Confession (2 page)

He halted, and she edged her way behind her desk, using it as a barrier between herself and Dante. Maybe she should advise him to enroll in a social-­skills class since he didn't seem to realize how uncomfortable he was making her. Though she knew full well Dante wasn't on her schedule today—­no one was on her schedule today—­she powered on her computer. “Hang on a second while I check my calendar.”

“All right.” At least he had the courtesy to play along.

When he rested his hand on her desk, she noticed he was carrying a folded newspaper. She'd already seen today's headline, and it had given her the shivers. “Any minute now.” She signaled to Dante with an upheld index finger.

He nodded, and, in what seemed an eternity of time, her computer finished booting. She navigated from the welcome screen to her schedule, then, in a firm, matter-­of-­fact voice, she told him, “I'm afraid you've made a mistake. Your appointment isn't until Monday at 4:00
P.M.
”

As he took another step closer, a muscle twitched in his jaw. He didn't seem to care when his appointment was. Gesturing toward the leather armchair on the patient side of her desk, she fended him off. “Have a seat right there.” If she could get him to sit down, maybe she could gain control of the situation; she really ought to hear him out long enough to make sure this wasn't some sort of emergency.

Dante didn't sit. Instead, from across the desk, his body inclined forward. Her throat went dry, and her speeding pulse signaled a warning. If this were an emergency, he most likely would have tried to contact her through her answering ser­vice; besides which, he'd had plenty of time already to mention anything urgent. He must've known he didn't have an appointment today, so what the hell was he doing here on a Saturday?

Dante had no reason at all to expect her to be here. In fact, the more she thought about it, the less sense his presence made. Pulling her shoulders back, she said, “I am sorry, but you need to leave. You'll have to come back on Monday at four.”

The scar tissue above his mouth tugged his features into a menacing snarl. “I saw you talking to my brother.”

He'd followed her from the art gallery.

Even though Dante's primary diagnosis was schizotypal personality disorder, there was a paranoid component present, exacerbated by a sense of guilt and a need to compensate for feelings of inferiority. His slip-­and-­slide grip on reality occasionally propelled him into a near-­delusional state. She could see him careening into a dark well of anxiety now, and she realized she needed to reassure him she wasn't colluding with his half brother against him. “I wasn't talking to your brother about
you.
In fact, I didn't have any idea I had wandered into your brother's art gallery until he . . . introduced himself.”

“I don't believe you.”

As fast as her heart was galloping, she managed a controlled reply. “That hardly bodes well for our relationship as doctor and patient, does it? But the truth is, we were discussing a painting.”

“Discussing my painting, discussing me, same difference.”

His painting?

That bit of information did nothing to diminish her growing sense of apprehension. That painting had had a darkness in it like nothing she'd ever seen before. A darkness that had captivated her attention, daring her to unravel the secrets it belied.

Dante dropped into the kind of predatory crouch that would've made a kitten roll over and play dead.

But she wasn't a kitten.

Defiantly, she exhaled slow and easy. If she didn't know better, she'd think Dante was intentionally trying to frighten her. “I'm happy to see you during your regular hour, and we can schedule more frequent sessions if need be, but for now, I'm afraid it's time for you to go.”

He returned to a stand. “You're here all alone today.”

A shudder swept across her shoulders. He was right. No one else was in the building. She shared a secretary with an aesthetician down the hall, and today, Stacy hadn't been at her post. The aesthetician usually worked Saturday mornings, but she must've finished for the day and gone home. Home was where Faith wanted to go right now. She wished she'd kept her clutch in hand.
Her phone was in that clutch.
“We'll work on that trust issue . . . on Monday.”

With Dante's gaze tracking hers, her eyes fell on her lovely macaron bag, lying on the desktop near his fingertips. He lifted the clutch as if to offer it to her, but then drew his hand back and stroked the satin shell against his face.

The room suddenly seemed too small. “I don't mean to be unkind. We've been working hard these past few weeks and making good progress up to this point, and I'd hate to have to refer you to another psychiatrist, but I will if I have to.” She paused for breath.

“You're barefoot.” Slowly, he licked his lower lip.

Feeling as vulnerable as if she were standing before him bare naked instead of barefooted, she slipped back into her shoes. Jerking a glance around the room, she cursed herself for furnishing the place so sparsely, as if she didn't plan on staying in Santa Fe long. It wasn't like she had anywhere else to call home anymore, and now here she stood without so much as a paperweight to conk someone on the head with. Under these circumstances, she'd have little chance against a potential attacker. Her Krav Maga instructor wouldn't approve of her lack of preparedness. The window was open; at least she could scream for help if necessary. “We're done here.”

“I'm not leaving, Dr. Clancy.” He opened her purse, removed her cell and slid it into his pants pocket, then dropped her purse on the floor.

Her stomach got fizzy again, and she gripped the edge of her desk. Screaming didn't seem like the most effective plan. It might destabilize him and cause him to do something they'd both regret. For now, at least, a better plan was to stay calm and listen. If she could figure out what was going on inside his head, maybe she could stay a step ahead of him and defuse the situation before it erupted into a full-­scale nightmare. “Give me back my phone, then we can talk.”

Here came that involuntary snarl of his. “No phone. And I'm not leaving until I've done what I came here to do.” Carefully unfolding the newspaper he'd brought with him, he showed her the headline:

SANT
A
F
E
S
A
I
N
T
C
L
A
I
M
S
F
O
URTH VICTIM.

 

TWO

F
aith's vision stuttered across the bold block letters of the headline. Her knuckles throbbed from gripping the edge of her desk, and the nerves that ran from her wrists to her elbows buzzed like bees.

Fourth Victim.

Was she destined to become the fifth?

A chill swept over her, and a fleeting wish that someone wonderful would appear and throw warm, protective arms around her, made her breath catch.
Ridiculous.
Jerking her chin up, she pushed away the useless thought and focused on the dark, contorted face of the man standing on the opposite side of her desk.

Dante Jericho.

His black hair stuck up wildly from the way he'd been yanking it here and twirling it there. As his gaze flitted rapidly about her office, a distended vein pulsed frantically in his forehead. His pumped arms finished in balled-­up, ready-­to-­smash fists, and his nostrils flared like those of a bull that had been offered the matador's cape. If the look he was going for was enraged serial killer
. . .
then, well done indeed.

Her throat contracted in a painful spasm. Part of her wanted to scream.
Most
of her wanted to scream. But then, the professional corner of her brain kicked in. Suppose her gut, which was telling her she was in real danger here, was right. She certainly needed a better strategy than shouting out a window or knocking her
patient
over the head with a nonexistent paperweight . . . and she needed that better strategy now. Turning over the facts, she sifted them through a rational filter, one constructed from education and training, if not from experience. She was a psychiatrist, facing the unexpected from a disturbed, and
perhaps,
a dangerous man.

Yet, fear of her patient in no way relieved her of her duty toward him.

As her professional persona wrestled her anxiety into submission, her heart rate slowed, and her thoughts sharpened. What was really going on here?

Dante clearly
wanted
her to believe he was dangerous—­reminding her they were alone in the building, confiscating her phone, showing her that horrible headline. And yet, he'd done nothing to hurt her—­so far—­despite the fact that he'd had ample opportunity. He hadn't brandished a weapon, but, of course, that didn't mean he wasn't in possession of one. Her legs wobbled beneath her, and she pressed her knees together to steady herself. Then she softly smacked her fist into her palm. She'd decided on her course of action.

She would wrench control back from Dante, then treat this like any run-­of-­the-­mill therapy session . . . as long as he kept his distance and made no overt threat.

After taking a moment to summon her nerve, she tiptoed to gain height, then leaned forward across the desk until her forehead nearly touched his. Infusing her voice with authority, and then some, she said, “Sit. Down.”

For a two-­second lifetime, Dante stood his ground, their faces so close she could feel the heat coming off him, smell his camouflaged whiskey breath. Then he stepped back and dropped into the leather armchair across from her desk.

Aborting a relieved sigh before it could go on long enough to give her away, she sat down. Dante lowered his eyes, and when he looked up again, the fierce expression in them had dissipated by half. So far so good.

He dug in his pocket and pulled out her cell, studied it, then put it back in his pocket. His way of intimidating her. She ignored the gesture, and a taut silence stretched between them like a high wire—­whoever lost his balance first would shift control to the other side.

Only a moment or two passed before Dante fell. “You want your phone back. Who exactly are you planning to call, Dr. Clancy?”

He wasn't going to return her phone, and begging him for it would only weaken her position. Leaning back in her chair, she crossed her arms over her chest and said nothing.

“Nine-­one-­one? The men in white coats?” A warble crept into his voice, then he hid his face with his hands.

That's when she knew for sure . . . Dante was scared.

Well, that made two of them.

His hands dropped to his lap. “Surely, you're not thinking of calling your brother-­in-­law—­the detective. What's his name? Oh, yes, Benson.”

Her body jerked in response to his words. What did he know about her family? He couldn't possibly know the mere mention of her brother-­in-­law left her feeling as though her heart had been carved out of her chest and the remaining cavity packed with sawdust.

“Judging by the look on your face, I'd say I hit a nerve . . . but, wait, Benson's not actually your brother-­in-­law anymore, is he? Not now that your sister, Grace, is dead, and he's remarried.”

She shot him a perky smile and kept her shaky hands hidden. Dante knew nothing important. He couldn't possibly know she'd spent years traipsing after her dead sister's husband like a substitute wife, all the while knowing she could never measure up to the original. Not even
Danny
knew that. As far as Danny and the rest of the world were concerned, she was just good-­old-­reliable Aunt Faith. Always there when he needed a home-­cooked meal or a sitter for Katie and just as ready to disappear into the background when he didn't.

Dante might have gone digging and uncovered a few facts about her past, but he
understood
nothing. This was little more than a shot in the dark on his part. But why had he bothered to go digging into her past at all? She suppressed a shudder and remained silent.

Dante tilted his head, making him appear almost sympathetic. “I mean once your sister died, that severed any true family connection with Benson, and your parents, they were killed in a car accident when you were, what? Eleven years old? Poor Grace was eighteen. Do I have that right?”

She flashed back twenty years to Grace, waiting for Faith outside her classroom, arms reaching out, eyes swollen with tears. Touching her necklace, the one her sister had given her, she willed her breathing to steady, then glanced indifferently at her watch and said, “Time's almost up. You've got five more minutes.”

“Speaking of Grace, she raised you after your parents died, but when you were just seventeen, she swallowed an entire bottle of happy pills, leaving you with let's see . . .” He tapped his chin with his forefinger. “Leaving you with
no real family whatsoever.
And, of course, you're new in town and can't have made many friends, so let's face it, you don't need your phone after all because you, my dear doctor, have no one in the wide world to call.” Studying her reaction and seeming pleased with it, he patted his pocket. “I think I'll just hang on to your cell until I've said my piece.”

Her heart thudded heavily in her chest, and she looked toward the door. It might as well have been miles away instead of just across the room. She certainly couldn't reach it without going through Dante. As much as she wanted to run far away from him, she straightened her back and leaned toward him. He had no words that could make her feel more alone in life than she already did, and she would not allow him to frighten her into behaving foolishly. Determined to keep her wits about her, she did her best to smooth her face into an expressionless mask.

“Don't look so alarmed.”

Poker was never her game.

With a wave of his hand, he sat back. “I can't trust just anyone with my deepest darkest secrets, now can I? I've done my homework, that's all.
You've
nothing to fear from me because I
like
you. You're smart and hardworking. Well educated. But most importantly, I know I can trust you.”

Oddly, his tone had turned sincere.

“You
can
trust me.” She meant what she said. Dante was her patient, and she felt her responsibility toward him as keenly as she felt the room closing in on her like the walls of a coffin. If there was any way she could keep them
both
safe, she would.

“I trust you because we're alike. We're both of us all alone in the world. I know you understand how desperate that feels, and I know you'll try to help me.” He arched one brow high and enunciated each word sharply, “No matter what I've done.”

No matter what I've done.

Her body started to rock, and she stiffened, stilling herself. With all her heart, she wished the man in front of her had done nothing terrible at all. He had a massive guilt complex—­that much she knew from the few therapy sessions they'd already had. Most of it to do with his mother, Sylvia, and his brother, Luke.

“You're not alone, Dante.” His parents might be dead, but unlike Faith, Dante still had a living sibling. “You have your brother.”

His brow lowered, and the corners of his mouth drooped until he seemed more sad clown than raging bull. “You think a man like Luke Jericho cares about me—­his useless bastard half brother?”

The self-­loathing reflected in that comment only reinforced her suspicion that Dante was carrying far too much guilt around—­guilt that belonged elsewhere—­like on his father's shoulders, for example. And from what Dante had told her, Luke did care about him. Lowering her voice to a soothing tone, she reminded him of his own words. “Didn't you say that even though your father left his entire estate to your brother—­”

“You mean my
half
brother. Remember, I'm a
bastard.
My mother was my father's housekeeper.”

She steepled her fingers and rested her chin atop them. “Didn't you say Luke has set his lawyers working to divide the estate equitably between the two of you? Didn't you say Luke's invited you to move back to the family ranch?”

“He's trying to buy me off.”

She shook her head. “I don't see why he'd need to do that. I won't pretend to know what's in Luke's mind and heart, but judging by his actions, I'd say he's trying to build a relationship with you. I'd say he's trying to be a good brother.”

When Dante raised one hand to press his fingers against his eyes, she noted a faint tremor. As a rule, though she knew of certain exceptions, serial killers weren't prone to nervous tremors—­not with all that ice running through their veins.

Her head was clearing, and the facts were shifting into a new, if confusing configuration. She couldn't be sure, of course, but she was beginning to suspect Dante's antics were more a cry for help than a true threat to her safety. In this moment, he seemed calm enough that she dared a confrontation.

“Dante, what's this all about?” Then in a firm tone, she added, “I'm willing to hear you out, but I don't like playing games.”

He reached for the newspaper, rolled it up, and began slapping it into his open hand.

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Thwack.

She couldn't see the headline, but with each slap, the words she'd read earlier echoed in her mind.

Serial. Killer. Claims. Fourth. Victim.

Her own hands still trembled, so she kept them hidden beneath the desk. Her body didn't seem to be getting the message her brain was sending:

He's doing his damnedest to scare you. Don't react.

The sound of the fan's whirring and the slapping of the newspaper set her teeth on edge. Deliberately, she relaxed her jaw and waited while Dante struggled with his demons. At last, he dropped the paper and met her gaze. Tears had formed in his eyes, and his lips twitched into an apologetic smile. Whatever game they were playing, she was about to learn the rules.

Her heart picked up speed.

“I'm him.”

Her cheeks went numb. “You're who?”

He passed one hand over his face. “
Him.
I'm the Santa Fe Saint.
I
killed those ­people.”

The whirring of the fan in the quiet room grew so loud she had to stop herself from covering her ears. The numbness in her cheeks spread to her mouth and tongue, and she couldn't swallow or speak. Her skin felt waxy, and she pinched her arm like a child trying to wake herself from a bad dream.

Then Dante started to cry in earnest, to sob really. He sobbed and shuddered until blood, just a trickle, leaked from his nose onto his face. She frowned. A psychopath wouldn't feel remorse. He simply wouldn't. Was Dante's display of emotion real, or just another show put on for her benefit?

If Dante was feigning his distress to trick her, he was not only the embodiment of a textbook, conscienceless killer, but a consummate actor to boot.

But
if his emotion was real . . . then he most likely was
not
a killer at all. And if Dante wasn't the Santa Fe Saint, why would he confess?

As desperately as she tried to make the pieces of this puzzle fit, they weren't falling into any known psychiatric algorithm.

“I-­I'm not certain . . .” Her voice trailed off. She didn't want to accuse him of lying and risk angering him. If he was indeed the Saint, he could turn on her in a heartbeat, and she'd have no defense other than screaming out that window and hoping she wasn't dead by the time help arrived.

And yet she didn't believe he
was
the Saint. Not completely anyway.

Dante spread the newspaper, almost reverently, on her desk and laid out his case for her. “See right here.” He jabbed the headline with his index finger. “It says the police are closing in on the killer. They're about to make an arrest.” He looked up at her with pleading eyes. “You have to make it stop. I can't sleep, knowing they're coming for me.”

A fresh trickle of blood joined the drying stain under his nose, and he wiped it off with the back of his sleeve. “I can't go on hiding in the shadows, looking over my shoulder, waiting for the moment the cops handcuff me and haul me down to the station. Last night, I locked myself in the closet, in case they came for me. I mean, they might say I tried to escape and shoot me. It happens, you know.”