Well?” Navarro asked when Baz and Kit were sitting in his office the next morning.
“We’re ninety-nine percent certain that the vic’s name is Jaelyn Watts,” Baz said. “She was sixteen years old when she disappeared last February, fourteen months ago. We’re going out later this morning to see the family. Hopefully their dentist will have dental records or the parents will have saved her toothbrush or hairbrush for DNA confirmation.”
“Her parents filed a missing-person report the same day she disappeared,” Kit said, placing a copy of it on Navarro’s desk. “But she’d recently played hooky to go to L.A. to try out for a part in a sitcom, so she was treated as a runaway. Parents contacted LAPD, who checked with the production company that had held the audition. They had no record of seeing her after she’d disappeared.”
“She obviously never made it to L.A.” Baz sighed. “She never made it out of San Diego.”
Navarro’s jaw tightened. “Sixteen. That was the average age of the other victims.”
Baz nodded. “Yes. Ricki Emerson was sixteen and the ME estimated the others around the same. And now Jaelyn.”
“Cause of death?” Navarro asked.
“ME suspects strangulation,” Baz said, “but she needs time for the autopsy.”
“Strangled like all the others,” Navarro muttered. “Did the ME find evidence of sexual assault?”
Both Kit and Baz nodded silently, and Navarro’s shoulders sagged. “Dammit.” He looked at Kit. “The caller?”
Kit scowled. “So far, nothing. IT can’t trace the burner. They say they’ll do an analysis of the audio to see if there are any identifying factors, but they didn’t have a lot of hope. We didn’t put a high priority on the analysis yet and there’s a long queue. We wanted to give you time to update the brass before we tagged the investigation as a serial killer.”
“You’re sure you don’t recognize the man’s voice?” Navarro pressed.
Kit shook her head. “I listened to that tape at least fifty times last night.” She’d even dreamed the guy’s voice when she’d finally gone to sleep. “If I’ve met him, I can’t remember it.”
Navarro shrugged. “It’s just as likely that he read about you online. If he’s a serious witness, it would make sense to choose you for first contact. If he’s the killer and just playing us, same holds true.”
Because Kit had a reputation for caring about the cold cases involving teenagers, closing nearly a dozen in the four years she’d been a homicide detective. One of the city’s online papers had done a profile on her two years before, resulting in a lot of unwanted attention.
Kit hated attention at the best of times, but the interviewer had been intrusive and far too personal. Tamsin Kavanaugh had made it her personal mission to follow Kit around ever since, reporting on her homicide cases.
“Maybe,” she said. “We pulled case files on the previous four victims and made a comparison chart for your meetings upstairs.” She gave him the chart. “I know that you know the details, but it might help the brass.”
Navarro had been involved in the first four investigations, first as a detective, then as their boss. “Thank you. I’ve been getting calls since yesterday afternoon. Walk me through this.”
“All five victims were found with the pink handcuffs,” Baz began. “The first four had been painted with Krylon glitter spray paint, available in any craft store. We’re waiting on lab results for the fifth pair of cuffs. The first two, found fifteen and thirteen years ago, were painted with paint from the same lot, probably the same can. The second two, found eight and then five years ago, were painted with the same lot, but different than the first two. The paint itself is pretty much untraceable.”
“I remember,” Navarro murmured, looking over their analysis.
“All were buried in parks,” Kit continued, “all around San Diego County. The first was found in a downtown park by a man whose dog found the victim’s tibia bone. The rest were found in different parks by random people with metal detectors. Fortunately, two of those three people hadn’t actually uncovered the handcuffs. They backed away after exposing one of the victims’ bony fingers and the other victim’s decomposed face.”
Kit often wondered about the subsequent mental health of those random people who discovered bodies. They were a catalyst for the murder investigation, but most had never seen an actual body outside of a funeral before discovering the grisly remains.
The few she’d interviewed while working cold cases still had nightmares, years later. Just another ripple effect of a killer’s cruelty.
“One of the guys with a metal detector did find the pink handcuffs,” Navarro recalled.
“Yes,” Baz agreed, because he’d worked that case, too. “But he seemed to be a stand-up guy. Promised he wouldn’t divulge the detail.”
Navarro looked up, his eyes sharp. “Find out if he continues to be a stand-up guy. We’ll address this differently if it’s a copycat killer.”
“On our list, boss,” Baz said. “We’ll seek him out today.”
“So this victim is the first one called in by a potential witness,” Navarro said thoughtfully. “Killer or caller?”
“We don’t know yet,” Kit confessed. “His nervousness could be an act. This doer has been killing for between seventeen and twenty years—that first victim found fifteen years ago had been in the ground for a while. Maybe he’s bored of anonymity and wants some media exposure. Or the caller could be a legit witness.”
Navarro grunted his acknowledgment as he returned his attention to the analysis. “All the victims had jewelry, none of it expensive. So he’s not taking jewelry as souvenirs.”
“It’s kind of weird that he doesn’t dispose of the jewelry,” Kit said. “One of the first four victims—Ricki Emerson—was ID’d through her jewelry.” She was the only other victim they’d ID’d before Jaelyn. “You’d think he’d have learned his lesson, assuming he knows that Ricki was found.”
“Unless he’s not worried about that,” Navarro said. “Levinson seems to think that he wants it known.”
Dr. Alvin Levinson was their criminal psychologist. He’d consulted on establishing the killer’s profile—middle-aged white guy with a flair for the dramatic—but it was too vague to be of any real use. Not anyone’s fault. They just didn’t have the evidence for anything more.
“Part of his thrill,” Baz said. “Will they be found or won’t they? If they are, can the cops figure out who she is? If they get an ID, will they trace her to me?”
“Something like that.” Navarro shrugged. “It’s a theory.”
“It’s what I’d do if I were a killer,” Kit agreed. “Especially a cocky killer. I’d want to play with the police. It’d be part of the game.”
“You would be a cocky killer,” Baz said with a fond nod. “No question.”
Kit rolled her eyes. “The victims were all between five feet tall and five-three,” she said, getting them back on track. “Weighed between a hundred and a hundred twenty pounds. Jaelyn is five-one and weighed one fifteen, so she’s right in his range. She and Ricki Emerson went to different high schools, so there’s no overlap there.”
“Dammit,” Navarro muttered.
“But,” Kit said, raising a finger, “both Ricki Emerson and Jaelyn Watts were in their schools’ drama clubs. We’re going to talk to Ricki’s family and friends again to hopefully find more commonalities with Jaelyn. Of course, it’s been ten years since she disappeared—eight since her body was discovered—so getting good recollections isn’t guaranteed.”
“If anyone can do it, you two can,” Navarro said. “I remember that Ricki disappeared in September, so there’s no pattern to his abductions, either.” He tapped the page in front of him. “I like this format. It’ll make my conversation with the captain much more straightforward.”
“All Kit,” Baz said with a hint of pride.
Kit’s cheeks heated, but she wasn’t going to deny it. One of her strengths was communicating ideas in a clear manner. No one ever left any of her briefings confused.
One side of Navarro’s mouth lifted. “Thank you, Mr. Miyagi. Are you going to make her wax on and wax off during her lunch break?”
Baz laughed at the gentle Karate Kid ribbing. That he was Kit’s mentor had always made him proud, and she treasured their relationship.
“If I thought I could get away with it, I would,” Baz said. “My car needs a good waxing. Marian’s been nagging me about it for weeks now.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Kit said. “Our first priority is a positive ID on the victim. Then checking with the only witness to see the pink handcuffs to make sure he hasn’t told anyone. He found the second victim thirteen years ago, so again, we’re talking a lot of years in between.”
“A lot of years that this killer could have been killing other victims we’ve never found,” Baz said soberly. “We’re requesting any missing-person reports that fit the profile from all the neighboring precincts going back twenty years. We might need help running down leads, depending on what we find. I’ve been through a lot of those reports already over the years, trying to ID our three Jane Does, but Kit and I are going to take a fresh look together.”
“I can get you help. Just keep me updated. Call me with anything you find.”
Their plans approved, Kit and Baz went back to their desks, where Kit checked her phone for the directions to Jaelyn Watts’s house. “I’m ready to go whenever you are.”
Baz closed his eyes, looking abruptly old. “I hate meeting with the families.” He’d gotten much better at it since delivering the news of Wren’s death sixteen years before. He’d probably swung too far in the other direction, growing more emotional about each victim than was probably wise.
Kit sighed. “Me too.”
San Diego, California
Friday, April 8, 1:45 p.m.
Dr. Sam Reeves paced back and forth across his boss’s office, glancing at his phone.
“Has it changed?” Vivian asked.
Sam stopped pacing, turning to glare at the stylish woman behind the desk. He’d done the math to estimate her age when he’d first met her. Dr. Vivian Carlisle looked to be in her midfifties, but if she’d earned her bachelor’s degree at twenty-one, she was now sixty-five. Or at least he thought so.
Sam had never asked her age. His mother had raised him right. And he was not stupid.
Normally.
Today, he felt stupid. Today, he felt powerless.
“No. Still no news.”
“Sam,” she said warmly, “sit down. Talk to me.”
It was her therapist voice. Sam was quite familiar with the therapist voice since he was a goddamn therapist, too.
A goddamn therapist stuck between his personal and professional ethics. Classic rock and a hard place.
“I haven’t slept in days,” he confessed, scrubbing his palms over his face. “I keep wondering if I’ve done the right thing.”
“We agreed together that what you did was the right thing. That it was the only thing you really could do.”
Sam nodded, then slid down in his chair, letting his head fall back to rest against the cushion. Vivian’s chairs were more comfortable than his were. He needed to request an upgrade.
If he still had a job after this was over.
The alternative turned his stomach. He’d dedicated the past seventeen years of his life to becoming a respected clinical psychologist. He’d wanted to help people, help his clients.
He still did. He just wasn’t sure who to help in this case.
“Did you go back to the park to see if the police had done any digging?” she asked.
“No. I haven’t been back since I checked the place out four days ago.” It had been four agonizingly long days since he’d made his anonymous call to SDPD. “If they’re digging, I certainly don’t want them to ask me what I’m doing there. I don’t want to lie.”
Ironic, of course, since it was a compulsive liar who’d gotten him into this mess.
“Understandable. So, what did you say when you made the call?”
Sam tapped his phone screen, opening the Notes app. “ ‘Hi. This message is for homicide detective Kit McKittrick,’ ” he read. “ ‘I have reason to believe you’ll find the victim of a murder in Longview Park at the following coordinates.’ I gave the coordinates, then I hung up.”
Her dark brows lifted. “You prepared a script?”
“I did. I get flustered sometimes and I didn’t want to ramble or say too much.”
“Like ‘Hi, I’m Dr. Sam Reeves and one of my clients—who is a pathological liar, by the way—may have killed a young woman and buried her in Longview Park. Please dig her up and let me know if he’s telling the truth.’ ”
Sam found himself chuckling, because those were the exact words that would have come out of his mouth. “Yeah. Like that.” He sighed. “When I was in grad school, I wondered what I’d do in this situation. I mean, I get the rules. I do. If our clients believed that we might spill their secrets to the police, we wouldn’t achieve any kind of trust. But this is murder, Vivian.”
And past murders were covered under therapist-client confidentiality. Sam was not only not required to report a murder, he was not allowed to do so, except under very specific circumstances. Failure to comply risked his license and even opened him up to civil litigation.
“If Colton Driscoll is telling the truth,” she commented.
“If,” Sam agreed. “I mean he goes from talking about having dinner last night with Katy Perry to saving a busload of nuns to putting flowers on the grave of the ‘pretty young thing’ who loved him so. I tried to get him to focus on that—on the grief of whoever he’d lost, thinking that might be a key to his anger issues—but he kept bouncing along. Tea with William and Kate to winning the lotto to playing a round of golf with Tiger Woods and Tiger asking him for pointers. He’s exhausting.”
“Pathological liars usually are. You were smart not to confront his lies.”
Sam shrugged. “He won’t admit to them. But I did talk about how he’d felt when his neighbor confronted his lie, trying to direct him toward his anger triggers so that we could explore them. I mean, he’s here because he’s been court ordered for anger management.” Colton had beaten his neighbor to a bloody pulp after the man exposed one of his lies to their neighborhood. Colton had broken the man’s jaw and bruised several of his ribs. The victim had been lucky not to lose his eye. “He did get angry with me about that. Doubled down on the lie, which was so easily disprovable. But every time I get him focused on the anger, he pops back with more fabrications. He’s doing this to confuse me and sidetrack me from the anger problem, I get that. When it was just Katy Perry and British royalty, I could shrug it off, but now . . .”
Colton had started talking about terrible things that could be true.
“We’ve talked about this,” Vivian said. “You’re doing the right things, Sam. Colton is a difficult case. That he’s talked about this ‘pretty young thing’ at all is probably significant. That he’s referred to multiple girls this way is even more concerning.”
Colton had returned to the pretty young thing—the one whose grave he visited—in all their sessions thus far, usually only once or twice. But last week he’d talked about the dead pretty young thing several times, adding details that had caused the hairs on Sam’s neck to rise. Things like how the grave looked in the springtime and the tree he’d sat under that was near a pond and the scent of strawberries in the air when the wind blew from the artificial flavor factory.
Sam had smelled that strawberry in the air on the days the factory made that flavor. He’d walked his dog on the path around that pond.
It was the first time that Colton had referenced anything remotely real.
And then he’d talked about his new pretty young thing. How she was blond and petite. How cute she was when she was studying her geometry. How she defied curfew to be with him. How she “loved him so” but that “sometimes she was bad and needed to be punished.” His words had been alarming enough, but Colton’s hands had been clenched around a water bottle, twisting violently as his eyes had grown hard and angry.
Sam had seen that expression before, many years ago. He’d seen hands around a young woman’s throat, twisting just like Colton’s had. That young woman had died. Sam’s old nightmares had been renewed since that session with Colton.
Instinct had told him to be very careful after seeing Colton strangle a bottle. He’d quietly asked Colton to tell him more about his new pretty young thing, because she did indeed sound young. Like, minor young.
Young enough that Sam might have a duty to report child abuse.
Colton had frozen for a brief moment, fear and realization flitting through his eyes. Like he’d realized what he’d revealed.
Like it was true.
But as quickly as it had come, the fear was gone, replaced with cocky laughter as Colton launched into how he’d taught a famous actor how to ride a horse.
Sam blew out a breath. “His pretty young things are his only topics that don’t involve celebrities. She sounds like a teenager, Vivian. She sounds real.”
Vivian nodded. “You were right to pick up on that. If she is real, we have a duty to warn.”
She was soothing him. Building up his confidence. Things that after four years of private practice, he should not need.
Sam’s cheeks heated. “I’m sorry. You have better things to do than hold my hand and tell me I did the right thing.”
One side of her mouth lifted. “That’s kind of my job, Sam. I’m your supervisor. You have done all the right things. I’ve confirmed it with my supervisor.”
Vivian owned and ran the therapy agency, but like other senior practitioners, she had her own therapist to confide in and to check her process. That person had approved Sam’s conclusions and his need to know if the grave was real or not.
Sam had dotted his i’s and crossed his t’s.
He straightened in the chair so that he felt like the professional he was. “I have two more sessions with Colton. My goal is to focus on his anger so we can work on his triggers. That is the reason for his court-ordered therapy. But if he gives me more about the young women, I’ll listen. And if the cops find a body where he described, I’ll know he’s telling the truth about this and that there is clear and present danger to his newest victim.”
“That sounds like the right way to go.” Vivian folded her hands on her desk. “I am curious about one thing, though. Why Detective McKittrick? Why did you choose her for your anonymous message? You didn’t have to ask for any particular detective.”
“Two reasons, actually. I heard about her initially from my friend, Joel Haley.”
She looked surprised. “The prosecutor?”
“One and the same. He’d talked about this homicide detective he wanted to date. But she said no. Firmly. Said that they could be friends, but no more. And now they’re friends. I’ve never met her, but he respects her and I respect Joel, so . . .”
She smiled at him fondly. “That’s nice. What’s the second reason?”
“I got curious about her after Joel sang her praises, so I looked her up. She’s got a stellar record. Served in the Coast Guard, then joined SDPD. She’s been a homicide detective for four years now and has closed some cold cases from ten, fifteen years ago. All of them were murders of young women. Teenagers.” There had been a video of her being interviewed, and there’d been a passion in her voice, a determination to stand up for the dead that had spoken to him. “So when Colton started talking about the grave of his pretty young thing, I wanted her to be the one to look.”
“Good choice. Do you want me to drive by the coordinates to see if anyone’s been digging?”
“Would you?”
“I would. Richard and I have a commitment tonight, but we’ll go first thing in the morning, and I’ll let you know. Call me if you hear anything.”
“I will.” Sam stood, smoothing his tie. “Thanks, Vivian.”
“You’re welcome. Try to get some rest.”
He’d try, but every time he closed his eyes, he could see that slight depression in that grassy field. Not enough to be noticeable unless one was looking for it.
It was a small grave, because—if Colton was telling the truth—he liked his victims small.
“I can’t rest yet. I’m meeting my folks for dinner.”
“How’s that going, having them living so close by?”
His parents, much to Sam’s chagrin, had recently rented an apartment in his building. For weekend getaways, they’d claimed, but they spent more time in California than they spent back home in Arizona. On one hand, it was stifling, having his parents hovering so close. On the other, though . . .
He loved them. Plus, his dad had had a mild stroke recently and seemed to need to be near his only son. Sam could oblige them a little hovering.
“Not too bad. I get home-cooked meals once a week, and Dad’s an amazing cook.” Tonight was going to be lasagna, which was Sam’s favorite.
“They’re happy with seeing you only once a week?”
“I didn’t say we saw each other once a week, only that Dad cooks for me that often. I see them nearly every day, but they’ll be going back to Scottsdale soon. Dad has some big golf tournament, so I’ll get some peace.”
“Offer stands.”
Sam chuckled. Vivian had set up a code word. When Sam texted it to her, she’d promised to call and say he had to come into the office ASAP. They hadn’t used it yet, but Sam had been tempted a time or two or six.
“Thank you. Call me when you’ve checked out the park?”
“Of course I will. Try not to worry.”
Sam headed for his own office, checking his phone for news of a body.
Still nothing.
Dammit.
San Diego, California
Friday, April 8, 3:00 p.m.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Driscoll.” Sam gestured to the sofa. “Please have a seat.”
Colton Driscoll made a show of sitting in the middle of Sam’s sofa, resting one ankle on the other knee as he spread his arms wide, resting them on the cushion, palms out. It was classic manspreading and Sam pitied any poor soul who sat next to this man on the city trolley.
Which Colton had to take to get here since his license had been suspended as punishment for nearly running his neighbor over after breaking the man’s jaw.
Sam had never felt personally afraid of Colton Driscoll. Colton didn’t see him as a real threat but merely an impediment, a court-ordered boulder thrown in his road. Not worth expending the energy over. And even when Sam succeeded in getting a rise out of him, Colton squashed the reaction quickly.
Some pathological liars were unaware of their lies, but Colton was very aware of his. He used them as both sword and shield, deflecting any serious attention from himself.
Unless he was talking about his pretty young things. Then he was almost . . . dreamy.
That scared Sam a lot.
Sam hoped that these young women—whatever their age—were merely figments of Colton’s imagination. Images he’d perhaps seen in a movie, weaving them into the stories he told his court-ordered therapist because he had a compulsion to do so.
But Sam didn’t think that was the case.
He sat in his own chair in the treatment area, always avoiding sitting behind his desk during sessions. “So, Mr. Driscoll, tell me about your week.”
About six feet tall with a lean, wiry build, Colton was forty-five years old, had been married four times, and had no children. He wasn’t model-handsome, but when he smiled, he was oddly compelling.
Sam suspected that was how he’d been married four times, his brides always eighteen years old. Another red flag. Colton liked them young. He’d charmed his wives, but they’d all left after learning that nearly every word out of his mouth was a self-serving lie.
Colton shrugged stiffly. “Same old, same old.”
That was new. Usually he’d have claimed that he’d had dinner with royalty by now.
“Nothing new or interesting?”
“Nope.”
Ah. Colton was stonewalling. Maybe because he’d scared himself last session by talking too freely.
A tiny part of Sam was relieved. He didn’t want to know about Colton’s pretty young things. But a bigger part of him needed to know. If Colton had his sights set on a new victim, he needed to know who that victim would be. He had a duty to warn.
“Any major blowups this week? Losing your temper?”
“Nope.”
“I see. Okay. Well, you have to engage with me during the session or I can’t check it off your list. If you don’t complete the therapy, you’ll—”
“I know,” Colton snarled quietly. “I’ll violate my probation and I’ll go to fucking jail.”
“That’s right,” Sam said cheerfully. “So . . . talk to me.”
Colton seethed quietly. “I have nothing to say.”
“No dinners with the Hollywood A-list? B-list?” he added when Colton remained stubbornly silent. “Z-list?”
Colton looked dead ahead. “This sucks.”
“I suppose it does. What about your work? How are you getting along with your coworkers?”
“Fucking morons,” Colton muttered. “I do all the work there. All those damn millennials sit around on their asses and watch me.”
Colton worked in the mail room at one of the high-rise office complexes downtown. Sam had no idea if him doing all the work was the truth, but it was the first time Colton had complained about his coworkers.
“I think that would make me angry.”
“Damn straight.”
“What do you do when they make you angry?”
Colton’s expression shut down. “I don’t hit them.”
“That’s good to hear. So . . . do you talk to them? Glare at them? Shake their canned sodas?”
Colton chuckled. “I like the idea of the canned sodas.”
“That would get you into trouble, I suspect.”
“Not if they don’t catch me. I’d wear gloves. Go in after hours.” He mimed shaking a can. “Watch them be angry the next day.”
“The carbonation will have calmed down by the next day.”
Colton slumped. “Well, damn.”
“Does your supervisor see that the others are lying down on the job?”
“Nah. He’s busy spying on all those rich people who pay through the nose to rent office space in the building.”
“I see. Maybe make him aware. Ask him for ideas on how to get the others to do their fair share. Even if he says no, you’ve put the seed into his mind.”
A lackluster shrug. “Maybe.”
This was going nowhere. “What’s going on at home? You mentioned a new relationship last week. How’s that going?”
Colton seemed to relax. “Really well. She loves me.”
“That’s good. Having someone who loves you might not make all the frustrating things go away, but that person can share your burden. Does she do that for you?”
“I don’t have any burdens for her to share,” he said defiantly. “I leave those at the front door. When I’m with her, I’m one hundred percent focused on her.”
A shiver of distaste rippled across Sam’s skin. Colton’s words themselves were a lie, of course, but the tone with which he’d said them was downright creepy.
“What kind of things do you do?”
“We watch TV. Have supper at my place.” He lifted a brow. “Then other things.”
Sam managed to keep his expression neutral. He didn’t want to think about what other things Colton could mean. “What kind of TV?”
Colton thought for a moment. “She likes Avondale.”
Sam’s heart sank. Teenagers had been Avondale’s target audience.
Although maybe Colton’s pretty young thing was legal now and just enjoyed watching shows from her past. “That show’s been off the air for a few years now. You must have found reruns.”
“I did.” He crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his hands into his armpits and staring straight ahead.
Oh good. I yanked him back under the cone of silence. “Does she know about this? About your therapy?”
Colton was shocked out of his silence. “God, no. I would never tell her about this. She wouldn’t understand.” He shrugged. “Besides, I’m okay now. It’s not like I’ll have another incident. She won’t need to worry about me getting mad.”
Yeah, right. “She never makes you angry?”
“Nope.” Colton cast him a smug look, like he knew that Sam was becoming desperate for his answers.
Back away. In previous sessions, Sam would sit quietly until Colton could be silent no longer. The man hated silences.
Sam was off his game today, too worried about a potential victim to do his job properly. So he arranged his lips into a slight smile, exuding calm and patience.
I’ve got all the time in the world.
Even though he didn’t if a minor child was in jeopardy.
They sat that way for about five minutes and Sam was both impressed and frustrated. Colton’s previous record was two minutes and forty seconds. But maintaining silence wasn’t easy for him. He was biting at his lips and crossing, uncrossing, and recrossing his legs.
“I might miss next week’s session,” he blurted out. “I’m going to England.”
This, unfortunately, was more normal. “Why?” Sam asked congenially.
“A movie premiere,” he said. “I’m invited to an after-party.”
Sam nodded. “Well, we’ll need to get permission from your probation officer for the absence, but if he’s okay with it, bon voyage.”
“Everyone who’s anyone will be there,” Colton went on, completely ignoring the statement about his probation officer. “It’s black tie.”
“Do you have a tuxedo?”
“I do. It’s Tom Ford.”
“And will you bring a plus-one?”
Colton blinked. “A plus-one?”
“A guest. Will you be bringing your girlfriend with you?”
A wistful smile bent Colton’s lips. “I wish I could, but Lilac has a game.”
“What kind of game?” Sam asked mildly, but his heart had started to beat harder. Lilac.
“She plays lacrosse. She’s the prettiest one on the team, even though I like her better with her hair down. She wears it in a ponytail when she plays. But purple is her color.”
“Her hair is purple?” Sam asked in surprise.
Colton laughed. “No, her uniform is purple. Her hair is blond.” His eyes widened and flickered with something that looked like panic. Again, he’d become aware that he’d said too much. “I’m not feeling well. Can we reschedule this session?”
“If we must. I’ll have to report your partial absence to your probation officer.”
Colton’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve been here for more than half an hour.”
“You’re court ordered to be here for a full hour,” Sam said, keeping his voice level. Colton hated that.
Colton sprang from his chair, fists clenching, eyes abruptly wild with fury. “You sanctimonious little—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. Drawing a deep breath, he relaxed his fists and sank back into his seat, flattening his hands on his thighs. “I apologize,” he said stiffly.
Sam exhaled quietly. That had been unnerving—and the first time Colton had acted violently toward him.
Steadying himself, he focused his attention on Colton’s hands. Well, shit. The knuckles on his right hand were raw with open abrasions. He’d hit something—or someone—hard.
“This is what we need to discuss,” Sam said seriously. Because he’d let Colton ramble longer than he usually did. He’d check out local girls’ lacrosse teams later. “You losing your temper just now.”
“I didn’t lose control,” Colton said from behind clenched teeth.
“No, you didn’t.” Although it appeared he had at some time in the recent past. “What stopped you?”
“You did.”
“How did I do that?”
A sneer twisted Colton’s features. “Because as soon as I step out of line, you’ll rat me out. I can’t trust you.”
“What stops you when you’re at work?”
“Don’t wanna lose my job,” Colton said with a small snarl.
“Who did you hit?” Sam asked quietly, pointing to Colton’s hand.
Colton’s nostrils flared. “A wall.”
That was plausible. “Not a person?”
“No,” Colton spat. “I wanted to, trust me. But I didn’t.”
“Who did you want to hit?”
“Guy at work. Just an asshole. Tried to get me riled up so I’d hit him. He wants my job.”
Sam didn’t know if that was true or not, but if Colton had hit a wall, he was at least trying to manage his anger in his own way. An unsuccessful way, to be sure, but he had redirected his rage.
“That had to have hurt,” Sam said gently. “I’d like to help you find other ways to deal with your anger that don’t hurt you.”
Colton looked down at his damaged hand and sighed. “Maybe.”
That was the most positive response Sam had gotten in the four weeks he’d been seeing Colton Driscoll. “Then let’s talk about that.”
The rest of the session passed with no other issues.
“I’ll see you next week,” Sam said as he walked Colton to the door.
“Yeah, yeah,” Colton muttered.
When he was gone, Sam closed his office door and went to his computer. Normally, he’d type up his personal notes from the session, but not now.
Pulling up a browser window, he typed “women lacrosse San Diego purple uniforms.”
He crossed his fingers, hoping for a purple-uniform-wearing adult intramural league or a college league. Don’t let her be a teenager. Please. He’d have a duty to warn regardless of the victim’s age, but if she was a minor, it made his involvement even more urgent.
He exhaled heavily at the search results. There were only two teams with purple uniforms, both at the high school level.
Sam clicked on both links and studied the photos of the girls’ teams. One team’s uniforms were dark purple, the other a lighter shade. Lilac.
The Tomlinson Wolverines lacrosse team lined up in the photo arm in arm, smiles on their faces. Several of the girls wore their long hair up in ponytails. About half of them were blond, but only two of them were petite—Destiny Rogers and Alyssa Newman.
If the depression in the ground at Longview Park that Sam had seen truly had been a grave, Colton liked his pretty young things small.
Sam stared at their faces, hoping that he wasn’t too late, hoping that Colton hadn’t hurt his most recent conquest. I have to report this.
But he’d thrown the burner phone away. Which seemed silly now but had seemed like the right thing to do four days ago. He could buy another, but that would take time and he was feeling each tick of the clock.
Tearing his gaze away from the Tomlinson High School team photo, he brought up another browser screen and typed “pay phones near me.” They had to still exist somewhere, didn’t they? Luckily they did, and there was one only five miles away. He had time to make the call before meeting his parents for dinner.
