Now, reminiscing through her lens, Patrick could see how she had tried to show him her feelings. There had been the innocuous chit chat on the phone, the way she always had his Americano on hand, how she had tried to keep him by her desk instead of buzzing him straight through to his interview. Mentally, he kicked himself for just assuming this attention was routine. He was not just an idiot, he was a vain idiot.
“Well, anyway.” Kim literally shook away the more intense veneer from her features. “After Nikita died, you disappeared, and I couldn’t figure out where you’d gone. It was difficult to find a new boss, someone I knew you would be drawn to. A conduit.” Her eyes snapped to his. “That’s what I needed. And then I found Melanie Templeton. It was almost too easy. She was so lonely, she just wanted to be adored.” Kim sneered again. “But she seemed like just the kind of person you would want. Blonde, statuesque, controlling. So I became her. And then her dickhead husband tries to tell me to leave her alone? I wasn’t doing anything. I was just being her friend.” Kim spat the words, lost in her reverie. “I had to clear my path back to you.” Her voice iced over. “And then I saw you with that bitch.”
“Anita?”
“Don’t youdarespeak her name! She doesn’t deserve you, doesn’t want you.” Kim rubbed her hands up his sides, her fingertips pressing into the bruised muscles.
“You left the lighter?” Patrick remembered the small tchotchke with the engraved Wildcat he had found outside the studio, the night he and Anita had kissed.
“Yes! I was so pleased you had found it. I thought for sure you might recognize me then, little Christina Blake.” Her features clouded. “But you didn’t.”
“Did you poison Anita?” Maybe he could somehow wiggle his wrists from their binding. Nope. Metal handcuffs were a bitch.
“She deserved it.” Kim stared at him with eyes that had turned black. Ice chilled Patrick’s spine.
“Why are you telling me all of this?” This never ended well for guys like him.
Kim grinned widely and clasped her hands together in a ludicrous romantic gesture.
“Patrick!” She curled up again beside him on the bed, nestled her head into the angle of his shoulder. “Oh, my darling, darling, sweet, sweet Patrick.” She pressed her cold lips to his cheek. “I’m telling you because I love you. We are going to be so happy together.”
Fuck.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Sheriff Forbes closed the door of her police cruiser, and John followed suit. They were both in plain clothes today, since technically, John was supposed to be at home watching basketball with four of his soon-to-be brothers-in-law.
“Tell me a little more about her.” Sheriff Forbes tilted her head to examine the house. There were no cars in the driveway, the windows were dark. John noted the black paint beginning to peel on the shutters, the front hydrangeas looking a little too beleaguered despite the recent rains. It was a single-story ranch-style home, more like the starter homes Katie was eyeing than Melanie Templeton’s mansion.
“I haven’t gotten a good read on her yet.” John ran his hand over his bald scalp. “She gave her name as Kim Smith. Ran her through the databases but so far, no hits on that or Kimberly Smith. According to Melanie Templeton, Kim showed up about three months ago, glommed on to her fairly hard. Doesn’t appear she owns the house.”
The sheriff gazed up at the house pensively, her posture strong. Some things from the service never left a person. “A rental.”
“Maybe. Haven’t been able to track down rental records or anything like that. House was registered to Ivanocorp, a multinational corporation with its hands in just about everything, including real estate. The wife of the founder actually was murdered a few months ago.” The sheriff turned to look at him, her gaze sharp. “I haven’t found a connection yet between Nikita Ivanovna and Kim Smith.”
“There will be one. What does Ms. Smith do for work?” The sheriff approached the front door while waiting for his answer.
“Unclear.” He joined her on the stoop, his shadow dwarfing her. “She was not very forthcoming in the interview. Clearly she gave us an alias.”
They knocked several times, but there was no answer. Forbes pointed silently to a security camera tucked discreetly into one of the eaves. The red light was off. “Police,” Forbes said sternly, knocking again. Then she bent over, reached down, and lifted the plain brown welcome mat.
“Not the smartest place to hide your key,” John remarked as the sheriff picked up the small silver key with the hardware store logo embossed on one side. “It’s like she’s asking for us to enter.”
“We have reasonable cause.” She unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Police!” she called out again into the echoing foyer. There was surprisingly little furniture in the front rooms. They moved through the first floor, following the foyer through the empty living room, then into the kitchen. There was a single wine glass on the dish rack, but also a distinct smell of funk. “Tell me about the owner who died.”
“It was the founder’s wife.” John absently opened a door, noted a powder room. “Nikita Ivanovna. She was shot during a ballroom dance competition three months ago. I spoke to the local police. No leads yet on suspects.”
“Hmm.” The sheriff turned to the other hallway and headed toward another door. “Police.” She knocked at the door but, when there was no answer, pushed it open.
Sheriff Forbes hit the light switch on the wall, illuminating its contents.
John sucked in his breath sharply.
“That’s your friend, right?”
All over the walls of Kim’s bedroom were photos of Patrick. Some were printouts from websites, some seemed to be candid shots taken from a distance. It was worse than clutter, manic and disorganized. It felt like stumbling across a dragon’s hoard andsmelled about as bad. “How far back do you think these pictures go?” There was a collage of photos clustered by her bed. In them, a shirtless Patrick posed on a campus green, wearing athletic shorts bearing the Villanova logo.
“Call your friend.” Sheriff Forbes took her own phone out of the pocket of her khakis. “I’ll put out the BOLO.”
