Dead By Morning

Chapter 27

Even if the general description that Browning had given her of the copycat matched that of Anthony Linden, former MI6 agent, there was no way they could be certain the two were the same person. So far, the information Browning had given her was pretty much useless, just as Derek had warned her it would be. If he was right about how little Browning actually knew, then she would be wasting her time if she continued playing his game.

But what if he actually does know something that will help us? What if I give up now and walk away? If I do that, I’ll never know for sure and I’ll always wonder if I could have done more to stop the copycat killer.

She had to stay a while longer. She couldn’t give up. Not yet. She had to keep trying. But at what cost?

Browning wanted to see her suffer. He wanted to stick the knife into her, figuratively speaking, and then twist it.

“Have you decided?” Browning asked. “Are you staying or going?”

His eyes all but sparkled with anticipation.

You son of a bitch!

“I’m staying,” she told him.

“Ah, that’s my girl. Just as I had hoped—a fighter to the bitter end.”

“I want a show of goodwill,” she told him. “I’ll make a statement and all you have to do is reply yes or no. Agreed?”

Smiling as if she had just handed him a get-out-of-jail-free card, he shrugged. “Maybe. If I agree and I give you this one thing, then you swear that you’ll answer all my questions, no matter what I ask?”

She hesitated, contemplating what he might ask her. But she knew she had to take the risk. “Yes, I’ll answer whatever you ask. But for every answer I give you, you give me one in return. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Now, the next move is yours, Maleah.”

“The copycat chose the Carver’s kills as the model for his murders because he wanted a connection between the killer he mimicked and a Powell agent,” Maleah said. “He chose you because you killed Noah Laborde, who had been my college boyfriend.”

Browning’s smile widened. “Yes, of course. Any idiot could have figured that out. But you needed to hear me confirm it, didn’t you?”

Yes, of course she had known. And yes, she had needed to hear him confirm it. But his confirmation of that fact didn’t necessarily confirm that Durham or Linden or whoever the hell the copycat was had shared this information with Browning. As he’d said, any idiot could have figured it out.

“Now, we get down to business.” She met his eager gaze, despising him, but determined to show no reluctance. “You’ve already told me you don’t know the copycat’s real name, and that you knew he wasn’t the real Albert Durham. Is that the truth?” When he opened his mouth to speak, she held up her hand in a Stop signal. “You also implied that you know why the copycat is killing people associated with the Powell Agency. I want you to tell me why. What’s his reason?”

“That’s really the question, isn’t it? The one you’ll pay any price to know.”

“You’re such a smart man, I’ll bet you already know the answer to your own question.”

“Do you trust me to tell you the truth?” he asked.

“No, of course I don’t trust you.”

Browning laughed. “You must have been a pretty little girl, all blond curls and pink cheeks. Did you smile a lot? Laugh a lot? Were you happy as a child?”

Those were not the questions she had expected him to ask, but she answered them all the same. “When my father was alive, I smiled and laughed a lot and I was very happy.”

“And after your father died? He did die, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he died when I was quite young.” But how did you know?

“Poor little Maleah.”

She didn’t flinch and never broke eye contact.

“Was your mother as beautiful as you are?” Browning asked in a low, seductive tone.

“My mother was very beautiful.”

“Was she a good mother? Was she a good role model? Did you want to grow up to be just like her?”

“She was the best mother she knew how to be,” Maleah said honestly. “Why do you want to know these things about my mother?”

Browning slowly twisted his neck around and around, as if trying to loosen aching muscles. Then with his head down, his chin almost touching his chest, he rolled his eyes up and then lifted his head slowly.

In that moment, she realized she had said the wrong thing, that her reaction to his questions about her mother had triggered his curiosity. Unwittingly, she had played right into his hands.

“I want to know everything about you,” he told her. “And where better to start than learning about the woman who gave birth to you.”

Maleah did not like where this conversation was heading. Her gut instincts told her that somehow, someway, Jerome Browning knew things about her that he couldn’t possibly know.

Shake it off. All those doubts and fears and uncertainties. Browning doesn’t know anything about your personal life. He’s guessing. He’s smart. He picked up something in your reaction. The tone of your voice. A glint in your eye. An unconscious gesture of some type. Don’t give him any more ammunition to use against you.

“I loved my mother,” Maleah told him. “She was gentle and kind and sweet and—”

“And you swore you’d never be like her.”

She simply stared at Browning without responding and then quickly realized that her reaction had spoken for her. So far, in this stupid game, she was losing.

“Gentle, kind, sweet women tend to need a man around to take care of them,” Browning said. “Did you have a stepfather?”

Don’t go there. Please, don’t go there.

There was no way he could know anything about Nolan Reeves, her mother’s sadistic second husband.

“Yes, I had a stepfather.”

“Was he a good man?”

“No.”

“You disliked him?”

“Yes.”

“Hated him?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, Maleah, being worthy of your hatred must indeed be a sweet, sweet thing. I envy your stepfather. How wonderful it must have been having all that power over you when you were a helpless little girl.”

Her heartbeat accelerated, the sound of her racing pulse drumming inside her head. Don’t give him one damn thing. Keep everything on an even keel. You can do this. You know you can.

“Did he rape you?” Browning asked, excitement in his voice.

Perspiration dampened her forehead and hands. She swallowed hard. “No, he never raped me.”

“Fondled you inappropriately?”

“No.”

“Ah, nothing sexual. That means he must have beaten you. There are men like that, sadistic men who enjoy inflicting pain.” Browning burst into laughter. “I’m going to tell you something that I’ve never told anyone else, not even Albert Durham, my so-called biographer. I didn’t want his kills to be exactly like mine, so I failed to mention that before I killed, I waited for a few seconds before I plunged the scalpel into the jugular because I needed to see the fear and agony in their eyes. Just for a moment.”

She sucked in a deep breath and released it slowly. “If I answer your last question, I’ll expect you to give me more than your rambling memories that mean nothing to me. I’m not interested in your kills, only in why the copycat is killing Powell agents and members of their families.”

“Then answer my question first. Did your stepfather beat you?”

“Yes.”