Not once, except for maybe when she and Lex parted ways, had Sarah felt the compulsion to kill anyone.
To actually commit the act.
Okay, so she hadn’t really wanted to kill him, but the temptation had crossed her mind. For about two seconds.
But there wasn’t a day that passed that she didn’t wonder if, forced to defend herself, the act would plunge her into a different reality. One where she couldn’t resist the desire to take another life given the proper motivation or not.
Her mother had killed eight people and kept the ongoing activity hidden for a decade.
Sarah’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Her father had been a cheat who cared about no one but himself. For the duration of his short life, if Sarah had her guess. According to her aunt, he’d always been a lying two-timer.
Sarah’s entire genetic makeup, all that she was, had resulted from the combination of deceit, uncontrollable urges, and lies.
She understood, even before her shrink had told her as much, that her past was the reason truth was so intensely important to her. She damned sure hadn’t needed Lex to remind her.
And Sarah could live with that.
But, if the trigger for one or more of those bad traits—and all addicts had triggers for their vices—was ever tripped, would there be any turning back?
The age at which her hair grayed or wrinkles developed or the propensity for illness kicked in—it was all genetic. The color of her eyes ... her hair ... her height ... every damned thing.
Her mother had been thirty when she’d murdered her first victim. Did that make Sarah’s upcoming birthday a long-buried trigger? Was she more likely to commit the act at that point, the same as she might expect certain physical changes?
If she knew for certain that would happen, was there anything she could or should do about it? Put herself on house arrest? Kill herself before she could kill anyone else?
Did repeat murderers consider killing themselves to stop the compulsion? Or was the power and excitement of the act far too big a rush to miss?
Sarah scrubbed at her eyes. She was definitely losing her perspective, maybe even her mind.
This case hit far too close to home for reasons she couldn’t yet discern.
Was staying another day, even another minute, a mistake?
Conner had tried to reach her five or six times.
She wasn’t calling him back. He was a distraction she didn’t need.
His family, like the Popes, made her too keenly aware of what she’d missed growing up.
And he, Kale Conner, the good-looking fisherman who’d given up his own future to live out his father’s dream, was some kind of kryptonite to her.
He made her wonder. Made her want to be a part of something she couldn’t name.
Yet, he was ultimately no better than she was. He was faking it, too. Pretending that work was all life was about. No wife, no girlfriend. Just his work to keep him company. Oh, and the dog. How was his life so different from hers?
They weren’t good for each other. He needed her about as much as she needed him.
Taking her foot off the brake, she headed for the inn. Sleep would do her good.
And maybe for once she’d follow the doctor’s orders and take the stupid medicine.
Yeah, right. The ability to function at full capacity was far too important to her.
Chief Willard had shut her out of the investigation. Lex would ensure she didn’t get back in. If new evidence had been discovered, the cops might just eventually find the killer with or without her participation.
Maybe Don was right and she should go back to New York. If she couldn’t accomplish anything here, why stay? The only mystery that needed to be solved was identifying the scumbag who liked murdering young women.
No spooks, curses, or boogeymen here.
