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And Nine had ruined that. Taken it away. Shattered his one sacred memory/fantasy from high school.

Well, to hell with her.

But what about the message? Some sick bastard is out there, maybe stalking her?

He didn’t like thinking about that. It bothered him deeply. Not that September Rafferty would appreciate him worrying and caring; she’d be more likely to slap some cuffs on him and throw him into a holding cell than listen to anything he had to say. But Jesus Christ . . . who was this sicko? Her brother, March? Her
father?
It wasn’t Auggie. That just didn’t compute on so many levels.

And didn’t she have a stepbrother, or maybe two? He could ask Colin. His brother was more up on the Rafferty family dynamics than he was. What Jake remembered most was that Nine’s mother, Kathryn, had died in an automobile accident and his own father had lost his job right afterward, basically because of it. And then Nine’s older sister May was accidentally killed in that robbery attempt at Louie’s. Talk about your string of bad luck. But then some families seemed to have more than their share of tragedy that even wealth couldn’t save them from.

He went back to his glass of wine, thinking about Nine. He’d sensed at that arrogant teen level that she’d had a thing for him. She hadn’t been overt about it, like some girls. He’d just known it by the way she seemed to laugh and talk with her friends, but when he showed up her animation fled. That wasn’t always the way it was. When they were younger and he’d run into her at school or at home—his father did work for hers and there were a few times when they actually played together at the vineyard—they had fun together. He’d given her grief about her family money as a dumb way to relate and luckily she’d ignored his jibes. She wasn’t inhibited, and she tried to keep up with him and Auggie and Colin in whatever game or competition they planned. But then junior high and high school arrived and everything changed. At first he’d thought she didn’t like him any longer, and he’d tried hard to change her mind any chance he got. He made the rookie mistake of going back to the well and teasing her about her family’s wealth again—one of those “I know you so well” kind of things that only earned him the cold shoulder. Then he tried to seem interested in what she was doing, when he was so self-absorbed in himself that he could scarcely listen to what anyone else was saying, so she saw right through that, too. Finally, he stopped trying so hard, settling instead for a quick smile of hello when he saw her in the halls or at some school event. Over the course of their senior year he sensed a bit of thawing on her part, and when he stopped actively trying to make her like him, he noticed that she was hanging around his usual haunts more, attending baseball games that spring, becoming a fixture around the periphery of his sphere of friends.

And then he and Loni had a BIG breakup—they were all big, but this one was colossal—chock full of all the high school drama that made him groan aloud now. Loni had accused him of having a make-out session with Patrice LaVelle, which had pissed him off but good because, though Patrice was only a friend of his, Loni just couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of friendship between a man and a woman, possibly because she never felt it herself. They broke up before the end of the school year and Jake felt nothing but relief. Then he’d had his night with Nine Rafferty and he’d kinda thought maybe something more would come of that, but she’d shut down right afterward—his friend, T.J., hadn’t helped—and Jake, in his infinite teen wisdom, had drifted back to Loni.

Why had he spent so much of his life with Loni? Why hadn’t he chased after September Rafferty with everything he had? How could it be that she thought he could be a sick stalker of some kind at the very least, and a
killer
at the worst?

Okay. No need for hyperbole. She was following an investigative road and he happened to be one stop along the route. It wasn’t any more sinister than that. It just bugged the hell out of him that the thought even whispered across her brain.

Now he gulped down half the glass of wine, then took it back inside and dumped the rest down the drain though it wasn’t half bad. But if he was going to drink he wanted something stronger, and the last thing he needed was to drink himself into a stupor for no goddamn good reason.

Half an hour later, as he lay in bed, unable to sleep, he realized what he really wanted was a woman. And not just any woman. He wanted Nine Rafferty. She’d been a fire in his blood twelve years ago, and, seeing her again, that fire had been rekindled with a blowtorch.

But how to do it? How could he get past her very strong defenses?

He fell into an uneasy sleep thinking about her, his mind worrying, his dreams full of Nine’s image, always just out of reach, as shadows chased her through the dark.

Chapter 8

Sunday morning dawned hot and mean and slightly overcast, the kind of day that happens after a buildup of heat. September took a shower and then put on shorts and a tank, sat down, and felt herself start to sweat. She changed into running gear, but the air was so humid when she stepped outside that she defaulted to a fast walk and even that took its toll. By the time she cruised into a favorite Laurelton coffee shop, Bean There, Done That, she was sweating freely and didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought as she ordered another iced coffee, her favorite drink this summer and fall.

She sipped it as she stood by the glass door to the outside, looking through the pane and debating whether she was ready to brave the blasting heat or stick with air-conditioned splendor.

In the light of day she was wondering if she’d made too much of the fact that Do Unto Others had started his killing spree after the article about her in the
Laurelton Reporter.
It felt a little like she was making herself the center of the universe.

After a few minutes she pulled out her cell phone and called Auggie. He answered sleepily on the fourth ring. “Did you forget I’m working that drug task force with Portland and Saturday nights I don’t get home till you get up?”

“I need to pick your brain,” she said, ignoring him.

“Coffee . . .” she heard him say to someone, undoubtedly Liv, who’d asked him if he would like anything. “Go ahead,” he said, sounding less than thrilled.

September stepped outside, walked down the sidewalk away from other ears, and filled him in on her thoughts about the Do Unto Others killer and how the killings started almost immediately after she began with the Laurelton PD. She stopped beneath a maple tree for some relief from the heat and briefly she gave him a rundown of what she and Sandler had picked up in their interviews on Friday, finishing with, “And I ran into Jake Westerly and questioned him some.”

“Westerly? Where?”

“At The Willows. He just—dropped in.”

“Did he know you were there?”

“No.” She heard herself, and then added, “Not that I know of. He didn’t come to see me.”

“Well, why did he come?”

September realized she had no idea. “He’d been at Westerly Vale and was in the area.”

“So, what did you question him about?”

“When Gretchen and I talked to Greg Dempsey, he brought up that Sheila was friends with Jake.”

“You didn’t mention that before,” Auggie said, sounding wide awake all of a sudden. “How friendly?”

“That’s what I asked Jake,” September said.

“And . . . ?”

“They were more like acquaintances.”

“Did Dempsey bring up anybody else?”

“Not really.”

“Just Jake Westerly?”

It felt like he was picking at a sore. “He said Sheila and Jake were having an affair.”

“Ahhh . . .”

“But it was a lie. Sheila cut Jake’s hair at a place called His and Hers Hair Salon. She went to Westerly Vale once with some friends for wine tasting and invited Jake to join them at The Barn Door. He met her once, or maybe twice, I don’t know. She had a couple of girlfriends with her, one of them was dating a guy named Phil Merit. We’re running them down now.”

“Okay.”

“And the bartenders at The Barn Door said there was another guy, Ray, no last name that we know of yet, who saw some guy harassing Sheila. Ray tried to step in, but she said she’d gone to school with the guy.”

“And this guy harassing her wasn’t Jake.”

“Nope. The bartenders called Jake ‘Mr. Perfect,’ and this guy sounded like he was pretty far from that.”

“What does Sandler think?”

September inhaled quietly, exhaled, then admitted, “I haven’t told Gretchen that I went to school with Jake yet.”

Silence. Then, carefully, “Why?”

“I just didn’t want to get into it until I knew more.” She’d never told her brother about her one night with Jake, and now she gritted her teeth for a moment, poised to tell him, surprisingly nervous to do it.

He broke in before she could say anything, “Was Westerly in your homeroom with Mrs. Walsh?”

“No, he was in McBride’s with you. But it doesn’t matter. He wouldn’t send me the artwork like that.”

“Who else would send it to you? You’re clearly thinking Westerly’s connected somehow. That’s why you don’t want to talk about it. You’re trying to protect him because you like him.”

“I don’t know him enough to even have an opinion,” she stated firmly. “High school’s ancient history.”

“You liked him once. A lot.”

A frisson ran through her. “What do you mean?”

“Nine . . . I know.”

She closed her eyes and her grip on the phone was slippery from sweat. “Yeah?”

“I knew right after it happened. Guys talk.”

“T.J.,” she said through her teeth.

“All guys talk. I pretty much wanted to kill him and Jake, but it was your business and you weren’t talking. If it makes you feel any better, I don’t believe Westerly’s good for any of this. He’s not that guy. Trust Sandler. Tell her that you and Westerly have history. She’s a pain in the ass, but she’s not an idiot.”

“Okay,” she said.

“And if I’m wrong, at least you haven’t held back on her,” Auggie went on blithely while September’s anxieties, which had begun to disperse, came racing back.
It’s not Jake
, she thought.

Struggling to put things back on track, she said, “So, am I trying too hard, making the world revolve around me or something, or do you think maybe I’m onto something. That the killer chose Sheila after seeing my newspaper article?”

“It’s possible.”

“But you don’t think so.”

Auggie exhaled heavily. “You know I don’t like thinking you’re his target,” he said. “But if you are, then he went after Dempsey and maybe got a taste for it, and then went after Decatur because maybe he knew her . . . ?”

“That sounds right,” September answered, glad to finally have Auggie thinking along the same lines. “And then he chose Glenda because I mentioned her uncle on television. You remember: you were with me when we found Glenda.”

“Yeah . . . there was less planning involved in that homicide, and I’ve grown convinced he had to leave before he was finished. Otherwise he would have left her in a field. He knew all three of them,” Auggie said. “And then he sent you the message.”

She heard the thread of worry in his voice though he tried to quell it. “You know, I just assumed the message was only sent to me because I’m following the case. But maybe he sent something similar to his other victims.”

“Their places were searched pretty thoroughly, weren’t they?” Auggie asked.

“Yeah. No notes . . . But I just don’t want to overlook something.”

“If the killer wrote the message, which I’m beginning to think you’re right, he did, then he’s toying with you.” A moment, then he said seriously, “You could be next on his list.”

“I’m forewarned, Auggie,” she said, hearing how grim she sounded.

“Be careful, Nine. Like I said, I don’t believe it’s Westerly. He sure doesn’t seem like a sociopath.” He hesitated, then added, “But again, I’d hate to find out I’m wrong.”

Monday morning Jake drove with repressed fury through the commuters, squeezing the Tahoe between drivers in order to change lanes, earning himself blasting horns and stiff middle fingers.

“Stick it where the sun don’t shine,” he muttered, turning into the parking garage and shooting down the ramp to his designated spot, a parking space barely wide enough for his rig, much to the dismay of the BMW- and Lexus-driving lawyers on seventeen.

Jake’s office was on the eleventh floor in with a group of other investment advisors who operated independently from each other. Across the hall was Capital Group, Inc., a conglomerate that dealt mainly in stocks and bonds, but continually tried to poach on Jake and his other business associates. They were called CGI, which fit in a way, as it also stood for Computer Generated Image, Hollywood magic made through companies like Pixel and Disney. That’s how Jake liked to think of them, as substantial as fairy dust, as real as a series of computer bytes. They were tenacious, though. They’d moved in right on the same floor with their competitors without a qualm. If Jake et al. didn’t like it, they could damn well move.

If it weren’t for the signed lease, he’d be gone already. As it was he had to wait another year and a half and it deeply pissed him off.

But maybe it was another sign. A reason to get out of this business and find his “bliss,” as the self-help gurus seemed to be always preaching.

Bliss, schmiss. He was simply looking for a clear path.

Nine Rafferty . . .

Her name was in his head like a neon sign, and he tried to shove it aside as he slipped into the central coffee room for their group of offices. He’d had a bad feeling hanging over him since seeing her again. She thought he was involved with Sheila’s death. She did. She hadn’t come right out and said it, but it was there all right. And the second grade artwork . . . he didn’t get that at all. It was downright chilling, when you thought about it. Who would have it? Someone in her own family, was his best guess, but she’d talked like she thought
he had it
.

At least that’s what it felt like after the fact. When he’d had a chance to digest everything she’d said, alluded to, and hinted at. Bullshit technique. Probably learned it in cop school.