Huntley is still significantly taller than I am, but it doesn’t intimidate me like it did eleven years ago. He glowers at me like I just threatened to key his car.
“Savannah.” Mrs. Tanaka’s voice sounds worried.
“I’m okay. Don’t worry,” I say without looking at her.
“Let’s go,” Huntley grips my upper arm, his hand like a vice. I snag my purse and coat before Huntley forcefully leads me outside and to his illegally parked SUV.
Cassidy trails behind us. “Ease up, Huntley. You can’t afford to get written up again.”
Huntley opens the rear passenger door and shoves me inside. He slams the door and directs his ire at Cassidy. His words are muffled, but I can still hear what he says. “I know you’re new here, but this is how things work. If you can’t handle it, go back to Texas.”
Cassidy motions to me with his hand. “If she were a criminal, I wouldn’t bat an eye at how you’re treating her, but she’s not. She’s a witness.”
Witness?
His reminder squeezes my heart. Not out of guilt, but because his words bring up ugly memories that I’d rather forget.
Huntley raises his voice. “She lived with that man for eighteen years. There’s no way she didn’t know what he was doing. She only testified for the prosecution to save her own ass!”
Cassidy shakes his head in indignation, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Whatever, man. Just remember that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”
Huntley’s shoulders rise. “Shut up and get in the car.”
Half an hour later, I’m in a gray room with a two-way mirror, a metal table, and two chairs. I sit with my hands folded and resting on the cold steel. On the table sits a manila folder with a huge FBI emblem stamped on the front.
Huntley sits in the chair on the opposite side of the table, his back to the mirror. Cassiday stands by the door, leaning against the wall.
“What do you know about the recent string of female bodies found all over New York City?” Huntley asks accusingly.
I release some of the tension in my body, relieved to know that this isn’t about my nighttime activities.
“Just what they’ve reported on the news,” I answer.
“Do you find it strange that the women are being murdered with the same MO as your father?” Huntley pats his hand on the folder between us.
He’s trying to goad me, but I still need to set the record straight.
My fingers tighten. “That man is not my father. He stopped being my father when he chose to hurt innocent people.”
Huntley smirks, loving that he touched a nerve. “What? Not proud of Daddy Dearest?” He opens the folder and pulls out twenty-four large images, laying them side by side in front of me. I assume he’s looking for a reaction, but it doesn’t work.
Each photo depicts a mutilated woman in her bathtub, floating in a clear liquid I know to be bleach. I don’t have to seeall of the crime scenes to know what they look like. Agent Marreli showed them to me eleven years ago at my request.
The bedrooms appear to have been taken straight out of a horror movie. Blood spatter covers the walls, floor, ceiling, and bedding. Four pairs of handcuffs are on the bed, two hanging from the headboard and two from the footboard.
It’s not hard to guess what they were used for.
On the bathroom mirror, written in blood, is the phrase, “she has been cleansed.” On the counter, next to the sink, is a jump drive containing an audio recording of what was done to her. Her cries for help and her pleas for him to stop, forever inscribed in ones and zeroes.
My face is carefully composed as I respond to Huntley. “I don’t understand what you want from me.”
“You don’t recognize them?”
“Of course, I do,” I argue with an even tone.
Huntley presses another one of my buttons. “I highly doubt that. These women are just as disposable to you as they were to your father. These women suff?—”
I use my finger to point at each image. “Jessica Martinez, Megan Davis, Samantha Thomas, Nicole Garcia, Brittany Wilson, Michelle Taylor, Kimberly Rhodes…” My throat clogs as I struggle to get the eighth victim’s name out. “Angela Bartlett.”
