“It’s not a guess,” Riley replied firmly.“She wants to watch us struggle with the same impossible choice she faced.She needs to see it.”
Ann Marie stepped forward, her eyes scanning the apartment windows.“Even if you’re right, how do we know which apartment she’s in?There must be fifty units in that building.”
Riley’s mind traced the pattern Sarah Mitchell had created.Everything had meaning.Everything was deliberate.
“She’s going to tell us,” she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
“What do you mean, she’s going to tell us?”Brookman demanded.
“Sarah Mitchell has orchestrated every detail of this scenario,” Riley replied—all of it designed to force us to face the same impossible choice that destroyed her.”She turned to meet Brookman’s skeptical gaze.“But part of her wants to be stopped.Wants to be found.”
“That’s a hell of a psychological profile to bet a woman’s life on,” Brookman muttered, checking his watch again.
But Ann Marie’s eyes brightened with understanding.“Riley’s right.The finger trap message, the tip about the warehouse—she’s leaving breadcrumbs.Creating a path for us to follow.”
“Let’s follow it,” Riley said, already moving across the street toward the apartment building’s entrance.Ann Marie and Brookman fell into step behind her.
The building’s entrance was unlocked, the security buzzer system long since broken.Inside, the lobby was dingy.No elevator, the building was a walk-up.Against one wall stood a bank of metal mailboxes, some dented, others with locks that had been forced and never repaired.
Riley hastily scanned the names on the mailboxes.“There,” she said, “Hoffman, C.Apt 412.”
Ann Marie inhaled sharply beside her.“Cindy Hoffman—Aaron Bishop’s second victim.The woman who died after he was released.”Her voice dropped to a whisper.“The woman whose death Sarah Mitchell blames herself for.”
Brookman looked between them, confusion evident in his expression.“I don’t understand.Why would our killer use that name?”
Already moving toward the stairwell, Riley explained, “When Sarah Mitchell falsified evidence to keep Aaron Bishop in custody, she was trying to prevent him from killing again.And when he was released and killed Cindy Hoffman, her worst fear was confirmed.”
Brookman pulled out his phone.“I’m calling in tactical,” he said.“We need a SWAT team here now.”
“There’s no time,” Riley said sharply.“And if you bring in SWAT, Sarah will trigger that injection immediately.”
“That’s right,” Ann Marie agreed.
Riley headed up the stairs, the other two following.When they reached the second-floor landing, Brookman checked his watch again.“Four minutes left.”
The urgency spurred them onward, their footsteps thundering on the metal stairs.As they reached the fourth floor, Riley said, “I’ll go in alone.”
“Absolutely not,” Brookman objected, his voice rising.“This woman has killed three people.We have no idea—”
“I’m the one she’s been communicating with, the one she wanted to find her.If anyone has a chance of talking her down, it’s me.”
“This is against every protocol in the book,” Brookman argued.
“Exactly the point,” Riley snapped back.“Sarah Mitchell’s entire crusade has been about the failure of protocol.”
“Let her go,” Ann Marie said quietly.“This is what Riley does best.”
Riley moved down the corridor alone, counting down apartment numbers until she reached 412.Then Riley drew her weapon and tried the door.
It opened easily, unlocked.
Riley stepped inside, her weapon raised, scanning the space.There, in the center of what passed for a living room, sat the tableau Sarah Mitchell had arranged.
Olga Swinson was bound exactly as she had appeared in the photograph—zip ties securing her wrists and ankles to a wooden chair, a gag stretched tight across her mouth, her dark hair clinging to sweat-dampened temples, her eyes wild with terror.The hypodermic needle remained embedded in her arm, connected to a timing mechanism whose digital display showed 210 seconds.
Sarah Mitchell stood beside her captive, her posture eerily calm.She was older than in the Bureau photographs Riley had seen, her once-dark hair now streaked with gray, her face lined with the erosion of a decade spent in hiding.But her eyes—those remained unchanged, sharp with intelligence and a peculiar kind of certainty.
