, and where he takes them. Maps, time to scope it all out. But under it, doesn’t there have to be more? The reason why. Admiring Perry? Nobody could unless they were like him. What made this person like that?”
“It’ll be a woman, or women. He’s not killing Perry’s mother. My guess would be she’s his proxy.”
It made sense, though she didn’t know what good it did her. Maybe the fact that it made sense was enough. She had a theory about what she was facing—or who.
She supposed it helped that Simon pushed her to think. No promises that nothing would happen to her, to protect her from all harm. She wouldn’t have believed those claims, she thought as she tried to soak out the tension with a hot bath. Maybe she’d have been comforted by them, but she wouldn’t have believed them.
He didn’t make promises—not Simon. In fact, he was very careful not to, she decided. All those casual
Greg had made promises, and kept them when he could. It occurred to her now that she’d never worried about Greg or wondered or doubted. He’d been her sweetheart before the abduction, and he’d been her rock after.
And he was gone. It was time, maybe long past time, to fully accept that.
Wrapped in a towel, she stepped into the bedroom as Simon came in from the hall.
“The dogs wanted out,” he told her. He crossed over, flicked his fingers over the hair she’d bundled on top of her head. “That’s a new look for you.”
“I didn’t want it to get wet.” She reached up to pull out pins, but he brushed her hand aside.
“I’ll do it. Did you finish your brood?”
She smiled a little. “It was only a partial brood.”
“You had a rough day.” He pulled a pin out.
“It’s done now.”
“Not quite.” He drew out another pin. “Scent’s the thing, right? How you find someone. I’ve got yours inside me. I could find you whether I wanted to or not. Whether you wanted me to or not.”
“I’m not lost.”
“I still found you.” He took out another pin, and her hair tumbled after it. “What is it about the way a woman’s hair falls?” He speared his hands through it, locked his eyes on hers. “What is it about you?”
Before she could answer, his mouth was on hers, but softly, testing and easy. She eased into him as she had the bath, with every muscle sighing its pleasure.
For a moment, just a moment, he simply held her, with his hand stroking down her hair, her back. It undid her, the offer of comfort she hadn’t asked for, the gift of affection she hadn’t expected.
He slipped the towel off, let it fall, and even then just held her.
“What is it about you?” he repeated. “How does touching you calm me down and excite me at the same time? What is it you want from me? You never ask. Sometimes I wonder, is this a trick?” His eyes on hers, he backed her slowly toward the bed. “Just a way to pull me in? But it’s not. You’re not built that way.”
“Why would I want anything I had to trick out of you?”
“You don’t.” He lifted her, held, then laid her on the bed. “So you pull me in. And I end up being the one who’s lost.”
She framed his face with her hands. “I’ll find you.”
He wasn’t used to tenderness, to feeling it spread inside him. Or this need to give her what she never asked of him. It was easier to let the storm come, let it ride over both of them. But for tonight, he’d embrace the calm and try to soothe the fears he understood hid behind those lake-blue eyes.
Relax. Let go. As if she’d heard his thoughts, she sank into the kiss that offered quiet and warmth. Slow and easy, his mouth tasted hers, changing angles, gently deepening in a seduction that shimmered sweet.
She’d been wrong, she realized. She was lost. Floating, untethered, in an unfamiliar space where sensation layered gauzily over sensation to blur the mind and enchant the body.
She surrendered to it, to him, yielding absolutely as his lips gently conquered hers, as his hands trailed over her—tender touches soothing a troubled soul.
The softly lit bedroom transformed. A magic glade steeped in green shadows silvered at the edges with moonlight, with the air thick and still and sweet. She didn’t know her way, and was content to wander, to linger, to be guided.
His mouth grazed down her throat, over her shoulders until her skin tingled from the quiet onslaught. He tasted her breasts, patiently sampling until on a groan she arched and offered.
