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Ollie paused, as if he wasn’t sure how to respond to the comment.

“Team members are usually pretty tight,” Vera pointed out.

“I played football,” Ollie said, his tone growing noticeably hard. “Nolan played being on the team. He got the spot because his daddy is Carl Baker. Otherwise, a jersey would never have been wasted on him.”

And there it was ... the thread that tied them all together.

“But your uncle was the coach,” Vera argued. “Some may have thought you had your spot on the team because of his position.”

He laughed. “No offense, ma’am, but I still hold the all-time record for the most catches and the most touchdowns for any player in the history of Lincoln County High School. I was on that team because I was good, and I worked hard. Nolan Baker couldn’t catch a house if it landed on him, much less a football. And he sure as hell couldn’t carry it to a win.”

Vera could hardly hold back the “I told you so” she wanted to say to Bent.

“Tell us,” Bent prodded, “why your uncle resigned in the middle of the season. Why not finish out the year?”

Ollie’s face showed all the disdain he had for the answer to that question. “The Bakers insisted he wasn’t being fair to their son. Nolan was spending all his time on the bench, and that was unacceptable. My uncle chose to sacrifice his position so that I could still play without all the drama. The next coach made the same decisions as my uncle. The Bakers still put up a fuss, but they let it go after a bit. Anyway, we’re not friends—Nolan and I. I hope he’s released soon. Unharmed, as we were, but otherwise I got no sympathy for him.”

“If you remember anything else relevant to your abduction,” Vera said, “please let us know.” She had heard all she needed to hear.

When they were back in Bent’s truck and on the road, she spoke up. Rather thanI told you so, she said, “This is beginning to smell rotten, Bent.”

“You were right.” He glanced at her. “Doesn’t help that I received a text from Conover while we were talking to Randall. He’s found some trace evidence from all four victims in that shed behind Owens’s shack.” He braked for a traffic light at Lincoln Avenue and College Street. “I think we both know Owens is not capable of pulling this off. And that shed looked far too ready to collapse to serve as a place to hold a hostage. Unfortunately, we still can’t question the guy because he hasn’t recovered from his psychotic episode. But this is clearly a setup.”

Vera lifted an eyebrow. “That just leaves two suspects, in my opinion—Nolan or his mother—and I’m leaning toward the mother. Maybe dear old Boggie wanted some sort of big event to boost her son’s fledgling media career. Mothers have done far worse to get what they wanted for their child. Even one all grown up.”

“Could be the husband,” Bent countered. “Or some crazed fan of Nolan’s.”

Vera wasn’t even going there. “If the perp was after Nolan, why bother with the others? All three of the previous vics are people who don’t like Nolan. Who could be seen as having wronged him somehow. This”—she turned to Bent—“is about that and boosting his name. Nothing else.”

“You’re right,” he repeated, and ducked his head in acknowledgment.

“Well then, why’re we beating around the bush?” Vera demanded. “It’s time to confront Boggie.”

“We will do that,” he promised. “Soon. But we need to take a minute and talk about what happened at your house first.”

She got it now. He was holding the confrontation with the Bakers hostage until she agreed. Damn it.

Vera’s heart had bumped into a faster rhythm. “Did Conover find a match with any of the prints?”

Bent parked at a popular Mexican restaurant on the square. “He did not. But I want to hear more about your interactions with the Messenger. All of it. I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I need to be prepared just in case.”

“I think the discussion is premature. It can’t be him,” she argued. Couldn’t be. The scumbag was in prison.

“Premature or not,” he said as he reached for his door, “we’re having it.”

Vera stared at the restaurant. Funny how Bent somehow always managed to make sure she had her next meal. Although the topic of conversation he’d chosen was hardly appetizing. Before she could climb out of the truck, Bent was at her door. They entered the restaurant together and followed a server to a booth.

When they’d given their orders, he looked to her. “Talk.”

“As I told you already,” she said, weary of the subject before she’d even started, “it was a mistake that I ended up on the case. No one already working the investigation wanted me there. But once I was digging around and the Messenger acknowledged me, there was no turning back. The FBI agent leading the investigation was thrilled, and so was I. This was my big chance. I wanted to make the most of it.”

The server brought their drinks. When she’d moved on, Bent said, “Tell me what you learned about him.”

She poked a straw into her sweet ice tea. “Dr. Palmer Solomon turned out to be the Messenger.” She made a sound meant to be a laugh, but it fell short. “He’s the epitome of a cliché. A psychiatrist who knows how people think and who used it to get his thrills. A regular old Hannibal Lecter. He would select his prey—a long and careful process. Always someone who would be classified as lonely. No social life. Busy with work. No family, or nearly none. Few friends. The easy targets.”

Vera felt a little sick at the idea that she had fit the profile of his preferred victim. She imagined the federal agent in charge had noticed as much and that detail had gone into the decision process for adding herto his team. The cops—no matter the rank or the agency—who truly wanted/needed to solve their cases at all costs would do most anything to make that happen. Including using a new, inexperienced detective who just happened to fit a serial killer’s profile.

Special Agent Xavier Alcott had wanted desperately to catch the one who had been evading him for a decade.