“How are you? I hear you’re working at a coffee shop in Midtown.” A wide smile replaces the fury he hides.
Sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. “How—How do you know that?”
“I have resources. The eyes of the watchful never sleep.” He leans forward, placing his elbows on the little counter in front of him. “Why did you stray from the path you’ve been called to journey? Davis was meant to be your field of harvest—your ministry.”
My brows furrow. I don’t like this back and forth between terror and indignation, but I shouldn’t have expected anything else. “You know exactly why I didn’t go,John,” I call him by his first name again, and it has its intended effect.
“Have you kept yourself clean?” He asks through gritted teeth.
My face goes blank as I try to numb myself to the memories that his question surfaces.
I don’t want to think about that. I don’t want to remember.
“That’s none of your business,” I snap back.
He smiles, showing all of his teeth. “Ah, you have, haven’t you? That’s my Daisy. Pure and innocent.”
“I’m not your anything.” Before he can reprimand me, I get down to business. “You wanted me here, so I’m here. What can you tell the FBI about the copycat?”
“I want to talk toyou. Only you. Not the FBI, who I’m sure is listening in on this.” He raises his volume slightly at the end, speaking directly into the receiver.
“Then talk to me. Tell me about the copycat.” I push again. My extreme emotions dull when I switch the subject.
All I need to do is stay away from the past and what he put me through, and I should be okay.
“We’ll get to that?—”
“No,” I interject. “We’ll talk about it now. I came here for answers. If you’re not going to give them to me, then I’m gone, and you’ll never see me again.”
His face turns a bright shade of red, and his hand slams down on the linoleum counter. “Mind your tongue, Daisy. Honor thy father.”
Of course, he conveniently leaves out the part about mothers.
I lean forward, my breath fogging the glass. “It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.”
We’ve never argued like this, but it feels good. A smug sort of gratification fills my chest as I spit my words at him.
My father swipes his tongue across his teeth as he squints at me. He lets out a huff and opens his mouth. “The man you’re looking for doesn’t care about who he kills. John the Baptist was a man on a mission. This guy is just a wannabe.”
Contemplating, I chew on my lip. “How would you know that?”
“I know becau?—”
“Not another word!” A door behind me opens forcefully, hitting the wall. A man in a nice suit and a leather messenger bag in his hand strolls in. His onyx hair is parted on the side and styled, giving him a polished and clean look. He has classically handsome features, but the look in his eyes is unsettling, leaving me with a disquieted feeling in my chest.
My father waves to the man, moving the phone away from his face as he shouts back, “What do you want, Jeremy? I’m counseling my daughter.”
Rio, followed by Agents Huntley and Cassidy, storms into the room behind the intruder.
The man my father called Jeremy whirls on them. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? This is entrapment. I’ll be filing a complaint with the Inspector General.”
Agent Huntley moves to get in Jeremy’s face, but Rio speaks up first, proving he really does know his stuff.
“Conversations between visitors and inmates are always recorded. Even if John Bartlett were to finally confess tomurdering twenty-four women, it’s not like he can be tried again. He was already found guilty in a court of law. John is serving a triple life sentence nonconcurrently without the possibility of parole. Get off your high horse, Jeremy Milton.”
“I can talk to my daughter if I want to,” my father argues from the other side of the glass, drawing my focus. No one else pays him any attention except the guard behind him and me.
“Using my client’s daughter to talk to him is coercion. This is a disguised interrogation that undermines my client’s Sixth Amendment rights. I demand to see the court order or warrant you procured that gives you permission to listen in on this conversation.” Milton points a finger at Rio and the agents. “Otherwise, anything you heard is the fruit of the poisonous tree.”
