Dark Pursuit

She jerked up. Sweat popped out on her brow. “Yeah?”

“Your grandfather’s calling for you.”

“Coming.”

She gazed at her reflection once more. Funny how life turned out. You work hard to make something of yourself, then wham, you get hit upside the head.

What’s this life for, anyway? What’s the point?

Kaitlan took a drink and patted cool water against her face. She opened the door, ready to descend to her fate.

fourteen

The angled footprint—that was the key. Darell felt it in his gut.

Plus, the body had still been warm. And the objects out of place in the living room—evidence that a struggle had occurred.

The noise Kaitlan heard while in her carport. The cat? Not likely. Cats didn’t tend to knock into things while carrying their prey.

Darell’s mind had sharpened as he wandered the library, his cane thumping. Cunning plot points now bounced around in his brain, details of the murder creating a visual in his head. He’d calculated what had happened at Kaitlan’s apartment. Her boyfriend, Craig, was the perp, all right. His clean-cut police officer persona meant nothing. The most cunning killers fooled everyone around them. Darell had looked at the evidence forward and backward, and everything fit. Any homicide detective with their knowledge of the evidence would zero in on Craig Barlow.

But first they had to convince the police Kaitlan was telling the truth.

He didn’t believe Craig had merely used the black and green fabric from his manuscript. To some extent Craig actually saw himself as Leland Hugh.

Darell had been stuck for months on Hugh’s motives. Why did Hugh choose a certain victim?

Craig was going to show him why.

Darell pulled to a halt, overcome. Joy and power welled in his chest. His heart beat with new life, new confidence. He hadn’t felt this like in years. Like he could sit down right now, write page after page, long into the night.

He threw his head back and laughed. Raised his fist in victory.

The King of Suspense was back.

All these years Darell Brooke had guided his protagonists to safety, even when they faced certain death. He was about to do the same for Kaitlan. He would save her from this disaster. And through saving her, he would pen the best novel he’d ever written.

Darell walked to the doorway. Even his gait felt stronger. “Margaret!Kaitlan!”

Pulse tripping, he resettled himself in the leather chair. A tremble in his fingers threatened to betray his excitement. He placed his cane on the floor, leaned back, and folded his arms.

Footsteps. They were coming.

Darell took a deep breath. He couldn’t wait to call his agent, tell the man of his surge in energy. Good old Malcolm. He’d be thrilled to hear from his favorite client, Darell Brooke.

They hadn’t spoken in at least a month.

fifteen

Kaitlan slumped onto the same end of the couch as before. Hopelessness and defeat sat in her chest. She felt old and heavy and dry. The only way to breathe was to put her mind on hold.

Margaret sat down, her nervous gaze on Kaitlan’s grandfather.

Kaitlan looked him over. He sat back, arms folded. Very still. Except for his eyes. They bounced between her and Margaret, glimmering. Weird. His vibes reminded her of eating at his table as a little girl. He’d often be distracted, impatient, his gaze flitting about. Kaitlan knew those signs—he was in his fiction world, wanting to get back to his desk and write.

Hope flickered. Maybe his mind was functioning just fine. Maybe this would work out.

“All right,” he announced. “I’ve looked at all the facts, examined the evidence. I know what happened.”

Margaret threw Kaitlan an encouraging glance.

“Kaitlan.” Her grandfather focused upon her. “Craig is the murderer.”

The words sank through her like boulders.

“Today Craig was driven to kill—again. Why he murders, I don’t know. We must discover the reason. But we’ll get back to that.”

That black hole within Kaitlan spread and gobbled up her insides until she would fall headlong into it.

“He used your apartment because he could. It’s a quiet, out-of-the-way place to commit a murder during the day. Somehow he lured his victim there. It will be interesting to see how far away her car is discovered. He got her inside and a struggle ensued. Not a long one apparently, since only a few items were knocked around in your living room. At some point she fell on the couch, grabbing the blanket. He yanked her off, and it ended up on the floor.”

No, someone else. Not Craig. Kaitlan drew goosebumped arms across her chest.

“He dragged his victim into your room, strangled her on the bed. I imagine it was over quickly. With no sexual assault, no apparent beating, he simply wants to get the job done. Which,” her grandfather raised his eyebrows, “I find quite telling. These are crimes of cold passion rather than hot.”

“What do you mean?” Kaitlan whispered.

“He kills his victims quickly and efficiently. He seems to take no warped joy in the act. Rape, you see, is an act of power and hatred against women. It has little to do with sex. Craig kills not in a rage, wielding such power, but with the quiet calculation that the woman—for some reason only his disturbed mind knows—deserves to die.”

Margaret frowned. “Wouldn’t he know not to rape because of the DNA evidence he’d leave behind? He is the police chief’s son.”

Kaitlan’s grandfather shook his head. “Killers like this are driven by their twisted desires. Even with all they might know about crime-scene evidence, they don’t think in those terms when they give way to passion. Besides, they have the ego to believe they’ll never be caught.”

“But …” Kaitlan swallowed. She still couldn’t grasp this. “He’s been so nice to me, and I just can’t …”

Her grandfather’s expression softened. “Girl, listen to me. Too often there’s a mighty fine line between truth and fiction. In my stories, the murderer is always someone you’d never expect. Those stories are a reflection of the real world. How many times have you heard about a serial killer being apprehended, and everyone who knew him is shocked?”

“I know, but still …”

“Kaitlan. Do you want me to save your life? Because that’s what’s at stake here.”

She clutched her hands, running one thumb over another until it whitened. Deep inside a part of herself was shriveling up and dying.

“But the book he’s writing,” she blurted. “How would he ever expect to publish it? All those scenes in the killer’s head. If he did this, if those scenes are true, readers from around here would know.”

“Vanity, granddaughter. A person like this does not think of getting caught. Besides, don’t believe everything he’s writing is true. Or even fifty percent of it. The scenes could be predicated on his own experience and motivation for killing. But details will be masked, many completely changed. That’s what I’m telling you about fiction—it arises from truth about humanity, the world, but then veers off into imagination. In reading a novel, you may form a picture of the author’s worldview, but don’t forget the characters are fictional.”

“I just thought … I don’t know.” Kaitlan tried to imagine reading Craig’s manuscript. If he was a real killer, would reading his work help her understand him better or only throw her off course, since she wouldn’t know what