“Wow, I like what you’ve done to the place,” he said.
His sardonic smile let her know he didn’t consider it an improvement. She knew that in his view it served as further proof that her past was taking control of her life, which was something they’d argued about the last time they’d talked.
“Thanks. Seemed a pity to waste so much space.”
“Forever practical.”
She hadn’t been practical at all. Until the early-morning hours of July 11th nearly four years ago, breaking a freshly manicured nail had been classified as a catastrophe. “Having to stab a ra**st tends to change a person.”
The muscle that twitched in his jaw revealed his displeasure. Evidently, she’d just reminded him of the purpose of his visit—if the scar on her cheek had ever let him forget it in the first place.
“Maybe you should sit down,” he said.
“Why would I need to do that?”
He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I have bad news.”
You and your ex-wife have reconciled for good? She cringed at her thoughts, knowing that if it was true, she should be happy. David’s eight-year-old son deserved the kind of family David was so determined to give him.
“I’m fine where I am.” When she stubbornly raised her chin, the hard line of his mouth softened. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Can’t you find any evidence that it was Burke who killed those other women?”
“No. Not yet.”
The grudging sound of those words told her that the failure ate at him. David didn’t like losing. Somehow it had become personal with Burke, more than just a job to David. But she couldn’t help being disappointed. She’d been praying he’d finally prove that Burke was every bit as evil as she claimed. She didn’t care what Burke’s lawyers had argued at his trial—that it had been his first offense; that he had no history of violence; that his wife, the person who knew him best, swore he’d never even raised his voice to her; that he was a high-functioning, churchgoing, productive member of the community. Skye had been there that night. She’d felt his deadly intent.
“Have you changed your mind?” she asked. “Do you think it was someone else?”
He thrust his hands in his pockets. “No. It’s him. Same pattern of behavior, similar victims. The shoe imprint we found at one of the scenes fits his size feet, which are unusually small for a man.”
“That’s not enough?”
“There were no discernible characteristics, other than size, that we could point to in order to bring charges.”
“I take it there’ve been no more bodies.”
“Nothing similar to the other three.”
So why was he here? Worried that Willis’s determination was waning, she grabbed his arm—and felt him tense the moment she touched him. She couldn’t tell if that was because he resented the contact or welcomed it, but she couldn’t lose her only police support. Almost everyone else on the force resented The Last Stand because of the publicity it brought to unsolved or mishandled cases. “It’s not too late,” she told him. “We’ve got time. We have to figure out a way to keep Burke behind bars.”
Visibly wincing, he pulled out of her grasp, and that was when the real terror set in. “What?” she said. “He’s not free, is he? He’s still in prison. They gave him eight to ten. You said that would most likely mean eight.”
“I’m sorry, Skye,” he muttered from between clenched teeth.
She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t slow her pulse. “What are you saying?”
“They’re letting him go next week.”
2
“What’s wrong?”
Sheridan’s voice sounded tinny as it came through the phone. Backing up to her kitchen counter, Skye pressed the handset more tightly to her ear, hoping it’d help her stop shaking. At least she’d managed to hold herself together until David left. She wouldn’t have wanted him to see her fall apart. He felt as if he’d let her down, even though he’d done everything he could. “He…he’s getting out,” she whispered.
“Who’s getting out?”
Her friend’s words came in a rush, confusion as evident as concern. They’d dealt with so many victims of violent crime since they’d started The Last Stand that Skye could’ve been referring to a dozen different men. “Burke.”
The shocked silence indicated that Sheridan recognized the name. “How?”
“The police have never been able to connect him to any other crime. Apparently he’s done the prison system a great service by providing free dental work for the past three years. And he didn’t actually get away with what he wanted to do to me before I stabbed him with the scissors I’d been using for my cross-stitch.”
“But he got eight to ten. Most inmates in California serve at least half their time.”
“Doesn’t matter. He’s getting out after only three. They’re putting him on parole.”
“No!”
“Yes,” Skye said, but she still couldn’t fully believe it. The guy had held a knife to her throat while stripping off her T-shirt and pajama bottoms. He’d touched her in cruel and intrusive ways, the memory of which made her nauseous.
“But…what about those murders?” Sheridan went on. “The three young women in the university area?”
Skye slid down the side of the cabinet to the floor. The fog was beginning to lift, as it usually did around noon, but the light trickling through the window above her kitchen sink only made her feel exposed. “Burke was good at covering his tracks. You know that. Our own investigators couldn’t come up with any more than David already had.” If David couldn’t do it, no one could….
Normally, Sheridan would’ve jumped on Skye’s inadvertent use of David’s first name. But she was obviously too engrossed in the conversation to notice. “He’s well-educated, smart,” she said about Burke.
“And without a conscience,” Skye added. “He’s far from what he appears to be. I had a roommate. He must’ve spent time stalking me to know my habits, where my bedroom was, when I’d be alone. He targeted me, planned the attack. If it wasn’t for the cross-stitch stuff I’d left on my nightstand, I would’ve been no different than those other girls who are now corpses, their cases unsolved.”