She’d have said something, even just a snide remark. Nothing.
Will Hooper did not kiss and tell.
She could picture how Will and Robin McKenna met over tragedy. Forging a relationship. How had it ended? Had he taken her to a nice restaurant and kissed her good night? A quiet good-bye…
“You know William, don’t you?” Glenn’s voice was mocking, almost a laugh.
“How do you know he was involved with Robin McKenna?” Trinity asked, gathering her thoughts.
The killer chuckled. “I followed every step of the police investigation.”
“No one is going to believe you didn’t kill Anna Clark.”
“That is your job. I don’t know how they did it, but I didn’t kill that bitch. The truth is in the evidence, but do you think they would show me? Do you think that they’ll just open their books, even when they have to? Go ask William Hooper, or the D.A., or the fucking crime scene investigator!”
He stepped away from the door and paced. She shouldn’t have set him off. She couldn’t see him except a darker shape in the shadows, but his movement was frantic. Fear ran over her, but she suppressed it. He said he wasn’t going to kill her.
Damn, was she going to believe him? After he admitted to killing three women?
“William didn’t kill her,” Glenn said as if thinking out loud. He stopped at the end of her bed and stared at her, the whites of his eyes almost glowing. Chills ran down her back and she shivered. “He was screwing Robin McKenna. I watched. Robin. She was supposed to be next, but she wouldn’t go out with me. All the other whores let me wine and dine them, but that bitch was cold. Liquid fire onstage, but in person…” his voice trailed off.
“I watched them. They were in the club. It was two in the morning. Robin sat in the bar. Crying. William Hooper walked in. ‘What’s wrong?’ And they were on each other like animals. Couldn’t even walk across the damn street to find a bed. If they had, maybe Anna would still be alive. But while they screwed, poor little Anna Louisa Clark died.”
It was after midnight when Will came home. He couldn’t sleep, so he lifted weights in the second bedroom, his iPod loud enough to drown out both thoughts and memories. An hour later, sore and drenched in sweat, he showered, then fell onto his bed wearing only boxers, the cold February night breeze coming in through his open windows. The last time he saw the digital clock it mockingly glowed red: 2:01.
Then he dreamed. Remembered.
Will watched Robin from the shadows. She picked up her glass—a martini, straight up—and sipped. The stress of the investigation was getting to her. Three of her friends had died and he knew who the killer was, had interrogated him twice, but that wily bastard gave nothing up. Even three days in prison hadn’t fazed Theodore Glenn.
Will didn’t know what was going on with him. He didn’t mess with victims. He didn’t get personally involved with witnesses. But Robin McKenna was no ordinary woman. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Every morning he woke with her in his thoughts, every night he wasn’t with her he was lonely, empty, incomplete.
Six weeks ago they’d acted on a mutual attraction that began when he first interviewed her after Bethany Coleman’s murder. He’d have forced her to stay in his bed to keep her safe, but Robin wasn’t a woman to run. She faced the fear. But he’d been watching her. Worried. They’d argued the night before. “Quit,” he’d said, knowing he had no right. It wasn’t that she was a stripper, it was that being a stripper put her on the killer’s hit list.
Though he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that her job bothered him on more than one level. Because he felt more for her than he could say out loud.
She’d shaken her head. “Someone else will die. You have to find him, Will. Stop him. Only then will I—we—be safe.”
Now watching her, he saw her fear and her beauty, her vulnerability
Will Hooper did not kiss and tell.
She could picture how Will and Robin McKenna met over tragedy. Forging a relationship. How had it ended? Had he taken her to a nice restaurant and kissed her good night? A quiet good-bye…
“You know William, don’t you?” Glenn’s voice was mocking, almost a laugh.
“How do you know he was involved with Robin McKenna?” Trinity asked, gathering her thoughts.
The killer chuckled. “I followed every step of the police investigation.”
“No one is going to believe you didn’t kill Anna Clark.”
“That is your job. I don’t know how they did it, but I didn’t kill that bitch. The truth is in the evidence, but do you think they would show me? Do you think that they’ll just open their books, even when they have to? Go ask William Hooper, or the D.A., or the fucking crime scene investigator!”
He stepped away from the door and paced. She shouldn’t have set him off. She couldn’t see him except a darker shape in the shadows, but his movement was frantic. Fear ran over her, but she suppressed it. He said he wasn’t going to kill her.
Damn, was she going to believe him? After he admitted to killing three women?
“William didn’t kill her,” Glenn said as if thinking out loud. He stopped at the end of her bed and stared at her, the whites of his eyes almost glowing. Chills ran down her back and she shivered. “He was screwing Robin McKenna. I watched. Robin. She was supposed to be next, but she wouldn’t go out with me. All the other whores let me wine and dine them, but that bitch was cold. Liquid fire onstage, but in person…” his voice trailed off.
“I watched them. They were in the club. It was two in the morning. Robin sat in the bar. Crying. William Hooper walked in. ‘What’s wrong?’ And they were on each other like animals. Couldn’t even walk across the damn street to find a bed. If they had, maybe Anna would still be alive. But while they screwed, poor little Anna Louisa Clark died.”
It was after midnight when Will came home. He couldn’t sleep, so he lifted weights in the second bedroom, his iPod loud enough to drown out both thoughts and memories. An hour later, sore and drenched in sweat, he showered, then fell onto his bed wearing only boxers, the cold February night breeze coming in through his open windows. The last time he saw the digital clock it mockingly glowed red: 2:01.
Then he dreamed. Remembered.
Will watched Robin from the shadows. She picked up her glass—a martini, straight up—and sipped. The stress of the investigation was getting to her. Three of her friends had died and he knew who the killer was, had interrogated him twice, but that wily bastard gave nothing up. Even three days in prison hadn’t fazed Theodore Glenn.
Will didn’t know what was going on with him. He didn’t mess with victims. He didn’t get personally involved with witnesses. But Robin McKenna was no ordinary woman. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Every morning he woke with her in his thoughts, every night he wasn’t with her he was lonely, empty, incomplete.
Six weeks ago they’d acted on a mutual attraction that began when he first interviewed her after Bethany Coleman’s murder. He’d have forced her to stay in his bed to keep her safe, but Robin wasn’t a woman to run. She faced the fear. But he’d been watching her. Worried. They’d argued the night before. “Quit,” he’d said, knowing he had no right. It wasn’t that she was a stripper, it was that being a stripper put her on the killer’s hit list.
Though he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that her job bothered him on more than one level. Because he felt more for her than he could say out loud.
She’d shaken her head. “Someone else will die. You have to find him, Will. Stop him. Only then will I—we—be safe.”
Now watching her, he saw her fear and her beauty, her vulnerability
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