Killing Fear by Allison Brennan

would make me unhappy.”
    He crossed her ankles and wound the duct tape around them several times. She wore a long T-shirt. He pulled it down past her panties.
    It was dark and she could only make out his shape, not his exact features. His hair looked dark, but was that because he dyed it or a trick of the light?
    He handed her the notepad from her briefcase and a pen. He knew she was left-handed. He’d been watching her. Or had he remembered after all these years?
    The only light came through the blinds. Her night vision was strong, but she could barely make out the paper which seemed almost blue in the odd, filtered light. Glenn sat in the corner, in the shadows.
    “What do you want to know?” he asked.
    A crime reporter’s wet dream. A killer willing to talk. To say anything. Though she knew she had a rare opportunity, not knowing what Glenn would do to her terrified her. How could she trust a convicted murderer? How could she trust a man who tortured his victims, then poured bleach into their open wounds?
    “Trinity, I’m talking to you. I know you want to ask me questions. You’re going to die if you don’t.”
    She swallowed, sputtered. “I-I—”
    “Calm down, Trinity.” He paused. “What an odd name. What were your parents thinking?”
    She didn’t know if he wanted her to answer, but she did automatically, since she’d been asked that question so many times in her life. “I was supposed to be triplets, but my two sisters died in the womb. They thought the name was a way of paying homage to the two who didn’t make it.”
    Why had she said that to this man? Because it was comfortable. Almost normal. To answer a common question with her pat answer.
    “Now your turn, Trinity. Ask.” He paused, and when she didn’t answer, he said, “Ask me a fucking question!”
    She nodded, cleared her throat. “F-for the record, you said you didn’t kill Anna Clark?”
    “Correct. I did not kill Anna Clark.”
    To buy time she wrote down his exact quote. I did not kill Anna Clark.
    “Did you kill Bethany Coleman?” she asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Brandi Bell?”
    “Yes.”
    “Jessica Suarez?”
    “Yes.”
    He shuffled, and Trinity flinched. He laughed. “I have a present for you. Something that should look good on the evening news, in the newspapers, and it will definitely get you some attention.” He put an envelope on her bed, just out of her reach.
    She stared at it, thinking, and asked, “But you didn’t kill Anna.”
    “I’m not going to answer the same question twice.”
    She took a deep breath. He didn’t seem as dangerous now. Maybe he was telling her the truth, that he wasn’t going to kill her. “You think someone framed you for Anna’s murder?”
    “Correct.”
    “Why?”
    He laughed without humor. A chill settled in the pit of her stomach.
    “Because the cops fucked up.”
    “You must know that virtually every convicted murderer says that they were framed. Why should I—why should the public—believe that you’re telling the truth?”
    “Because I don’t like being made a fool of. Someone is playing with me, and I don’t like it. I didn’t kill Anna, and I damn well want to know who did and who planted evidence against me.”
    “I don’t know why you think I can help with this—”
    “Because you’re an investigative journalist!” he exclaimed, and Trinity jumped. She saw then and there what this killer was capable of. “Wouldn’t you like to know what cop framed me? Wouldn’t you like a nice juicy story to propel you into the journalistic stratosphere? Don’t think that I haven’t followed your career while in prison. You’re on the cusp, and you like to get in people’s faces. Do it now. Do it for me.”
    “H-how?”
    “That’s what you need to figure out.”
    Trinity changed tactics. “But does it really matter?” In asking the question, she realized it sounded stupid. “I mean, you still would have been convicted of murder. You killed the other three