One second Dean was next to me, and the next he had Christopher pinned to the wall, his forearm pressed against Trina’s son’s throat. The contrast in their skin tones was striking—Dean’s tan and Christopher’s pale.
“Christopher!” Trina said. “This young lady is our guest.” Her chest heaved with agitation. No, not agitation, I realized. Seeing the look in Dean’s eye, the way he’d moved, she was excited.
Michael walked over to Dean and hauled him off his prey. Dean fought Michael’s hold for a second, then went still. Michael let him go and patted the front of Christopher’s shirt, like he was dusting off the lapels of a suit jacket, even though Christopher was dressed in a worn and battered tee.
“Touch her again,” Michael told Christopher conversationally, “and Dean will be the one trying to pull me off of you.”
Michael told me once that when he lost it, he really lost it. I could hear it beneath his pleasant tone—if Christopher laid another hand on me, Dean might not be able to pull Michael off.
Christopher’s hands knotted themselves into fists. “You shouldn’t have come here. This is sick. You’re all sick.” The fists stayed by his sides, and a moment later, he stomped out of the living room and out of the house. The front door slammed.
“I’m afraid Christopher doesn’t quite understand my relationship with your father,” Trina confided to Dean. “He was only nine when his own father left, and well…” Trina sighed. “A single mother does what she can.”
Dean came back to sit beside me. Michael stayed standing, and I realized he was watching Trina from an angle that decreased the chances that she would notice his attention.
“How long have you and Daniel been together?” I asked. You aren’t together, I thought. He’s using you. For what, I wasn’t sure.
“We’ve been seeing each other for about three years,” Trina replied. She seemed pleased to be asked—which was, of course, why I’d chosen that question. If she believed that we were on board with the relationship, it would feed into the happy little picture she’d painted in her mind. Dean was visiting. This wasn’t an interrogation. It was a conversation.
“Do you think this new case will affect his chances of an appeal?” I asked.
Trina frowned. “What new case?” she asked.
I didn’t reply. Trina looked from me to Dean.
“What’s she talking about, Dean?” she asked. “You know what a crucial time this is in your father’s legal situation.”
His legal situation is that he’s a convicted serial killer, I thought. Based on my interactions with Briggs and Sterling—and Dean himself—I was almost certain this appeal was as fictional as Trina’s misguided belief that if the older Redding was released, Daniel and Dean would move in here.
“That’s why I’m here,” Dean said, casting me a sideways glance as he followed my lead. “That girl who was killed at Colonial? And then the professor who was writing the book?”
“The FBI tried to talk to me about that.” Trina sniffed. “They know I’m your father’s support. They think they can turn me against him.”
“But they can’t,” I said soothingly. “Because what you have is real.” I swallowed back the guilt I felt, playing on this woman’s delusions. I forced myself to remember that she knew Daniel Redding for what he was: a killer. She just didn’t care.
“This case has nothing to do with Daniel. Nothing. The FBI would love to pin something else on him. Left on a public lawn?” Trina scoffed. “Daniel would never do something so rash, so sloppy. And to think that someone else is out there—” She shook her head. “Claiming credit, trading on his reputation. It’s a crime, is what it is.”
Murder is a crime, I thought, but I didn’t say it out loud. We’d gotten what we needed here. Trina Simms wasn’t concerned with continuing Daniel Redding’s work—to her, the copycat was a plagiarist, a counterfeiter. She was female, a neat-freak, and controlling. Our UNSUB was none of the above.
Our UNSUB was a male, in his twenties, subjugated by others.
“We should go,” Dean said.
Trina clucked and protested, but we made our way to the door. “If you don’t mind me asking,” I said, as we were leaving, “what kind of car does Christopher drive?”
“He drives a truck.” If Trina thought it was an odd question, she didn’t show it.
“What color is the truck?” I asked.
“It’s hard to say,” Trina said, her voice taking on the tone she’d used repeatedly with Christopher. “He never washes it. But last I checked, it was black.”
I shivered as I thought of the profile Agent Sterling had given us and felt the ghost of Christopher’s grip on my arm.
“Thank you for having us,” I managed to say.
Trina reached a hand out and touched my face. “Such a sweet girl,” she told Dean. “Your father would approve.”
“Here.” Michael tossed his keys to Dean. Dean caught them. “You drive,” Michael said, sauntering over to the passenger side of the car. “You look like you could use it.”
Dean’s grip tightened on the keys, and I wondered what game Michael was playing. He never let anyone else drive his car—and Dean was the last person he’d make an exception for. Dean was probably thinking the same thing, but he accepted the offer with a nod.
Michael climbed into the backseat with me. “So,” he said as Dean pulled away from the house, “Christopher Simms: understandably upset that his mom has a thing for serial killers, or budding psycho himself?”
“He grabbed Cassie.” Dean let that statement hang in the air for a moment. “He could have gone for me. He could have gone for you. But he went for Cassie.”
“And when you threatened him,” I added, “he left.”
You shouldn’t have come here. I went back over Christopher’s words. This is sick. You’re all sick.
“What’s the holdup?” Michael asked. For a second, I thought he was talking to me, but then I realized the comment was aimed at Dean. The car wasn’t moving. We were sitting at a stop sign.
“Nothing,” Dean replied, but his eyes were locked on the road, and suddenly, I realized Michael hadn’t just let Dean drive on a whim. This was the town Dean had grown up in. This was his past, a place he never would have chosen to go if it weren’t for this case.