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Behind me, he had printed out a blow-up of the police sketch Amy Pasko had contributed to two years ago. The longer I looked at it, the less it looked like Lock. I’d let my mind play tricks on me. Nothing more. Lock could never have had anything to do with hurting someone the way we thought these women had been hurt. But I was still anxious to know why Roy had called me here so urgently.

“Actually,” Roy said. “I’d rather you had a look at the police report and file on Corrine Egan.”

“You said there was something you wanted me to see?”

Roy went to the table. A thin purple file folder sat on top of one of the boxes. He handed it to me.

“There’s not much there,” he said. “She was never able to provide the names of any witnesses to their encounters. The rental house she described does exist. I pulled the address up online.”

“What was the name on the rental?” I asked.

Roy shook his head. “It went nowhere. The landlord said it was a cash transaction. The name of the renter was Matt Woodson, just like Corrine said. Her story tracks with all checkable facts. But nobody ever found a trace of this guy. He’s a ghost.”

“Even if something Amy says connects to this guy as well, I don’t think Corrine would be able to take the stand.”

“I figured you’d say that. That’s exactly why I want your eyes and brain on that report. She’s got some screenshots of message exchanges. I want to know if there’s anything there you’d use that I haven’t thought of.”

“Assuming her bad guy is the same bad guy who abducted these other women,” I said.

“Right,” Roy said. “And right now, that’s just my instinct. But it’s a strong one.”

He picked up a pad of paper and headed down the hall. Part of me desperately wanted to follow him. I wouldn’t mind hearing what Amy Pasko had to say either. But I was equally curious about the file in my hand.

I sat down and flipped it open. The top sheet contained the Kalamazoo County detective’s disposition summary. He investigated it as a menacing case, not an assault. Its status remained open.

The summary of Corrine’s statement matched what she’d told us. She met the mysterious Matt Woodson online. They started a dialogue after that, chatting through the app for several weeks before deciding to meet in person.

I flipped the page. The detective had written a bullet point list. He’d titled it “Woodson’s Rules.”

My throat felt thick as I read on.

Place setting – silverware not touching, nothing closer than one inch from any plate.

Suspect directed the victim not to wear red of any kind.

Suspect ordered all food and would not allow victim to use any strong spices.

During sexual encounter, suspect took dominant role. Forced eye contact throughout. Light bondage using red silk ribbons.

Suspect asked to sign NDA

I slammed the file shut. I wished I could slam my mind shut. My heart hammered in my chest. This was wrong. I couldn’t read this. My mind flashed to the memory of my first time with Lock.

He’d been so tender, so gentle, but the demands he made mirrored what I was reading in this report…

“I need your eyes, Mina,” he had whispered. It sent a shiver of pleasure through me. “Stay with me, my little dove.”

As I got to know him better, I began to understand what made his insecurities flare. When we were intimate, he wanted to know I was thinking only of him. He wanted control. It awakened a dark part of me I hadn’t known existed. To give in to it. To turn myself over to his deepest desires and realize they complemented my own.

He used red silk ribbons to tie me to the bed. The morning after, he’d cut a strand and tied it around my wrist. It had been the most loving, intimate gesture. I mattered to him. He made me feel as though I were the only woman in the world. Cherished. Chosen. Loved.

There was nothing sinister about it. Nothing violent. It was a secret he trusted me with. He had been so vulnerable that morning. So afraid of what I might do or say. Would I reject him? I knew I held his heart in my hands. I touched the ribbon still encircling my wrist. I’d never let Lock’s heart go.

But the silverware. That was his mother’s rule when he set the table. One horrible night, when Lock was eleven, he’d gotten it wrong. When his father found out, he’d made Lock hold his hands on either side of his dinner plate and hit him with the wooden ruler he was supposed to measure with.

Certain smells made him sick. Clove. Though his mother didn’t cook often, she overused this spice when she did. Now, it made him violently ill. I turned the page. Corrine had printed out a message exchange on a single sheet of paper. Most of them were outgoing messages from her to Matt Woodson.

I can’t stop thinking about you.