Fascination trickled through Darell's fear.

Craig Barlow stood on his doorstep, clad in a brown sport jacket over jeans. He carried a soft-sided black leather portfolio case, presumably with his ma.n.u.script chapters inside. If you didn't know him for what he was, you'd think him a good-looking kid. Perfect face for a killer. Women would never guess.

"Come in, come in." Darell stood back, ushering him into the web, the spider to the fly.

Craig stepped inside. His gaze cruised the entryway as if cataloguing details. "This is just such an honor, Mr. Brooke. Thanks again for inviting me."

Darell surveyed him. A keen confidence overrode his air of faux humility, although no doubt he didn't think it showed. It was in the tilt of his head, the firmness of his mouth. Most telling were his eyes. In their glacial blue Darell saw the depths of the man's calculation. They were eyes that could look straight at you, sheening with sincerity while he lied.

Leland Hugh.

"Thank you for coming." Darell led him down the hall.

Like an old fluorescent light, Darell's brain hummed as he rounded the corner into his office. Weariness pulled at him even as adrenaline coursed through his veins. So many details to remember. So much he had to get right.

"Please." Darell indicated the chair upon which the hidden camera was fixed. "Sit."

"Thank you." Craig put his black case on the table and settled in the offered chair. Resting his forearms, he laced his hands, torso bent forward, body language exuding the picture of eagerness to help.

Taking his time, Darell positioned himself, resting his cane on the floor.

"So." Craig smiled, and the grooves in his jaw deepened. Such model good looks wouldn't keep long in jail. "What research questions did you want to ask me?"

"Let's talk about you first. Tell me about your writing."

"Oh. Well, I started about a year ago. Have maybe half a book done."

"What's it about?"

He looked chagrined. "It's a suspense novel. A detective investigating a string of homicides."

"Really." Darell raised his eyebrows. "Well, that's right up my alley."

"Yeah." Craig reached for his portfolio and unzipped it. He stuck his hand inside. "I brought some chapters, like you asked." As he pulled out pages, he glanced at the top one. Immediately dismay creased his face. "Oh, no." He slapped down the papers and leaned over to shuffle through the stack.

He looked up at Darell, embarra.s.sed. "I stuck the wrong ones in here."

"That's all right. I'll look at whatever you've got."

"No, no, I-these are an older draft. I had everything in my own car and then had to transfer over when I borrowed my sister's. What I want is probably on the pa.s.senger seat. Mind if I go get them?"

Darell started to push back from the table. "Not at all."

"No, just sit." Craig was already on his feet. "I'll just let myself out and come right back."

"No, I'll-"

"Please. I don't want to put you out."

Before Darell could pick up his cane, Craig whisked up the papers, stuffed them into his portfolio, and hurried from the room.

CHAPTER fifty-six

In the library, Kaitlan gasped. "He's going to look through the house!"

On Pete's monitor, her grandfather was cranking his torso around, trying to peer out the office window. Opposite him, Craig's empty chair mocked.

Kaitlan flung a horrified look at Pete. "What if he comes in here?"

Sam swung his camera toward her. She turned away.

"Shh," Pete hissed. "Just wait." He sprang from his chair at the folding table and stepped toward the door. His right hand hovered at his waist.

Hunched over, muscles about to crack, Kaitlan strained with all her might to listen. In the frozen silence she could hear Margaret breathing.

Sam's camera panned to Ed.

The faint metallic click of an opened door latch spun to Kaitlan's ears. Craig had gone outside.

Pete's forefinger came up-hear that?

Kaitlan locked eyes with Ed. He nodded grim rea.s.surance. If the reporter hadn't believed them to this point, her fear had clearly rubbed off on him. He stood some six feet away, spine ramrod straight, fingers clasped to the back of a folding chair.

An interminable minute later the front door slammed.

"He's back." Kaitlan's eyes darted to the monitor. Pete returned to watch the screen. His hand remained at his waist.

Sam refocused his camera to the monitor-and the empty chair.

Craig reappeared onscreen.

He tossed down the black case and seated himself, puffing a little. "Sorry about that." Over the microphone his voice sounded a little tinny and distant but clear enough. "They were on the front seat."

"Glad you found them." Kaitlan's grandfather placed his palms on the table.

Pete sat down in his folding chair and reached for the gear shift on his console. Watching the monitor beside him, he nudged the control forward and slightly to the left. Craig's body edged into a close-up.

"So let's have a look." Kaitlan's grandfather's voice, offscreen.

Kaitlan and Margaret locked eyes.

"Okay." Craig opened the case. "Only now I'm really nervous. My writing's probably horrible."

"You have to start somewhere."

Craig slid the pages across the table until they disappeared from the screen.

A pause.

"Your first chapter's in the detective's point of view?"

"Yes."

Silence.

Craig watched. His lip began to curl.

Ice melted down Kaitlan's back. "Look at him."

She pictured her grandfather's head down, focused on the ma.n.u.script. Unaware of the transformation taking place.

Pages rustled.

Pete zoomed in even closer on Craig's face. Kaitlan saw the hard, cold look in his eyes. The smugness. The same killer expression he'd used to terrorize her last night.

Margaret sucked in a breath.

Abruptly Craig's smirk vanished. Chased by a small, pleasant smile. The drastic change chilled Kaitlan to the bone.

"Your detective is-"

"Mr. Brooke, you didn't really bring me here just to see my ma.n.u.script, did you?"

"Well, no, I have questions to ask you."

"Then why don't we get to them?" That pleasant look hung on, but Craig's tone edged.

Kaitlan's muscles turned to wood. He knows something's up He knows something's up.

Her grandfather hesitated. "What, are you pushed for time?"

Craig leaned forward, his smile gone and eyes narrowed. "Let's cut to the chase, shall we, Mr. Brooke? Why did you really bring me here?"

CHAPTER fifty-seven

Margaret swiveled to Kaitlan, feeling sick. "This isn't right."

"Shh." Pete flung up a hand, eyes riveted to the monitor. "If something goes wrong, I've got a gun."

Surprise flicked across Kaitlan's face. She looked at Margaret and swallowed hard.

So what, Margaret thought, we're too far away to help! we're too far away to help! She swung away, a hand thrust to her scalp. Why hadn't she stopped this? She swung away, a hand thrust to her scalp. Why hadn't she stopped this?

Her focus landed on the bookcase of Darell's first editions. Ratcheted up to the top shelf.

Over the Waters. The cruise-ship story, with the protagonist's plans to catch the killer gone so awry. The warning was right there this morning, if only she'd made Darell listen - Life After Death. The next novel in line. The t.i.tle leapt out at her.

Margaret stared at it.

Vaguely, she registered Darell's voice on the monitor.

Life After Death. The t.i.tle screamed.

Dreamlike, Margaret drifted to the bookcase, already knowing. Ancient memory bubbled like lava, her nerves singeing hot, so hot. Her arm reached up to the top shelf, to the book she would have read next if she hadn't stopped too soon, if she hadn't been so terribly, utterly stupid stupid ... ...

She slid out Life After Death Life After Death.

Craig's and Darell's voices were arguing. They barely registered.

Sam, Pete, somebody in the room uttered a curse.

Margaret opened the hardback book. She skimmed the first page. The second.

Darell's story of years ago-the homicidal ER doctor, the hospital on a far-flung island.

In Margaret's mind, the lava-memories boiled higher and plunged over a cliff.

"Ah!" Kaitlan cried.

On the third page Margaret found it. The fabric. Black silk with green stripes. The cloth the doctor used to strangle his victims.

The novel slipped from Margaret's fingers and slammed to the floor.

CHAPTER fifty-eight