Page 3 of Obsession

“The first interview is tomorrow, 10 a.m. sharp.” He studies me for a long moment, his gaze flicking past me to the door. “He’s right, you know. It is a big opportunity for this paper. Are you sure you’re up for the task?”

Stiffening, I straighten my spine. “Of course I am.”

My ego stings at the doubt on his face. How difficult can it be to interview a condemned serial killer, even if they prey on women like myself? He’s locked up, after all.

A small, niggling voice at the back of my mind whispers I’m naive, but the stubborn side of me quiets that voice, focusing instead on the suffocating curiosity within me.

Why me, Robbie Hammond?

My gaze skatesacross the white-painted walls, the metal table in the middle, and the barred window to my left that overlooks the tall wire fences outside. An obnoxiously loud clock on the wall ticks down the minutes until I’ll be face to face with the country’s most notorious serial killer, Robbie Hammond.

I’m still surprised to be here. James wanted someone with more experience than me. Someone like Elliot. Not a woman in her early twenties and brand new at the paper. But I need this opportunity to show my potential. Unfortunately, I won’t get anywhere in this business unless I put myself out there.

So far, I’ve had a small weekly column, and this is my chance at something bigger. Something that will give me headline news.

“Don’t let yourself be charmed by him. He’s a serial killer who murdered fourteen women,” Claire, the elderly receptionist lady at the office, said to me when I told her I’d been appointed this job.

Charmed by him? He’s nearly twice my age at forty-five.

Chewing on my bottom lip, a nervous trait of mine, I peer at the clock on the wall. I’ve waited for ten minutes.

My knee jiggles. I’m excited about this opportunity, but I’m also anxious as hell.

Blowing out a breath, I look out the window at the miserable, rainy weather, just as a breeze whips through the trees past the perimeters of the high-security prison.

As I shift in my seat, I fight the urge to rub my damp palms on my thighs.

I tear my gaze away from the view outside when the door opens, and an officer escorts Robbie inside. His hands and ankles are shackled, and his white prison outfit strains against his broad shoulders. I scan his impressive build, wondering how a man like Robbie can stay in such good shape while locked up in this place.

The moment his ice-blue eyes lock on mine, my spine stiffens. The guard unlocks his shackles, and Robbie sits down as I glance at the officer, who goes to stand by the door. Robbie never takes his eyes off me.

Sweat beads on my neck, causing my hair to stick to my skin.

“You’re Savannah Campbell from Atley Hill News?” His gravelly voice cracks through the silence like booming thunder.

Clearing my throat, I raise my hand to rub at my nape before catching myself. I lower it again and offer him a nervous smile. “Yes, I am.” I reach for my badge, which hangs from a lanyard around my neck. His blue eyes flick down, then back up to my face just as fast.

“It’s nice to meet you, Savannah.”

His baritone is rich and smooth, like caramel, and soothing in a way I never expected. Not for a man who slaughtered women in cold blood.

His tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip. He lets his gaze cruise down my white blouse before he asks, “Did you bring a voice recorder?”

I jump into action, retrieving my bag off the floor and rooting through it. “Of course. It’s in here somewhere.” I finally pull it out and place it on the table. With one final look at the bored officer at the door, who’s staring straight ahead at nothing, I press record.

Robbie watches me with a small smirk as though he knows his effect on me. How unnerved I feel by his presence. There’s a magnetism about him that sets me on edge. He’s dangerous, but I already knew that as soon as he entered the room. Every cell in my body knew it.

Where’s this idea coming from that serial killers are sleazy, socially awkward, balding middle-aged men? Robbie Hammond is attractive, in good shape.

A small part of me also enjoys the thrill of knowing how deadly he is.

Robbie keeps watching me, and I try not to fidget beneath the intensity of his attention. Maybe he hasn’t seen a lot of women during his time in this miserable place.

“Tell me about yourself, Savannah?” he prompts.

My cheeks warm as I open and close my mouth, surprised by his forwardness. “We’re here to talk about you, Robbie. You asked for these interviews, remember?”

He nudges his chin to my name badge. “That’s a recent photograph. You must be in your early twenties. Less than six months into the job?”