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“Under the circumstances,” Bent said, his tone about as far from friendly or understanding as it could go, “I would advise you to bear in mind that any public displays similar to this one would not be in your best interest.”

Elizabeth laughed long and loud.

Carl winced. “Liz.”

“You expect,” Elizabeth went on, “me to keep quiet about this? Absolutely not. I intend to see that everyone in the whole town knows.” She sent a poisonous look at Vera. “I want them to run her out on a rail.”

“It’s a free country.” Bent placed his hat on the table and pulled out a chair. “But bear in mind that if the DA opts to proceed with charges against you—and that is the most likely path—the people in this townare your jury pool. I’d be on my best behavior if I were you. The grateful, humble mother persona is a far more sympathetic one. No one likes a haughty defendant.”

Elizabeth turned away then. “I need coffee.”

Carl rocketed to his feet. “I could use a shot of caffeine myself.” He ushered her from the room.

Vera sagged with relief. She turned to Bent. “Can I talk to Nolan now?”

He searched her gaze, sympathy in his. “Sorry about leaving you in here with her for so long.” His expression shifted to doubt. “Talking to Nolan is not a good idea, Vee.”

She figured he would say that. “For the record, I don’t need your sympathy; I need the facts. At least give me a replay of all he said.”

“It’s not a lot,” he warned. “The only message he received was the one tucked under his windshield wiper—the one that replaced his mother’s.”

According to Elizabeth, her note had instructed Nolan to meet her at the shack where Fisher Owens lived, but he’d never showed. She’d had no idea—even after finding his phone—until the next morning that somehow her latest move in the Time Thief game had gone awry. She’d assumed that Nolan had figured out what she was doing and wanted her to worry.

“He was drugged the entire time,” Bent was saying. “He heard a voice now and again, but he doesn’t remember much about it except that it sounded male. He has no idea where he was kept or how he got there, much less how he arrived at your barn.”

Wait just a minute. Vera sat up straight, mentally reviewing all that Bent had just said. “The Messenger relished interaction with his victims. The fear he induced. Their cries. The agony. He wouldn’t get any pleasure from keeping one drugged and compliant.” She shook her head. “This is wrong.” But the messages—the one on her mirror and on Nolan’s mirror and body—were right. “Are you sure he was telling youthe truth? Maybe he was told not to talk about his experience and he’s afraid to do otherwise. He could still be suffering some level of shock.”

“That’s possible.” Bent studied her a moment, probably noting the fear she did not want him to see. “But I didn’t get the impression he was hiding anything. I’ll talk to him again in the morning. Possibly when he’s rested and full of pain meds, he’ll be more forthcoming—assuming he’s holding back.”

“Thank you.” She tried to feel satisfied with his plan. What was another eight or so hours?

It was a lifetime.Her tension started to build again. This was wrong. Completely wrong. “Did you see any other indications of torture?”

Bent shook his head. “The only injuries were the words carved onto his back. The doctor confirmed what we talked about at the scene—the knife work was almost all shallow. Deep enough to ensure plenty of bleeding and that the message was visible, but not enough so to cause serious injury.”

“This is way, way off, Bent. Whatever this person is up to, he knows about the messages, but this isnotthe person who killed all those people in Memphis.” Someone had started a game—one quite possibly being manipulated from prison by Palmer Solomon. Copycats often interacted with their idols. Son of a bitch!

As obvious as the concept was ... she couldn’t be certain of anything. Jesus Christ, she did not need this sudden uncertainty. Not right now, damn it.Think! Focus!

“The messages were talked about in depth in the media.” She said this as much for herself as for Bent. “But not the one carved on Gloria Anderson’s back. We never released anything about it, and Gloria refused to talk about what happened to her with the media.” Vera shrugged. “I suppose she could have confided in someone who eventually told someone else. Or maybe someone on the hospital staff or one of the cops assigned to the investigation—there were plenty who knew the details who might have spilled. But I never heard about it. There was nothing about it in any story that’s been done, and there have been several.”

And there was Eric ... those details had not been released either.

“So we don’t know with any measure of certainty what we’re dealing with here,” Bent said, voicing her primary concern. Worry deepened the lines around his eyes.

“That would be my conclusion.” And yet it made no sense. “The only thing, based on what we know so far, that makes any measure of sense is the idea that Solomon set this all up from his prison cell. He’s suddenly decided he wants to torment me.”

“There’s no chance he was working with a partner before you stopped him?”

Vera couldn’t deny having wondered about the possibility during the original investigation. “There was never any evidence. I considered the idea at one point, but then he was caught, so I let it go.” She shook her head. “Now, all these years later I think it’s safe to assume he didn’t. Most of the time serial killers don’t just stop killing, unless they’ve been stopped the way Solomon was or they’re dead.”

Bent nodded his understanding. “All right then. Let me take you home. I’ve arranged for my truck to be brought around to the back. We can get out of here without all the fanfare.”

“The sooner the better.” She needed a long hot shower and sleep.

Vera had a terrible feeling that this nightmare had just begun.

As they walked away from the conference room, she spotted Liam Remington. “That’s Nolan’s boyfriend,” she explained to Bent.