“I do understand it. Under the same circumstances, you wouldn’t be able to drag me away from the investigation.” He scratched the sexy stubble on his chin. “I just can’t figure out why you didn’t tell me your connection to the case. Why hide it?”
She formed a V with two fingers and pointed them at him. “That’s why.”
He blinked. “What?”
“That look in your eyes—pity, sorrow. The only reason discomfort isn’t in the mix is because you’re a cop and accustomed to dealing with victims.” She drew back her shoulders. “I’m not a victim.”
Jake threw up his hands. “Nobody said you were—not in the sense that you can’t take care of yourself or that you feel put-upon, but The Player put you in a particular class. You’re the daughter of a murder victim. That’s not your shame to bear.”
“Shame?” She jumped up from the chair and did a quick, agitated trip around the small living room. “I’m not ashamed of my mother or the fact that she was murdered, but I don’t want that to inform my entire life.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Excuse me?”
“Here you are—a therapist, specializing in victims’ rights, cops, working on task forces. You’re going to tell me your past didn’t inform those choices?”
“It did. Of course it did.” She jabbed a finger into her chest. “I’m good at what I do. I’m good at what I do because I can empathize like nobody’s business. When I tell the daughter of a murder victim that I know how she feels, I ain’t lying. When I express sympathy for the loss of someone’s daughter, like the Lindquists yesterday, they can hear the truth in my voice, feel it in my touch.”
“I agree with everything you say. I’ve seen you in action.” He’d twisted in his seat to follow her progress across the room. One arm lay across the back of the couch, his sleeve rolled up to reveal the tail end of that tattoo. “I’m a cop because my old man was a cop. I have anger management issues because my old man had anger management issues. I have a... We’re products of our upbringing and our backgrounds, and having a mother who was the victim of one of the most notorious serial killers in LA is a helluva legacy to carry around.”
“Okay, what do you want me to do?” She tapped her chest twice with the palms of her hands and then spread her arms wide. “Shout it from the rooftops? My mother was Jennifer Lake, the third victim of The Player?”
Jake stood up and circled to the back of the couch. Folding his arms, he leaned against it. “You don’t have to shout it out to anyone. You should’ve told me, and I think it would be of interest to the rest of the task force.”
Kyra’s mouth dropped open and prickles of fear raced across her skin. “I—I couldn’t do that. Don’t you do that. Don’t you dare do that. Don’t you dare tell anyone who I am.”
Jake straightened up, his muscles coiled, nostrils flaring. “I wouldn’t do that, but why? Why in God’s name is it so important for you to keep your identity a secret from everyone?”
Kyra glanced over her shoulder at the sliding glass door that led to her little patio and whispered, “Because The Player is still out there...and he knows who I am.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jake lunged forward, stopping inches away from Kyra, close enough to see the whiteness around her lips and the corner of her eye twitching. The cool, collected woman who seemed to float just above everyone else was rattled.
He clenched and unclenched his hands. “What does that mean, he knows who you are?”
“He knows his third victim left an eight-year-old daughter behind.” She tossed her head, flicking back her thick ponytail. She took a deep breath and swallowed. “And we know he’s still out there. He was never caught.”
Jake knew backpedaling when he saw and heard it, and Kyra was pumping furiously. “Has The Player ever reached out to you?”
“N-no.” She ran her hands over her face. “At least, not that I know of.”
“You mean the playing card left by the dumpster out back?”
“That and...” She swept past him, grabbed her purse from the divider where she’d dropped it and plunged her hand inside. “And this one.”
She held up a red playing card, and he moved in to get a better look.
He snatched the queen of diamonds from her fingers and waved it in the air. “Is this what you found by your car today?”
“Yes.” She retreated to the kitchen and hung on to the handle of the fridge. “Do you want something to drink? Beer? Water? Juice? Soda?”
The sheet of ice was coming down again, only this time he’d seen the cracks and knew where they were located.
He ignored her offer. “Why would you hide this from me, especially after the first one? There’s no coincidence now, is there? Someone left these for you. Do you think it’s The Player?”
“I was going to tell you about the second card.” She poured herself a glass of orange juice and raised the carton. “Are you sure you don’t want some? I don’t have AC in this apartment and it’s still warm from the Santa Anas, and you look...hot under the collar.”
He ground his back teeth together and flicked the corner of the card. “You were going to tell me about the second card but not your connection to The Player.”
“That’s right.” She leveled a gaze at him over the rim of her glass as she took a sip. “But you know that now, too.”
He dropped back onto the couch, placing the card on the rough-hewn wood coffee table as if for a game of solitaire. He may as well have been playing solitaire for all the help Kyra was giving him.
“Do you
