Текст книги "Touching evil"

Автор книги: Kay Hooper

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“Is that what you do? Give evil form?” “I… suppose I do. Or at least try to give it a face.” Hollis half laughed under her breath. “You know what’s most ironic about all this? I came out here for a whole new start. I inherited enough money to be able to quit my crass commercial-art job and spend a few years finding out if I had enough talent to be a real artist. And I’d barely got my studio set up when this happened. Fate just loves to kick us in the ass.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.” Maggie paused, then added, “I suppose it’s useless to ask you if you remember anybody watching you before the attack. Following you.” “I don’t remember anything out of the ordinary. So if he was watching me, I never saw him. Which is a very, very creepy thought. Why did he-do you know why he picked me?”

“The police haven’t found a helpful common denominator among the victims. Different physical appearances, different jobs and lifestyles, a fairly wide range of ages-though he does seem to lean toward women in their twenties. It was probably nothing you did, Hollis, and it certainly wasn’t your fault. You just fit whatever requirements he’s put together in his twisted mind.”

“Do you think… he’ll do it again? Attack another woman?”

“Yes.”

The immediate, calm answer made Hollis hesitate, but only for a moment. “Until he’s stopped. Yes, of course. But why? Why is he doing this?”

It was Maggie’s turn to hesitate, but then she replied slowly. “I’m sure a psychologist or profiler could develop all sorts of motivations. And I’m sure they’d be right. There are always reasons, at least explainable-if not understandable. Even for monsters.”

“But there’s only one real reason, isn’t there? One real motivation behind his acts?”

“Yes. There’s always a single driving motivation behind a predator like this one.”

Hollis tilted her head, listening to that voice, the steady calm that was so deceptive. She wondered what it was she could almost hear moving about in the unseen depths beneath Maggie’s tranquillity.

Something… cold. No, not really cold. Chilled. Something dark and chilled.

Fear? Knowledge? Understanding?

For some reason, Hollis was unwilling to ask aloud. Maybe because she didn’t know Maggie well. Maybe because she was half convinced she was imagining way too much in the darkness behind her bandages.

Or maybe just because she was afraid of the answer.

She forced herself to concentrate on the subject of a monster’s motivation. “What is it? Why does he do this to us, Maggie?”

“Because he wants to. Because he likes it.”

Hollis drew a breath. “Yes. I… felt that. The way he touched me. As if the very texture of my skin intrigued him somehow. The way he… smelled me.”

“He enjoyed your scent?”

“Must have. Or wanted to remember it later. He kept… sniffing. I’d feel his breath on my skin, then hear him sniff. My arm, my throat, breasts. All over. I’d stopped… begging… by then.” Hollis heard her own voice as though it belonged to someone else, the words coming faster and faster, almost spilling out of her.

“I was tied up, unable to move. When I’d come to the first time, it was to realize he’d taken my eyes. I struggled then, fought him. Cursed him. But it was no use; no matter how loud I screamed or how hard I struggled, it didn’t seem to affect him at all. He… did what he wanted to do. Raped me. And after that, after I’d stopped screaming and cursing, he… beat me-almost methodically. It seemed to take all my will to deal with the pain without screaming. I didn’t want him to hear me scream from the pain. Didn’t want him to… have that satisfaction. So I didn’t make a sound, just concentrated on listening to him.”

“What else did you hear, Hollis?”

“Him. Breathing. He was very quiet, but once or twice I heard him humming to himself. Not a tune I recognized, although there was something familiar about it. Not even a tune, really. Just humming. And…”

“And?”

“There was something else, but… I can’t remember. I know I heard another sound, a sound that bothered me somehow. Because I recognized it, or thought I should have. Something. But I don’t remember now.”

Hollis knew Maggie leaned toward her, and didn’t start when a cool hand covered one of hers.

“You’ll remember when you can, Hollis.”

“I remember everything else. I remember every goddamned thing he did to me. I remember the way his breath smelled in my face, like spearmint chewing gum. The way he smelled of Ivory soap. The way his skin felt against mine, hot and slick with sweat. The way he… grunted in the back of his throat while he raped me. I remember… everything. Except that. Why not that?”

“There’s a reason. There’s always a reason.”

“You mean my mind doesn’t want me to remember? But why that? All the horrible things he did to me-and I can’t remember a sound? Just a sound? Why?”

“I don’t know. But we’ll figure it out. I promise you, Hollis, we’ll figure it out.” Maggie drew a little breath, and Hollis thought she heard a catch in the sound, but the other woman’s voice was steady when she said, “Can you start from the beginning? Can you tell me everything that happened from the moment he grabbed you?”

“Yes,” Hollis said. Her hand turned and gripped Maggie’s tightly. “I think I can now.”

Hollis Templeton’s room was around a corner and near the end of an unusually quiet corridor on a quiet floor of the hospital; her doctors felt she would be better off not disturbed by the hustle and bustle common in most of the building. So when John got off the elevator and passed the silent waiting room, he found himself half consciously walking more quietly down the deserted hallway so as not to intrude upon the peaceful atmosphere.

He turned the corner having seen no one and stopped abruptly when he did see someone. Maggie. She was outside Hollis’s room, leaning back against the wall beside the closed door. She was hugging her sketch pad with both arms, her head bent, long hair falling forward to mostly hide her pale face, but even from this distance John could see her shoulders shaking and hear the muffled but wrenching sobs.

Before she could see or sense him there, John stepped silently back around the corner and retreated to the doorway of the waiting room, more shaken than he wanted to admit to himself.

Magic. No, it wasn’t magic, what she did. Whether her ability was paranormal as Quentin insisted or merely an overdeveloped sensitivity to the feelings of others, the undeniable fact was that Maggie suffered right along with the victims of violence she tried to help. He wondered if he had the right to ask her to put herself through that. If anyone did.

And, not for the first time, he wondered why she did it. He had considered having her background investigated, certainly something he could have done, but it wasn’t his habit to acquire information about people that way. Especially people he wanted to work with. Digging into somebody’s past without so much as a by-your-leave was hardly a good first step to induce trust and cooperation.

Both Quentin and Kendra had adamantly stated that Maggie’s motives had to be both powerful and deeply felt, and John could see that clearly enough. To willingly put herself through what she did, her reasons would have to be strong ones.

So what were they? What could possibly drive a sensitive woman, with the intelligence and artistic talent to be anything she wanted, to torture herself this way?

John shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and waited there, leaning beside the doorway, all too aware that only Maggie could answer that question. And nobody had to tell him it wasn’t something she would willingly discuss, especially with a virtual stranger.

Both the question and that reluctant answer were difficult to accept, and he thought about both, so preoccupied that he didn’t hear her approach until she spoke.

“What are you doing here?” Except for a faint redness around her eyes and a hint of strain in her face, there were no lingering signs of that storm of emotion John had briefly witnessed.

“I called the station. Andy said you were probably here talking to Hollis Templeton. He said he’d tried to call you.”

“I turned off my cell phone. I usually do during interviews.” Maggie frowned slightly. “But I got your message; I was planning to meet you at four.”

He nodded, accepting that. “Yeah, well, it might be a good idea if we go there now.”

“Why?”

He didn’t want to tell her, but there was no choice. “The police think there’s been another attack, Maggie. A woman was reported missing a couple of hours ago. Her husband just returned from a business trip and discovered her gone and the front door literally standing open.”

Maggie was very still, staring up at him. “There’s something else, isn’t there? What else?”

He really didn’t want to tell her.

“John? What is it?”

“She’s pregnant. More than six months.”

Hollis remained in her chair by the window, but only because she felt too drained to move. Talking about the attack, telling Maggie all the horrible, painful details, even those she hadn’t dared think about, had exhausted her. But not nearly as much as she had expected it to.

And her emotional state was much better than it had any right to be, she knew that. She felt peculiarly calm, almost… at peace.

Because of her.

“Because of Maggie?” By now, it seemed almost normal to discuss things with her figment. Reassuring, even.

Yes.

“Why? Just because she listened? Because she was sympathetic and understanding?”

No. Because she took some of your pain.

Hollis frowned. “What do you mean?”

She took it away. Took it into herself so that you wouldn’t hurt so much.

“You don’t-surely you don’t mean she actually physically absorbed what I was feeling?”

She has a unique gift. It’s why I wanted you to talk to her. So you could begin to heal.

“But… she felt it? All the pain?”

Yes.

Hollis was horrified; she wouldn’t have wished that on anyone, and for Maggie to have suffered so when she was only trying to help… “Dammit, why didn’t you warn me?”

I couldn’t warn you. Neither could she. We both knew you’d fight not to inflict such pain on another. We both knew you wouldn’t tell her the things she had to know if you had been warned it would hurt her too.

As upset as she was, Hollis had a realization then, one she was surprised hadn’t occurred to her before. “You know her, don’t you? You know Maggie.”

Yes. I know Maggie. I know her very well.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The forensics team is going over that house inch by inch, but so far nothing. I’ve got people canvassing the neighborhood, but on a busy Monday with most at work or at school, the area was all but deserted-today, anyway.”

“How long was the husband away?” John asked.

“From last Thursday. He says at a business conference on the East Coast, and I don’t expect to find anything different; he arrived at Sea-Tac this morning, sure enough. And I’d bet my pension he’s half out of his mind with worry, so I’m not looking at him as a suspect. He says he talked to her late last night when he called from his hotel; records confirm he certainly called the house and there was a lengthy conversation, so we’re probably looking at about a twelve-hour window during which she might have disappeared. According to friends and family, she wouldn’t have run away…”

Maggie tried to concentrate on what Andy was telling them, but it wasn’t easy. The interview with Hollis, productive though it might turn out to be, had drained her; the pain and anguish of the other woman, dragged out into the light of day and sanity for the first time since the attack, had been virtually an open wound. Maggie needed to recover from that. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been granted the time or seclusion necessary.

So she was faking it. Or trying to.

“… the husband says you’d never know she’s pregnant. One of those women who hardly show at all right up to delivery, apparently.”

“He knows,” Maggie heard herself say.

Andy frowned across his desk at her. “The rapist? If she isn’t showing, how could-”

“He’s been watching her. He would have seen her doing things to prepare for a baby.”

“Things?” John asked.

Maggie didn’t look at him. “Doctor visits, shopping, decorating. It’s a first baby. There’d be a lot to do.”

Andy said, “But he might not have realized how far along she is.”

“Maybe not. I wouldn’t bet money on it, though.”

Andy grimaced and rubbed the nape of his neck. “No, me either. Is this supposed to be a fun new twist for the bastard? Christ. If it turns out that Samantha Mitchell was taken by the rapist, this city is going to come apart at the seams.”

Maggie drew a breath and fought to keep her voice steady. “You realize she’s not likely to survive.”

“You could have gone all day without saying that.”

“It’s true and you know it. Hollis says he beat her almost methodically and violently raped her at least three times. She was so damaged internally she’ll never be able to have children. Add to that the sheer physical and emotional shock of being blinded, and the odds are that neither a pregnant woman nor her child could survive the attack.”

Andy shook his head, his face grim, but said, “Did you get anything helpful from the interview with Hollis?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Details, but not the sort to help the police, at least not yet.”

“Such as?’

Maggie drew a breath and let it out slowly, trying not to sound as tired as she felt. “He used spearmint-flavored gum or breath mints. He hummed to himself sometimes, but not a tune Hollis recognized. He was fascinated by the texture of her skin and her scent.”

John moved slightly in his chair, and under his breath muttered, “Son of a bitch.”

Maggie sent him a quick glance of apology. It had to be hell for him, hearing this sort of thing and knowing that his sister had been held and tortured by the same animal. In situations like this one, an informed imagination could be a lot worse than an ignorant one.

For the first time, Maggie realized that he probably slept no better than she did and that his nightmares undoubtedly grew more vivid with each brutal fact he learned about what his sister had actually gone through.

Andy, more adept than either of them at not letting his emotions sidetrack him, said to Maggie, “Those don’t even sound like the sorts of details that might help you. Are they? Are you beginning to see this guy.’

“Every detail helps me see him. Eventually.” Every detail, every throb of agony and anguish she had felt right along with Hollis. And Ellen. And Christina.

“Do you have a sketch yet?”

“No. Not yet.”

John said, “Andy, I know your boss would hate it, but is there any way we can see the Mitchell house today?”

“We?”

“Maggie and me.”

Maggie wanted to protest but bit back the words. She had so far managed to hide from Andy her reaction to actual scenes of violence or suffering and intended to keep it that way if she had any choice. It was difficult enough to do what she did without having to also cope with the increased uneasiness or even fear she knew most of these cops would feel if they saw one of her little… performances.

She had no idea what John thought of what he had witnessed on Saturday, but she didn’t doubt he and his friend had discussed her. His supposedly psychic friend.

She felt cold. And worried. Was she moving too fast? Could she afford not to? It was so desperately important that they stop this monster before he destroyed more lives, but what would be the price demanded if she chose the wrong path? And who would have to pay it?

“Maggie, are you up to it?” Andy asked.

She nodded. “I’m fine.” A lie, but she thought it was probably a pretty convincing one.

“I know Maggie usually walks the scene eventually,” Andy said slowly, “but why you, John?”

Because he wants to watch me. But Maggie didn’t say that, of course. She just waited silently.

“I suppose,” John said, “because I’m trying to… immerse myself in the investigation. To see everything. And who knows, Andy-I may see something all you cops miss. I may not be trained in police work, but I usually don’t miss many of the details when I turn my mind to something.”

It was the truth, Maggie thought. But not all of it.

Andy drummed his fingers on his desk for a moment, eyeing John intently, then shrugged. “I’ll okay it. I wanted Maggie to walk it anyway, and you might as well go along, although I doubt you’ll find anything we missed. The forensics team should be just about finished up by the time you can get to the house, and Mitchell has given us permission to do whatever it takes to find his wife, so I don’t imagine he’ll object. If he even notices, which is doubtful.”

Maggie got to her feet when John did, but paused to ask Andy, “Is there anything else? Anything new?”

Only someone who knew him well would have seen the hesitation before he replied, “No, nothing. At least until we have the forensics report later today.”

Maggie pretended she didn’t know him well and nodded as she turned away. She’d have to come back here later and corner Andy, try to find out what was going on. Unless it was her, and not John Garrett, he didn’t want to tell.

She didn’t much like this. If it came down to it, where would her loyalties have to lie? With the police or with John? That shouldn’t have been a question, but it was. And she knew why it was.

Pushing those troubling thoughts aside for the moment, Maggie followed John from the station. He didn’t speak until they were on the steps, and then it was to make a wry request.

“Would you mind if we went together in my car? I’ll bring you back here afterward to get your car.” He grimaced slightly when she looked at him quizzically. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but these days any unaccompanied man moving around the city tends to draw quite a few suspicious stares, especially in a neighborhood such as the one we’ll be visiting. Aside from disliking the way it makes me feel, I’d just as soon avoid the undue attention.”

Maggie half nodded and went with him to his car, and it wasn’t until they were on their way that she said, “It’s the not knowing, of course. As far as most of the women in this city are concerned, any man they don’t know could be the rapist-and sad to say there are probably far too many women who aren’t even sure of the men they do know.”

“That is sad. It must be hell to look at someone you believed you could trust and realize you aren’t completely sure anymore. And hell to be on the receiving end of that doubt.”

“I imagine so.”

He glanced at her. “Imagine? Can’t you feel it? When they do, I mean.”

“Why ask when you don’t believe it’s possible?” Maggie made her voice a little dry but still casual. “Is that why you wanted me to go with you to the Mitchell house, by the way? So you could watch another… performance and explain it away?”

John was silent for a moment, then said, “I hate it when Quentin’s right. He said you’d probably lived with doubt and disbelief most of your life.”

“He’d know, being a seer. Not that you believe that either.” She realized abruptly that they weren’t heading for the address of the Mitchell house Andy had provided but in another direction entirely. Where-

“That’s an old-fashioned term for it, isn’t it? Seer?”

Maggie shrugged, feeling a slow little chill crawl over her skin. “I suppose. Anyway, he said he didn’t see things, just knew them.”

“And you?”

“What about me?” She clung to casual disinterest and fought the rising panic.

John drew a breath and said softly, “When you walk through a place where something violent happened, do you see things? Know them? Or feel them?”

Repeating her earlier answer, Maggie said, “Why ask when you don’t believe it’s possible?”

“I never have believed it’s possible, but that doesn’t mean I can’t change my mind, Maggie. Not long before I called Andy and found out about the Mitchell woman, Quentin told me another woman had been taken. He knew.”

“I’m sure you explained that away. It could have been a lucky guess.” She knew where they were going now. Damn. Damn.

“It could have been. But if so, there’ve been a lot of lucky guesses over the years, too many times he knew things before he should have. And then there’s you.”

Stolidly, Maggie said, “I’m just overly sensitive, that’s all. With a vivid imagination.”

“I guess you’ve heard that a lot during your life.”

“Enough.”

“Okay. But at least I’m trying to have an open mind. Give me that much credit.”

After a moment, she said quietly, “I’m sure you use calculators and computers and other machines in your business affairs; do you really have to understand the nuts and bolts of how they work in order to be satisfied with the information and answers they provide?”

“No. But I have to trust that the information they provide is accurate and reliable, and sometimes that requires at least some level of understanding. And you’re not a machine. I really do want to understand you, Maggie.”

Deliberately, Maggie half turned in the seat to look at him steadily. “If your friend Quentin hasn’t convinced you in years of trying to, then what hope do I have? At least the things he tells you can be verified, predictions backed up by fact when those predictions turn out to be true. But what I do? What I do isn’t backed up by anything, really. It’s all subjective. Besides, I don’t have the spare energy to jump through hoops for you, John. Just tell yourself I have a peculiar skill honed by half a lifetime of working with the police, and let it go at that. I can’t prove anything to you.”

“Can’t you?”

“No.”

He pulled the car over to the curb and stopped, then looked at her, his jaw tight. “I know a way you can.”

She didn’t have to look to know where they were. “No. I can’t.”

“Because the interview with Hollis took too much out of you?”

She had to be honest. “No.”

“Because you have to save your energy for the Mitchell house?”

“Partly.”

He nodded as if an inner belief had been confirmed. “But not completely. So what’s the rest of the answer, Maggie? Andy told me you never walked through Christina’s apartment after she died. Why not?”

Maggie drew a short breath. “I have my reasons.” Reasons he wouldn’t understand, let alone believe.

“What reasons?”

“Private reasons.”

“Maggie-”

“John, I’m not going to walk through Christina’s apartment. Not today.”

“And you won’t tell me why.”

She shook her head slightly in a brief but final negation.

“I’m trying to understand this,” he said, his voice slow, as though he chose his words carefully. “Because it’s such a simple question, Maggie-why did my sister kill herself? I think you could answer that question, so I have to wonder why you won’t even make an attempt. Am I asking so much? Just walk through her apartment and tell me what you see. Or know. Or feel-Andy hung up his phone and scowled at Jennifer as she approached his desk. “Please tell me you have something,” he begged.

She sat down and said, “We didn’t expect forensics to find anything, especially not this quickly. So something else must have put you in a bad mood. Or somebody. Drummond?”

If anything, Andy’s frown deepened. “I don’t know whether to look forward to the day he’s sitting in the governor’s mansion or dread it. He’d be mostly out of my hair-but God help the state.”

“Let me guess. Samantha Mitchell or her husband has a Very Important Friend in government?”

“Hell, they know everybody. At least according to Luke. And everybody is yelling at him to find the lady, pronto.”

“I guess you told him we’re trying to do that.”

“I mentioned it, yeah.”

Jennifer smiled. “Well, here’s something else to brighten your day.”

He braced himself visibly. “What?”

“While Scott’s trying to track down those missing files, I’ve been taking a closer look at that book I got from the library. There aren’t a lot of specific details on the series of murders in 1934, but there was one very interesting thing. It turns out the cops were undecided whether to call it six victims-or eight. Six was the official verdict, but there was a lot of doubt, apparently, among the investigating officers.”

“What kind of doubt?”

“They were positive the first six victims were killed by the same man because of the similarities. The women were always raped and killed somewhere else and their bodies dumped later in remote or deserted spots, he always beat them up badly, the women always bore defense injuries, and he never tore their clothing.”

Andy blinked. “Never?”

“No. The bodies were always discovered dressed, all the buttons fastened and nothing ripped. Which is interesting in several ways. For one thing, the women were always found without underwear. No bras or panties, no girdles or stockings or slips. Just their outer dresses. And there was usually very little blood or dirt on those dresses.”

“So he stripped them-and then dressed them afterward, but without their underwear. Kept the underwear as trophies, maybe?”

“Maybe. But think how difficult just the mechanics of it had to be. By the time he finished with them, the women were either dead or dying. And instead of dumping them somewhere, naked, which would certainly have been the easiest and simplest thing to do, he takes the time and trouble to dress them in their outer clothing. Almost as if… he was trying to protect their modesty.”

“You been talking to the shrink?” Andy wanted to know.

“No, but I’ve listened to her talk about this sort of thing before, so I feel safe in making a semieducated guess about it. I think the detail is important, Andy. It could be something as simple as the fact that the 1934 killer lived during a more… modest time. Or a quirk of his psyche-he’d defile them in every way possible, but it was for his own enjoyment. When other men saw the women, they had to be decently covered.”

“Sounds like the sort of quirk entirely likely in one of these twisted bastards. Okay, it makes sense to me. It definitely sounds like those six women were killed by the same man. But there was doubt about two more victims?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why? The M.O. was drastically different?”

“Two young women found in remote places, having obviously been raped and killed somewhere else, badly beaten, with defense injuries, and wearing their virtually undamaged outer clothing all neatly fastened.”

“Sounds like the same guy.”

“Yeah, except for one addition.”

“Which is?”

“Their eyes were missing. Cut out-with absolutely no finesse.”

Andy stared at her a moment, then drew a short breath. “Shit.”

“Yeah. Knowing what we know now about the escalation and evolution of this sort of sick predator, I say those last two victims belong with the first six. He had just grown more violent, and more creative. Which means eight, Andy. Killed within the space of about eighteen months.”

“Which may or may not mean we could have a year and four-or three-more victims to go.”

“If our guy is copycatting earlier crimes, yeah. The killings that started in 1934 sure sound familiar. All of our victims survived the attacks, and only one actually died of her injuries, but that could be as much luck as anything else; they were found before they could bleed to death, unlike the women in 1934. We have naked victims, but that may just be because our particular monster has fewer hang-ups than his predecessor did. Or a better knowledge of forensics.”

“He certainly has that,” Andy said heavily. “And it does sound more and more like he studied at least some of these earlier crimes. For inspiration, goddamn his soul.”

“He doesn’t have one,” Jenn declared.

Andy grunted an agreement. “What about the earlier date, 1894?”

“Nothing so far, at least in that book. And we haven’t found any files from that year-not here and not at any other station. It was a long time ago, Andy.”

“Tell me about it.” He sighed. “All we can do is keep looking. What else have we got?”

Jennifer sighed and got to her feet. “Yeah, you’re right. By the way-I know we’re keeping this to ourselves for the time being, but are you going to tell Maggie?”

“I haven’t decided yet. What do you think?”

“I say tell her.”

Andy leaned back and looked at her curiously. “Why?”

“Because Maggie works best when she has all the information we can give her. And because… she’s very good with intangibles, Andy. Victims give her subjective impressions and feelings and pain-and in all that confusion, Maggie finds a face we can search for. As far as I can tell, with her it’s all instinct and emotion. She comes at this differently than we do. Maybe she’d have an idea or observation we’d never have.”

“Yeah.” He nodded slowly. “Yeah, maybe.”

“You going to tell Garrett?”

“I don’t know that yet either.”

“It might give him a focus other than his sister’s death.”

“It might. And we might need the resources he can tap. I don’t know. We’ll see how it goes.”

“I’m glad it’s your decision and not mine,” Jennifer told him with a casual salute, then returned to her own desk.

Andy wished it was somebody else’s decision. He was a good cop, and maybe it was that inborn instinct that warned him uneasily that this particular case was somehow beyond his experience. Not just because this bastard was torturing his victims the way he was and going to such elaborate extremes to hide his own identity, but because of the chillingly methodical way he went about satisfying his twisted needs.

Andy would have loved to hand the whole mess over to somebody else. But he couldn’t do that. It was his mess, and he had to find his way through it. Which meant Jenn was right and he’d have to tell Maggie about these latest puzzle pieces.

Even more, he might just have to break the rules and ignore Drummond’s orders and bring John Garrett fully into the investigation. He needed all the resources he could get his hands on, and with Drummond’s stubborn refusal to call in the FBI, John could provide a wide and willing conduit to virtually every database and source of information available.

Maybe even some sources that could take them all the way back to 1894.

Maggie wondered if he had any idea at all what he asked of her and thought that he had at least an inkling. But not belief. Because if he believed, he could never have asked her to go to the apartment where a despondent, tormented woman had died and allow those emotions to seep into her. At least… she hoped he couldn’t ask that of her.