Текст книги "Something about You"
Автор книги: Julie James
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
Eighteen
THE STREET OUTSIDE Cameron’s house was pure mayhem. There were squad cars, unmarked police and FBI cars, an ambulance, and cops and agents everywhere. Wilkins had arrived shortly after the paramedics with several FBI teams. Quickly thereafter, Detective Slonsky had shown up at the scene with his own men.
The paramedic who had bandaged Cameron’s shoulder led her to the ambulance parked against the curb. The back doors were open and Collin sat inside, facing out toward the street. A second paramedic checked his eyes, looking for signs of a concussion.
The instant he spotted Cameron, Collin pushed the paramedic aside and vaulted out of the ambulance.
“Oh, thank God.” He pulled her into his arms and held her tight. “They wouldn’t let me see you—they said they were keeping you isolated until they were certain the guy was no longer in the area.”
“Slonsky said the cops lost him in the alley.”
Collin pulled back. His eyes fell on her bloody shirt. “When I heard you’d been shot, I nearly lost it.”
“I’m okay,” Cameron reassured him. “The paramedic said I might need a couple of stitches, but I was lucky. The bullet just grazed the top of my shoulder.” She reached up and brushed Collin’s hair aside, being careful to avoid the ugly bruise on his head. “How about you? How does your head feel?”
Collin touched the bump. “Terrible. But my pride hurts far worse. I’m so sorry, Cam. When I think about what could’ve happened . . . I should’ve protected you better.”
She took his hands and squeezed them. “It turned out okay.”
“Luckily the cavalry came when it did,” Collin said.
Cameron doubted she’d ever be able to forget the sight of Jack bursting through the glass doors to rescue her. When they’d been on the rooftop deck, right before the paramedics had arrived, she’d noticed a cut above his cheekbone. And when he’d stood up to let the paramedics take over, she’d seen several more cuts on his hands. Visible reminders of the danger he’d put himself in. For her.
Detective Slonsky stood by one of the cop cars, talking to Officers Harper and Regan. When he saw Cameron standing by the ambulance, he headed over.
“We’re finishing our check of the house now,” he told her. “My guys will follow you over to the hospital and get your statement there.”
“Like hell they will.”
At the sound of Jack’s voice, Cameron looked over and saw him cut through the front gate, followed by Wilkins. Jack strode over to Regan and Harper. “Which one of you checked her bedroom?”
Harper straightened up, as if bracing himself for the worst. “I did.”
“Did you go inside her closet?”
“I took a look in there, yes.”
Jack waited, the anger visible on his face.
“But, no . . . I didn’t actually go inside the closet,” Harper admitted.
Slonsky walked over. “What’d you guys find?” he asked Wilkins and Jack.
“Some of the dresses had been knocked off the rack behind the door,” Wilkins answered.
“And there were two shoe imprints in the carpet. About a men’s size eleven, I’d guess,” Jack said. “Your men are off this case, Slonsky. And don’t even think about giving me any crap about jurisdiction.”
His eyes dared anyone to challenge him on this.
CAMERON SANK AGAINST the ambulance, needing a moment.
Collin’s hand touched hers. “You okay?”
She nodded. “Just thinking.” And trying not to throw up.
The killer had been hiding in her bedroom closet.
Oddly, more than anything else that had happened that afternoon, that left her feeling violated. And the thing she kept coming back to was this: she’d left work unexpectedly early that afternoon. She wasn’t supposed to have been home at that time.
The cops and FBI had examined the doors and windows of her house and found no visible signs of his entry, which meant the killer knew how to pick a lock without leaving evidence behind. During the entire attack, he’d been terrifyingly cold and in control and had never spoken once. Bottom line: he was not an amateur. He knew what he was doing.
But Cameron would’ve thought that a professional would break into her house at night. Four in the afternoon was a much riskier time—people walked their dogs, picked up their kids from school, and started to come home from work.
Which meant the killer knew that she was being watched. He was aware that his only opportunity to get inside the house was while she was at work. Once she returned home, she was under constant police surveillance.
Cameron thought back to the moment she’d first seen the man coming down the stairs for her. The creepy black mask and gloves, the gun he’d pressed against her temple and under her chin. The sound of the gun going off. She’d have nightmares for weeks, of that she had no doubt. And now the thought that he had been watching her, that he knew her daily routine . . . well, she liked to think she was a strong woman, but this was almost too much.
Almost, she emphasized to herself. She might have nightmares for weeks, but she would not let this asshole, whoever the hell he was, turn her into a helpless wreck. And if he did, well, she would just have to find a way not to show it.
After finishing what looked like a pretty heated discussion with Slonsky, Jack approached her. “I’m going to ride with you in the ambulance. Wilkins will follow in his car. We’ll get statements from you both at the hospital.”
“At least mine will be short, seeing how I slept on the floor through the whole thing. How clever and brave of me,” Collin said, his voice tinged with disgust. He climbed into the ambulance.
“I spoke to Davis,” Jack said to Cameron. “After we’re finished at the hospital, he wants to see you, me, and Wilkins in his office.” His gaze fell to her shoulder. “I heard you might need stitches.”
He looked so serious right then.
“Oh no—not again,” Cameron said. “If you keep up this whole nice routine, there’s a good chance I’ll lose it right here. And personally, I was hoping to postpone all freak-outs over the attack until later, in the privacy of my own home.”
Jack studied her for a moment. “You are something else, Cameron Lynde.”
He held out his hand to help her into the ambulance.
Nineteen
CAMERON AND WILKINS waited in the chairs outside Davis’s office. It was nearly 9:00 P.M., and the FBI agents stared at her curiously as they trickled out of the office after putting in long days.
Davis had asked to speak with Jack first. Alone. Wilkins stood up and paced the room, and Cameron could tell he did not like being left on the sidelines. Frankly, neither did she. With a feigned yawn, she leaned her head back against the glass window of Davis’s office. The curtain was drawn, so she couldn’t see anything, but if perchance she happened to overhear a word or two . . .
“I already tried that,” Wilkins said. “They’re speaking too quietly.”
“What do you think they’re talking about?”
“You.”
“Well, I know me, but what about me specifically?”
Wilkins glanced at the door. “I don’t know.”
Cameron picked her head off the glass. “Do you think Jack in is trouble?”
Wilkins answered after a pause. “I should be in there.”
The door suddenly flew open and Davis stepped out. He nodded at Wilkins, then gestured to Cameron. “Ms. Lynde, if you would please join us in my office.”
She followed Wilkins inside. Jack was perched against a table in the corner of the room. His face was unreadable.
Cameron took a seat in front of Davis’s desk, in the chair closer to Jack. Wilkins sat on her other side. Davis folded his hands as he sat down. Like the other time she’d been in his office, three years ago, he wore a serious expression.
“Ms. Lynde, as the special agent in charge of this office, I would like to give you my most sincere apologies. For what it’s worth, I’ve put a call into the CPD superintendent. I plan to see that the officers who had been handling your surveillance this afternoon are disciplined appropriately. I’m furious about what happened. I promise you that it will not happen again.”
“Thank you. Luckily Agent Pallas was there. He deserves to be commended for his actions today. I can’t imagine what might’ve happened if he hadn’t shown up when he did,” Cameron said.
“Jack and I have spoken. I agree with him that the FBI needs to take over your protective surveillance. In light of today’s attack, we’re going to assign an agent who will be with you at all times. He’ll move into your house, follow you to work, go everywhere you go. I’ve asked Jack, as the lead investigator in this case, to take on this assignment. He has agreed.”
Cameron was careful not to show any reaction to this. Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see Jack. His expression remained neutral as well. It was weird, sitting next to him in Davis’s office, pretending as though everything was business as usual despite what had happened between them on Saturday night.
“I’m afraid this is going to be a much more intrusive level of protective surveillance,” Davis continued, “but unfortunately, we don’t have much choice in the matter.”
“Trust me—no one wants to make sure we don’t have a repeat of today’s incident more than I do,” Cameron said. “In this case, I’m happy to be inconvenienced.”
“With Jack handling the surveillance, we’ll need someone else to manage the day-to-day responsibilities of the investigation.” Davis turned to Wilkins. “Sam—Jack has recommended that you replace him in this capacity. He assures me that you’re ready for the responsibility.”
Uncharacteristically speechless, Wilkins paused before addressing his boss. “I appreciate the confidence that Jack—and you—have in me, sir. But Jack and I are partners, and I would like to stick with him on this assignment.”
Davis chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry—you’re not getting rid of him that easily. You’ll still be partners, but with different responsibilities. Jack will remain with Ms. Lynde, and you’ll lead the team here in our office.”
Wilkins grinned. “In that case, I wholeheartedly accept.”
“I thought you might,” Davis said. “Now—we need to start thinking about what happened today. How the hell did Mandy Robards’s killer find out about Cameron? On the FBI side of things, there are the three of us, and the director, who are aware of her involvement in the investigation. Wilkins—I think the first thing you need to do is come up with a list of everyone in the Chicago Police Department who knows. Today’s attack tells us one thing: we’ve got a leak. But we might be able to use that to our advantage. Once we find the leak, we can use him to get to the killer.”
“Be careful how you handle CPD on this,” Jack warned Wilkins. “These cops are not going to like the implication that one of them may have leaked confidential information either purposefully or inadvertently. So tread lightly.”
“Don’t worry—finessing is my forte,” Wilkins said. “And we need to think beyond CPD. Twenty women at the bachelorette party on Saturday saw that Cameron was under my and Jack’s surveillance. Any one of them could’ve spread that information to the wrong person.”
“I can get you their names, but I doubt any of those girls are the leak,” Cameron said. “None of them had any clue why you and Jack were watching me.”
Jack addressed Cameron. “What about your friends and family? Have you told them anything?”
“Collin and Amy know a little, but nothing specific. And they know to keep quiet. I haven’t talked to anyone else about it.”
Davis rocked back in his chair. “So we’ve got CPD to focus on, and, as an outside chance, the women who were with Cameron on Saturday night. By the way, Jack, I don’t recall seeing anything in your last report about you and Agent Wilkins attending a bachelorette party over the weekend. Strange how that got left out.”
“It was a last-minute determination made based upon the security parameters of the nightclub Ms. Lynde planned to attend.”
“Nice answer,” Davis said.
“No kidding,” Wilkins agreed, looking impressed.
“As long as we’re listing everyone who is aware of my involvement in the Robards’s investigation, I should mention that Silas knows. He found out through Godfrey,” Cameron said, referring to the FBI director. “Apparently, he called Silas last week to thank me for my cooperation in the investigation.”
Davis paused at the mention of Silas’s name. “Do you think it’s possible Silas told someone about your involvement in the case?”
“As the U.S. attorney, he certainly should know better,” Cameron said.
“I would hope so,” Davis agreed.
The conversation turned to the subject of Jack and Wilkins’s recent trip to New York. As Cameron listened while Jack filled in Davis, her eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to the cut above his cheek. In the emergency room, after she’d gotten five stitches for her “point two”-level gunshot wound, the doctor had offered to have a nurse take care of the scrapes on Jack’s cheek and hands. He’d waved this off, not budging from Cameron’s side.
So much had transpired between them over the last few days—first The Thing That Never Happened on her front doorstep, and then Those Things She’d Never Admit on Saturday night. Cameron had no idea what was going on with her and Jack lately, but as she looked at the cut on his face, she did know one thing.
She trusted him.
And since he now would be the one covering her twenty-four /seven, she knew that trust had to go both ways. Which meant she needed to tell him about everything that had happened three years ago.
Tonight.
WHEN GRANT LET himself into his apartment that night, he paused in the doorway, bracing himself to be shoved up against the wall and handcuffed.
It didn’t happen.
He exhaled, finding comfort in the fact that, at a minimum, Pallas hadn’t yet identified him as the masked man. How long that fact would remain undiscovered, however, was less certain.
To say that the afternoon had not gone as planned would be an understatement.
Grant crept through his apartment with the lights off, checking the view from every window. From his third-story perch, he looked down onto the street below for anything remotely suspicious—strange cars parked out front, a dog walker who just “happened” to be out at that time of night, a homeless person conveniently passed out in the alley behind his building.
He saw nothing.
For the second time in the two weeks since Mandy Robards had tried to blackmail him, he was furious. And now paranoid, too. Not a good combination.
Cameron Lynde wasn’t supposed to have come home from work so early. She also wasn’t supposed to have brought a friend home with her—not that he’d had any trouble getting him out of the picture.
He could’ve handled the police officers in the car out front. He had not, however, been ready for a standoff with Jack Pallas. The rage he’d seen in the federal agent’s eyes as he burst through the glass door was not something he’d expected. Nor had he been expecting the woman—who’d been relatively well-behaved up until that point—to try grabbing the gun out of his hand.
He’d been lucky, he knew, to have escaped when everything had gone so far awry from his plans. Thankfully, however, he didn’t need to count on luck in the future.
Satisfied that his apartment wasn’t under surveillance, Grant headed back to his bedroom and undressed. As he’d done a hundred times already that evening, he ran through the events of the attack and after, looking for the areas where he was most vulnerable.
No one had seen his face. Nor had anyone heard his voice, since he hadn’t so much as coughed during the entire attack. No prints left behind, thanks to the gloves. His getaway had been clean enough—he’d had to outrun those two worthless cops, one of whom had seen leaner days and the other of whom looked barely old enough to drive a squad car. Chicago’s finest. He’d lost them in an alley three blocks from the woman’s house and then high-tailed it a half mile in the opposite direction to the parking lot where he’d stashed his car. He’d swooped up the backpack he had left in a garbage bin along the way. By the time he got to the parking lot he’d shed the mask, the gloves, and the jacket, and was simply a man wearing black nylon pants and a long sleeve T-shirt while carrying his gym bag after a late-afternoon workout. Once he’d gotten back to his car and driven off, he’d pulled into another alley a couple miles away and changed into the suit he’d left in the car. The backpack, with the remainder of the black clothes and with the addition of a couple heavy bricks, was now sitting on the bottom of the Chicago River.
Grant walked naked into his bathroom and turned on the water to the shower. He studied himself in the mirror as steam filled the air.
There was one weakness.
He had no alibi. He wasn’t supposed to have needed one.
Sure, as soon as he’d dumped the backpack in the river he’d driven straight to his evening appointment—he’d met an old friend who worked at the Tribune at a bar in River West. Word had gotten out that a high-priced call girl had been murdered in one of the city’s most luxurious hotels and the unconfirmed rumor was that Senator Hodges’s name had shown up on her client list. The friend, who owed Grant several favors for all the times he’d given him early access to many of the senator’s political dealings, called to give him a heads-up and had asked to meet for drinks. Grant had been curious to know whether the senator’s name was being tossed around as a potential suspect, and how much his friend knew about the FBI’s investigation. As it turned out, his friend knew very little, and Grant got the feeling he was the one being pumped for information.
After drinks, he had returned to the senator’s offices and attended a series of meetings with the higher-level staff members and two of Hodges’s attorneys. The senator originally had planned to be back in D.C. by the following week, but given the FBI’s warning that he not leave the state, alternate plans needed to be discussed. First and foremost on everyone’s mind was how to explain the changes to the senator’s schedule without tipping the press off about his connection to Mandy Robards’s murder.
Secretly, Grant got a kick out of these conversations. The hushed tones, the tension-filled rooms, the worried glances over what the press and—gasp—even the killer might possibly know about the senator’s involvement with Mandy. They had absolutely no idea that the man they were talking about was sitting right at that table.
And he knew everything.
After the meetings finally ended, Grant had driven home, taking a few detours along the way to make sure nobody was following him. All in all, his day would seem like any other to anyone who might ask—except for that one missing hour. He’d have to come up with something to fill the void, just to be ready.
Grant thought back to the moment inside Cameron Lynde’s house when she’d first seen him on the stairs—the way she’d taken a step back and whispered, What do you want?
He wanted to stop looking over his fucking shoulder when he walked into his apartment, that’s what he wanted.
She said she didn’t know who he was. Although he liked to think people tended to tell the truth when feeling the cold steel of a gun barrel pressed against their heads, he wasn’t sure he trusted her. Fortunately, he didn’t have to.
For her sake, he hoped she was telling the truth. Mandy’s murder had been near perfect, almost artfully so. The best FBI agent in the city had been assigned the case, and still they had nothing on him. And they wouldn’t ever have anything on him as long as Cameron Lynde didn’t step out of line.
Of course, he’d taken precautions to know if she did.
They were so stupid. Pallas, the cops, all of them. It was right under their noses, and they didn’t even realize it.
If he’d known it was this much fun getting away with murder, he’d have done it years ago.
Twenty
SHE AND JACK would be living together.
The practical realities of the situation struck Cameron during the car ride to Jack’s South Loop apartment. He had asked Wilkins to drop them off so he could pick up his car and “a few things.” As they pulled away from the FBI building, he leaned over the seat and asked if she had any questions about how the protective custody was going to work.
She nonchalantly answered that there were none she could think of off the top of her head.
This was not true.
She had lots of questions. For starters, where exactly did Jack plan to sleep? Could she still go to work during the day? Did he expect her to cook meals while he stayed at her house? (Certainly the surest way to kill them both.) Would they do normal, everyday things together, like watch television at night? (Which reminded her—she really needed to delete those episodes of The Bachelor from her TiVo playlist.) And where, exactly, did he plan to sleep? (This particular question consumed such a vastly greater percentage of her musings, it bore repeating.) Was he allowed to leave her alone at all, like when he took a shower? Or, purely from a safety perspective, would it be better for her to join him in such undertakings . . .
“This will only take a few minutes,” Jack said as they rode the elevator to his fourth-floor loft. He looked her over. “Are you okay? You looked like you zoned out for a moment there.”
“I’m still processing everything that happened today,” Cameron said, hoping she didn’t spontaneously combust right there in the elevator at the thought of him naked in her shower.
When they arrived at the fourth floor, Jack led her to the apartment at the end of the hallway. He unlocked and opened the door, inviting her inside.
She didn’t know what she expected Casa Pallas to look like, perhaps something stark and Spartan with minimal furnishings and lots of gray, but that was not what she found when she walked through the doorway. The walls were exposed brick and the ceiling was vaulted. In keeping with the loft style, the main level had an open floor plan, with the living room running into the modern kitchen and what appeared to be a powder room and a small office down the hall to her right. There was a second floor; a floating staircase led to a small balcony. Beyond that were open double doors made of frosted glass through which she could see the master bedroom.
To say the least, the place was warmer and far more welcoming than she had expected. But that wasn’t what surprised her most. What really caught her attention were all the books.
An entire wall of Jack’s living room was filled with books—hundreds of them—organized neatly on dark mahogany shelves. More books rested on the lower shelf of his coffee table.
“Wow,” Cameron said, making her way over to the shelves. “You have some collection here.” It looked like a mixture of everything, fiction and nonfiction, hardcover and paperback. “You must be quite a reader.”
Jack shrugged. “It fills my spare time.”
Cameron would have loved to own such a collection of books—one of her plans for her house was to convert part of the third floor into a library. Not that she got a chance to read as much as she would’ve liked; a lot of her free time was sucked up by Collin and Amy. Which made her wonder whether Jack had a Collin or Amy in his life. Or anyone, for that matter. He seemed awfully . . . solitary.
He pointed upstairs. “I’m going to grab my things. Do you want anything to drink?”
“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
As soon as he went upstairs, Cameron checked out the living room more thoroughly, looking for anything that would give her some insight into the mystery that was Jack Pallas. He had an impressive flat-screen television on the wall opposite the sable couch—of course he had a big TV; he may have been a mystery but he was still a guy—and from what she could tell from the books underneath the coffee table, he had an interest in black-and-white photography.
A couple of picture frames on the end table next to the couch caught her eye. Curious, Cameron headed over. One of the photos had been taken several years ago—Jack and three other guys at their graduation from West Point, all formally dressed in their uniforms of gray coats, gloves, white pants, and caps.
Cameron picked up the frame. In the photo, Jack wore a cocky, wide grin and had his arms slung over the shoulders of the guys next to him. It was his smile that struck her—so brash and open. Seemingly so different from the man she knew now.
She turned to the next picture frame. It held a black-and-white photograph of a woman in her late twenties who laughed as she pushed a little boy on a swing. The woman had dark eyes and straight, chin-length hair pulled back with a headband. She bore a striking resemblance to Jack.
“My sister and nephew,” came his voice from behind her.
Cameron started and turned around. He stood before her with a duffel bag on the floor near his feet. No clue how long he’d been there.
She tried not to reveal how curious she was as she set the picture frame back down. “Do you see your sister and nephew a lot?”
“Not that much when I was in Nebraska. But hopefully more now.” He swung the large duffel bag over his shoulder with one hand. “Ready?”
Cameron couldn’t help herself as her eyes drifted over him, remembering the night at Manor House. The strong shoulders and arms that had braced her against the door, the lean hips and muscled thighs that had pressed heatedly against hers, the firm chest and stomach that she’d just begun to explore with her hands. And the intense look of desire in his eyes.
Now he’d be sleeping in the bedroom next to her.
Perhaps she’d be better off taking her chances with the murderer.
WHEN THEY GOT back to Cameron’s house, Jack’s first order of business was to make sure that the doors had been repaired per his orders—first the front lock, and then the French doors off the master bedroom balcony. As he’d instructed, the agency had sent over a maintenance crew to board the door and clean up the glass.
Cameron eyed their handiwork skeptically. “It definitely adds that certain ‘vandalized’ quality I was going for with my renovation.”
“It’s safe. We can worry about style later,” Jack said.
The second thing he did was conduct a thorough check of the premises, with Cameron by his side until he was sure they were clear. This was no quick feat, given the size of the house.
“Did you used to be married?” he asked as he opened the closet in one of the guest bedrooms.
“No,” she said, seeming surprised by the question.
Rules out the rich ex-husband idea, Jack thought.
Another mystery he would soon get to the bottom of.
Third on his list was to get settled in. He took the room closest to Cameron’s—which luckily, unlike the other guest bedrooms, actually had furniture—and unpacked his bag. He shrugged out of his blazer and hung it in the closet. He put his spare gun on the nightstand, then opened one of the drawers of the dresser in the corner.
He discovered a man’s sweatshirt inside.
Jack slammed the drawer shut and chose another.
He moved next onto the fourth item on the evening’s agenda: taking care of Cameron.
She was doing a pretty good job with the tough criminal prosecutor routine, pretending to be fine with everything that had happened that afternoon. But he had seen the exhaustion that had set into her eyes in the car ride to her house, had heard the nervousness that belied the sarcasm in her voice as she’d commented on the boarded-up French doors, and had noticed the way she’d momentarily hesitated when she’d followed him up the stairs that led to the second floor, undoubtedly thinking back to the masked intruder’s earlier attack.
He guessed she hadn’t eaten in hours. That seemed as good a place as any to start. Pausing at her bedroom door to make sure everything sounded okay, Jack headed downstairs into the kitchen. He found her junk drawer and a well-worn menu from a Chinese restaurant a couple blocks away and figured that was a safe bet. He had no idea what she’d want to eat, so he ordered a bunch of things—screw it, he’d charge it to the Bureau. Besides, this way they’d have leftovers. From the looks of her refrigerator and freezer, she was an even worse cook than he was. Thank God for delivery, because a six-foot-two-inch man couldn’t last more than an hour on those skimpy frozen meals. He’d been stranded in a jungle in Colombia for five nights with four other guys on his Special Forces team and still had seen larger rations than those things.
Next, he checked out the liquor cabinet in her dining room. From the looks of it, she liked wine and she liked it red, so he went with the safe bet and chose a cabernet. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, he knew she would need some help falling asleep that night. While listening to the sound of water running upstairs, he made his way around the kitchen and poured her a glass of wine. The doorbell rang a few minutes later, and, after a brief moment of confusion when Jack frisked the delivery guy, asked him for his I.D., and called the restaurant to confirm his status, they were set to go.
Jack set the bags of food on the counter, grabbed the wineglass, and headed upstairs. Cameron had left her bedroom door partially open, as he’d asked her to. He knocked.
“Come in,” she said in quiet voice.
Jack pushed the door the rest of the way open. He found her standing in front of her closet and walked over. “I thought you might want a glass of wine to help you . . .” He trailed off as she turned around, stunned by what he saw.
There were tears in her eyes.
Of course, he realized. The closet where the killer had been hiding, waiting for her.
He set the wineglass on the floor and went to her. “Cameron . . . everything’s okay now. You know that, right?”
She blinked, and a tear ran down her cheek.
It killed him.
Jack wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. He whispered in her ear. “He’s not getting near you again, baby, I promise. No one’s laying a finger on you ever again.”
She turned her cheek against his chest and peeked inside the closet. He could’ve sworn he heard a sniffle.
“It’s such a beautiful dress,” she finally said.
Jack took a look. A long, silky, deep-pink dress hung front-out in the closet. No clue why she was crying over it, but he figured it was best to simply nod and be supportive under the circumstances. Maybe the killer had wrinkled it or something.
