“It’s not as if she’s been keeping a low profile,” he said, raising an indignant hand to his unimpressive chest. “I’ve seen her on talk shows, advocating tougher sentences for ‘monsters’ like me. She’s been in the papers, too. As a matter of fact, there was an article just a few weeks ago about that organization of hers. What’s the name of it? The Last Stand?” He chuckled. “Give me a break. She doesn’t know what a real monster can do. But that’s like her, isn’t it? To go charging after a cause?”
David’s muscles bunched at the affectionate way he spoke of the woman he’d terrorized. “You don’t even know her.”
“What do you mean? I know her better than anyone else. Including you,” he said. Then he hung up and knocked on the door to be taken away.
David didn’t respond when the corrections officer opened a door on his own side of the room. He was too busy trying to process Oliver Burke’s final words, the way he’d said Skye’s name.
“Detective Willis?” the corrections officer prompted.
Blinking, David set the handset in its base and walked on leaden feet toward the exit.
3
The Last Stand was located on Watt Avenue in a flat-roofed white building constructed in the early seventies, when architecture—at least in Skye’s opinion—had hit an all-time low. Made of cinder block and painted white, with red lava rocks on the roof, it wasn’t pretentious, but it was conveniently located, only ten minutes from downtown toward the eastern suburbs, with excellent freeway access to both Interstate 80 and Highway 50. It was also on the ground floor. And the rent was affordable. They leased three thousand square feet for only $2,000 a month. They each had a private office. There was a small kitchen in back, two meeting rooms and a large classroom, in which they offered self-defense courses or gathered with the professionals they sometimes hired to assist their clients—bodyguards, private investigators, attorneys, psychologists.
As Skye found the right key to let herself in—the door was always locked because they accepted only prearranged appointments—she noticed a new flyer taped to the inside of the glass door. Missing: Sean Brady Regan, D.O.B. March 2, 1964; Last seen: New Year’s Day. Below the words was a picture of a pleasant-looking man Skye had met at the office three weeks earlier. And underneath that was a single typed sentence. Last known whereabouts: Del Paso Heights, Sacramento, California.
Sheridan must’ve spotted her standing there, stunned, because she came from inside to open the door. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you when you called this morning. I knew it’d upset you and…and you’d already suffered a shock.”
Skye didn’t answer. She pointed to the flyer. “When did you get this?”
“The police dropped it off this morning.”
“She did it,” Skye said simply. “His wife killed him.”
“Why? For the insurance money?”
“No, Sean didn’t have any life insurance. It was one of the first things I asked him. But he told me he was afraid of her. He thought she was seeing another man and wanted a divorce but didn’t want the custody battle that would go with it.”
Sheridan tucked her long dark hair behind one ear. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, but with her bone structure, wide periwinkle-blue eyes fringed by thick black lashes, and flawless skin, she turned heads everywhere she went, especially male heads. “We can’t do it all, Skye. It’s nearly the weekend. Let the police handle this one.”
Skye gaped at her. “How can you say that? According to the flyer, it’s been seven days. We need to get Jonathan Stivers on this right away. He’s good. He can find practically anyone.”
“He’s also expensive, and we’re running low on funds.” Sheridan reached out to touch her arm. “We’ve got to be careful, Skye, reserve our assets so we can keep our doors open.”
The fact Sheridan would say such a thing meant they were already in trouble. But Skye couldn’t deal with that yet. She was too busy thinking about Sean. Thanks to his wife, the mechanic-turned–jewelry salesman who’d come to her for help could be rotting in a gully somewhere.
“I told him to leave her, to get away.” Skye drew a deep breath, attempting to regroup. Again.
“He wouldn’t?”
“He refused to abandon his kids. And he doubted his own fears. He said his family laughed at him when he told them he thought Tasha was dangerous.”
Sheridan gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “The police are doing what they can, Skye.”
But it never seemed to be enough. David was the most dedicated cop she knew and even he hadn’t been able to put Burke away forever. There were other problems—people falling through the cracks, the system breaking down. That was why she, Sheridan and Jasmine spent almost every minute of every day helping one victim after another. For some, they provided a private investigator to assist prosecutors. For others, it was a better attorney, a place to stay, medical help, even physical therapy and counseling. They tried to fill in wherever necessary. But that required a lot of resources, and although they took home just enough to cover their own basic needs, there was never enough money to do it all.
Fortunately, now that they’d proven they were completely committed to what they’d started three years ago, they were beginning to gain the attention of local and state officials. A state senator had promised to attend a fund-raising event at the Hyatt next weekend, bolstering Skye’s hopes for more generous contributions.
“I feel an obligation to do something, Sher. When we met, he asked if we help men. He seemed…embarrassed, as if it was emasculating in some way. I told him we try to help as many people as we can, regardless of gender, age or ethnicity.”
“So what did you promise him?”
“An appointment with Jonathan. I thought we should find out if his suspicions about his wife had any foundation in fact, but then he never came back. I called him several times, trying to touch base, but it was right before Christmas and, when I didn’t hear from him, I assumed he was out of town with his family. Then…this.” She bit her lip, terrified that another life had been lost—a life she might have been able to save. “I should’ve been more diligent, should’ve driven over to his place—”
“Skye, what you assumed was perfectly reasonable. We still don’t know what happened. Maybe he left because he found some sort of proof that he wasn’t safe.”