Page 81 of Long Way Down

“Come on,” Contreras urged in his friendly, irresistible way. “It’s five steps away. They’ll call you if they need anything.”

Melissa was shocked when Bradley gathered his folders and stood…but maybe she shouldn’t have been. Contreras had that effect on people.

She watched them go; Bradley settled at the new table with fussiness and pomp, using his pocket square to wipe the bench before he deigned to touch the ass of his designer suit trousers to it.

A quiet snort from across the table drew her attention. Osborn was shaking his head, chuckling to himself. “Poor Spence. He’s a good attorney, but he’s gonna have a heart attack if he doesn’t learn how to chill.”

She had the sense he’d presented his profile to her on purpose, a suspicion confirmed when he held the pose and his gaze slid over, a slow glimmer of green beneath the screen of his lashes. It was the first outward sign of what lay beneath the glasses and benign smile; her first glimpse of the predator who sat within arm’s reach.

“Did you really write a book?” she asked.

“Six-hundred pages of one,” he said, facing her again, knuckling up his glasses so the lenses winked. “My editor cut it down to an even three-hundred, including title and dedication pages. Memoirs sell better if they’re quick, airline reads, apparently.”

“A memoir,” she deadpanned. “How inspirational.”

“It might be. To some.” He tilted his head to an assessing angle. “Mostly, I think people like to read about depravity.” A smile tweaked his mouth, crooked and sharp in the high corner. Another moment when the hunter slipped to the forefront, far from invisible.

“Are you acknowledgingyour owndepravity?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t? I’m notinsane, Detective. I don’t think that what I did was right, or just. There weren’t angels or leprechauns or voices in my head telling me to force myself on those girls.”

Melissa blinked, taken aback.

“What?” he pressed, leaning forward. “Am I supposed to say they led me on? That they wanted it? That life’s not fair and everyone else takes what they want, why couldn’t I?” He smiled again, before she could reply. “Rape’s not a crime of passion. At least not the way I did it. I planned it. I followed them. And I did it. No excuses.”

For a moment, the musty scent of the shed crowded in around her; she swore she heard theplink-plink-plinkof dripping rainwater, and the percussive boom of thunder. Panic pooled metallic on her tongue, and…no.

No, no. He was baiting her, and not with the feral, cornered-animal fear she’d glimpsed in Pastor Keith’s eyes all those years ago. Osborn was playing with her.

It was only fair to play back.

She schooled her features to her most unimpressed look, the sort of flat stare she shot Pongo on the regular. “If you’re trying to scare me, I’ve seen worse.” And that was the truth. “If you’re really as well-adjusted as you’re pretending to be, then work with me here. Help me understand what’s going on in this guy’s head so I can find him.”

His smile receded, but seemed satisfied. “You don’t fuck around.”

“No.”

“I can appreciate that. Alright.” He cracked his neck and then his knuckles. “How many victims so far?”

“Two on the books. Four who won’t come forward officially. God knows how many more.”

“Escalation?”

“Yeah. Progressively more violent with the last three. He also went from chanting his tribute, to carving it, to writing it, like the photos my partner showed you.”

“Escalation and de-escalation, then,” he said, humming thoughtfully. His gaze flicked up, suddenly sharp. “Do you have any more photos?”

“No.”

He sighed. “Worth a shot. Well, what differentiates the two victims who want to press charges?”

She frowned. “The first four are prostitutes.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “And the two?”

“College students. Art students. Right now, the suspect pool is pretty limited.”

“Right.” His gaze dropped to the photo of the notes. “Unless your art students are moonlighting…no? Then, it’s someone they know – but casually,” he amended, before she could sayduh. “If they couldn’t tell you straight off who it was, then it’s not an angry ex or a close friend. They would have recognized the smell of his shampoo or his sweat; the size and shape of his hands. You can’t disguise yourself from someone who knows you well.”