Morgan skimmed over several paragraphs before he looked up at Krys again. He dealt with the criminal element—and would-be criminals—all the time, but what she had in her article still took his breath away. “And this was all verified?”
“Absolutely,” she answered, adding, “Every single word of it. I pride myself on my research. I interviewed everyone who came in contact with this deadly Romeo. That included the friends and families of the victims as well as people who knew him as the ‘attentive spouse.’” Krys laughed dryly. “However temporary that characterization might have been.”
“And according to you, this is all the same guy?” he asked.
“According to the evidence,” she corrected him, “it’s the same guy. With each new woman, he changed his name, his backstory, his hairstyle and the way he dressed, but it was always the same man.”
Krys pulled up an array of photographs that, at first glance, appeared to be of different men, but on closer examination all turned out to be one and the same man.
“Look at the set of his mouth. It’s the same guy,” she told him. “I felt like I had just scraped the tip of the iceberg, that there were more victims I hadn’t uncovered yet. I was there when they arrested him,” she told Morgan. “There was something about his attitude that told me he was having the last laugh.”
“And he escaped,” Morgan said, remembering what she had told hum.
Krys nodded, clearly disappointed by the turn of events. “Just like Houdini,” she said. “For all I know, he’s vanished. That means he’s gone to another state, another country—or he could be hiding right around the corner, waited to take out his revenge against the person who caused his perfect game to crumble.” And it was the not knowing where and when—and if—he might pop up that was driving her crazy.
“But from what you made it sound like, he’s not your only possible suspect, right?” Morgan asked, trying to get her to elaborate about the heart of the matter and prodding her along.
“No, I’m afraid he’s not,” Krys admitted. “But the article involving Weatherly Pharmaceuticals and their ‘miracle’ drug hasn’t been published online yet.”
“Has it been publicized?” he asked.
“I’m sure word got around,” she answered. “I interviewed people, lots and lots of people,” she emphasized, and then she gave him an example of the types of people she had made a point to talk to. “People developing the drug, people who were used as test subjects and took this new ‘miracle’ drug. I wasn’t working in a vacuum and my intent wasn’t a secret. Considering the number of people involved, I’m sure someone had to have talked to someone somewhere along the line.”
“So I take it that we’ve got the current suspect list narrowed down to the immediate world,” Morgan said dryly. “Give or take a few people.”
“Pretty much.” Unlike Morgan, she wasn’t being sarcastic.
“Well, this is going to take a lot longer than I anticipated,” Morgan murmured under his breath.
“Which was why I suggested making us something to eat,” she pointed out cheerfully. “At least you’ll be fortified to continue going through the information.”
Morgan shook his head. “I don’t know whether to think that you’re being exceptionally brave or incredibly blasé about this whole matter.”
“Like I said, you can think of it as my coping mechanism. Now, once again, what can I make for you? To review, your choices are leftover homemade chicken soup or I could have something delivered. I’m on a first-name basis with several delivery services.”
The first thing she had mentioned caught his attention. “Homemade?” he repeated. “Whose home?” he asked archly.
“Mine,” she answered.
Morgan looked at her, trying to judge whether or not she was just attempting to put one over on him. “You’re kidding.”
“Why would I kid about something like that?” she asked.
He continued to scrutinize her, trying to get a better handle on the person she was. Was she genuine, or prone to giving herself airs no matter what that involved? “You actually made chicken soup?”
“Yes,” she answered, drawing out the single word as she tried to decide where he was going with this.
“From scratch?” he questioned.
“Is there any other way to make homemade soup?” she asked him.
“Yeah,” he answered flippantly. “You can use a can opener and empty the contents of the can into a pot. Then you heat that on a burner—or the microwave if you’re in a particular hurry.”
There was a touch of pity in her eyes. “Well, that might be your definition of homemade, but it’s not mine. This was the first thing I made when I finally came home. After burying my mentor, I felt I needed some comforting.”
“So your answer was soup instead of a friend?” he asked.
“I don’t like to burden people with my problems. Besides, chicken soup creates a warm, contented feeling in the pit of your stomach. It doesn’t say inane things like ‘he’s in a better place now,’ or ‘he’s not in pain anymore.’”
“Both true statements,” he told her.
“I know, but they still don’t help fill up that empty feeling you’re left to try to deal with when someone you cared about is gone. Chicken soup doesn’t ask you how you’re doing. It just goes about its intended function to fill you up. Now, what can I make for you?”
“After that buildup? I’ll take the chicken soup,” he told her—and then smiled.
Chapter 6
“This is really good,” Morgan declared just before he slipped another spoonful of chicken soup into his mouth.
He had agreed to let her prepare something to eat predominantly to placate her. His main goal was to eat the meal as fast as possible and move on to the real reason he was here. But after consuming several spoonfuls of the chicken soup she had placed before him, the meal, with its tempting aroma, somehow captured his attention in its entirety.
“Why do you sound so surprised?” she asked, sitting down opposite him at the table.
He debated mumbling
