"Never."Cross leaned forward, his pale eyes intent."Look, I know what you're thinking.Two women who came to my studio turn up dead, and one of them I had a romantic interest in.I understand how that looks.But I swear to you—I had nothing to do with this.Either of them."
"Where were you Monday night?"Isla asked."Between seven and midnight."
"Monday?"Cross thought for a moment."I taught the seven o'clock class.It ended around eight-fifteen—we ran a few minutes over.After that, I cleaned up the studio, went over some paperwork.I was probably here until nine-thirty, maybe a little later."
"Anyone who can verify that?"
"Greta might have seen me leave.She lives in the apartment upstairs."Cross gestured toward the ceiling."And I stopped for gas on the way home.The Mobil station on Central Avenue.They should have security footage."
James made a note."And after that?"
"Home.I ate dinner, watched some television, went to bed."Cross spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness."I live alone.There's no one who can vouch for where I was after ten o'clock.But I wasn't—" He stopped, seeming to realize the futility of the protestation."I wasn't out killing anyone."
Isla shifted in her chair, changing tacks."Mr.Cross, are you familiar with either Bella Ristorante or the old Shoreline Diner?"
The question seemed to catch him off guard.His brow furrowed, and she watched him search his memory for the names.
"Bella Ristorante—that's the Italian place on Lake Avenue, right?I've eaten there a few times.Good osso buco."His confusion seemed genuine."The Shoreline Diner, I don't think I know.Is that still open?"
"It's being renovated."
"Then no, I don't know it."Cross looked between Isla and James."Why?What do these restaurants have to do with Monica and Amanda?"
Isla didn't answer.Instead, she studied his face, searching for any flicker of recognition, any tell that would indicate he knew more than he was admitting.She found nothing—only confusion and the lingering residue of shock.
"The bodies were found in their freezers," James said, watching Cross's reaction carefully."Both of them.Posed.Arranged with considerable care."
Cross's face went gray.For a moment Isla thought he might be sick—his hand moved to his stomach, and he swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"In freezers?"The word came out strangled."You mean they were—frozen?"
"Among other things."
Cross pushed back from his desk and stood, turning toward the window as if he couldn't bear to face them.His shoulders were trembling.When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"I didn't know.”He pressed his palm against the glass, leaving a foggy imprint."Jesus Christ.What kind of person does something like that?"
Isla rose from her chair and moved to stand beside him, close enough to read the expression on his face reflected in the window.What she saw there was fear—raw, genuine fear—but it didn't feel like the fear of a guilty man caught in his lies.It felt like the fear of someone who had just realized how close death had brushed past him.
"Mr.Cross," she said quietly."Is there anything else you can tell us?Anything about Monica or Amanda that might help us understand why someone targeted them?"
He was quiet for a long moment, his breath fogging the window in slow, uneven pulses.When he turned to face her, his pale eyes were wet.
"They were good people," he said."Both of them.Amanda with her students, Monica with her clients—they both had that quality, you know?That warmth.Like they actually cared about the people around them."His voice caught."I don't understand why anyone would want to hurt them.I don't understand any of this."
Isla didn't either.Not yet.But she was beginning to see the shape of something—a pattern that had nothing to do with Nathan Cross or his inappropriate attention to his students, nothing to do with the restaurants or Vincent Carlisle's dead wife.The yoga studio was a connection, yes, but it felt incidental.A place where the killer had spotted his victims, perhaps, but not a motive.
She returned to her chair and pulled out a photograph—Amanda Pierce's Teacher of the Year photo, the one that had run in the local paper almost a year ago.She set it on Cross's desk.
"Did you ever see anyone paying unusual attention to Amanda?Someone watching her, following her, asking questions about her schedule?"
Cross picked up the photo with trembling fingers.He studied it for a long moment, and Isla could see him genuinely trying to remember, genuinely searching through his memory for anything that might help.
"There was a man," he said slowly."A few weeks ago.He came into the studio asking about classes, but he never actually signed up.I remember thinking it was odd—he didn't seem like the yoga type."
Isla felt her pulse quicken."Can you describe him?"
"Late thirties, maybe early forties.Average height, average build.Brown hair, I think, or maybe dark blonde.He was wearing a baseball cap, so it was hard to tell."Cross set the photo down."The thing I remember most was how he looked at the class schedule.Like he was memorizing it."
