“In order to relive each kill?”

“Something like that.” He looked up at her. “Why don’t you sit down, Maleah, or do you think standing over me gives you some type of psychological advantage? I assure you, it doesn’t.”

“Then what difference does it make to you whether I sit or stand?”

He shrugged. “I simply thought you might be more comfortable sitting. And it might be more pleasant for both of us if we’re facing each other, eye to eye.”

Maleah made an instant decision. She walked over and sat down in the chair facing Browning, the protection of two guards securely between her and any physical danger. But she and Browning were now at the same eye level. She squared her shoulders and calmly rested her loosely clasped hands in her lap.

“Now, isn’t that better?” Browning asked.

“I have a question.”

“Let me guess . . . hmm . . . You want to know what I did with my souvenirs. The police never found them, you know.”

“I’m not interested in your souvenirs. It doesn’t really matter where you stored them. Not to the police. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

“He’s not keeping them the way I did, is he?”

How the hell did he know that? “No, he isn’t.”

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I knew?”

“If I did, would you tell me?”

Browning laughed, the sound as smooth as his silky voice. It was a practiced laugh, nothing about it genuine. “I find it curious that you have no interest in my trophies, considering the fact that I took eight little triangular souvenirs from Noah Laborde’s body. I could tell you about that night, every detail, from the moment I punctured his jugular until I left him on the banks of the Chattahoochee River.”

Noah’s smiling face—young, handsome, sweet—flashed through her mind. “I want the answer to a question.”

“Then ask your question.” He seemed only slightly perturbed that she remained unfazed by his reminder that he had killed Noah.

“Who’s Cindy Di Blasi?”

Browning stared at Maleah as if trying to see inside her head, wondering how much she already knew and what price she was willing to pay for his answer.

“Cindy is a lady friend.”

“How did you meet her?”

“We have friends in common.”

“How long have you known her?”

“For a while.”

“How long is a while?” Maleah asked.

“That’s four questions,” he reminded her.

“And only three answers.”

“A mutual friend on the outside hooked me up with Cindy. A guy gets lonesome for a little female companionship in a place like this.”

“I’ll bet.”

“You could say that Cindy is my girlfriend.” Browning winked at Maleah. “If Cindy finds out about you, she’s going to be jealous.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Browning laughed again, just a hint of sincerity in the sound.

Maleah didn’t buy any of it. Not the part about Cindy being a friend of an old friend. Or that she visited Browning, wrote him letters, and took his phone calls because she was now his girlfriend. Maleah didn’t know who Cindy di Blasi was or what her real relationship was with Browning, but she intended to find out.

“Is Albert Durham a friend, too?” she asked.

Browning smiled. “An acquaintance. And before you ask, Wyman Scudder is my lawyer.” He leaned forward, his piercing gaze unnerving and intimidating.

Maleah didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink. Good try, you cunning son of a bitch, but no cigar. Not this time. That crazy, I’m-dangerous glare doesn’t scare me.

“Interesting,” Browning said. “Nerves of steel, huh, Maleah? Makes me wonder just what it would take to unnerve you, just how hot the pressure would have to be to melt that steel.”

He knew that she knew what this game was all about, that his ultimate goal was to see her fall apart completely. He would keep chipping away at her armor, searching for the weak spots.

“Sticks and stones, Jerome,” she told him. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He studied her for several minutes. She examined him just as thoroughly. Whatever he dished out, she could take, and then dish it right back to him.

“I’m glad that you’re not afraid of me,” he finally said. “Makes things all the more interesting, doesn’t it? I’ll be thinking about you during the time between your visits. Thinking about curling your long blond hair around my finger.” He held up his right index finger. “Thinking about running my hands down your throat. Thinking about what I could do to make you afraid of me . . . very afraid.”

“If you don’t tell me something I consider useful in my investigation about Cindy Di Blasi or Albert Durham or the copycat killer, I won’t be coming back for another visit.”

“Oh, Maleah, you disappoint me. Resorting to idle threats?”

“Not a threat. Just stating a fact. I have no intention of wasting my time pursuing a dead end. And that’s what you’re becoming, Jerome—a dead end.”

He tensed his jaw and narrowed his gaze. One hand curled into a tight fist. She had pushed the right buttons. Mentally patting herself on the back, Maleah rose to her feet.

“Leaving already?” he asked.

“Unless you want to answer my questions.”

“Another time, perhaps.”

“Perhaps.”

“You’ll come to see me again,” he told her.

“Only if I get what I want before I leave today. And I’m on my way out right now, so you’d better hurry.”

Silence.

She turned her back on him and walked toward the door where her escort waited. “I’m ready to go now,” she told the uniformed guard.

The guard opened the door.

“Wait,” Browning called to her.

She paused.

“Albert Durham is writing my biography,” Browning said.

Maleah’s breath caught in her throat. Durham was a writer? If so, then he had come to the prison to interview Jerome, to pick his brain for information. Was it possible that Durham was the copycat killer?

“Thank you, Jerome.”

“You’ll come back tomorrow?”

“Not tomorrow,” she told him. “But soon.”

Derek didn’t immediately question Maleah about the interview. Outwardly, she seemed completely unaffected by today’s encounter with Browning. She shook hands with Warden Holland, thanked him and requested a third interview for next Monday.

Why wait until next Monday? Don’t ask. She’ll explain later.

On the way to the parking area, Derek glanced at the overcast sky and commented about the weather. “Looks like rain.”

Her gaze followed his. “Hmm . . .”

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