She smiled as she looked at him and wished she could count on that, but something inside her whispered his support would be short-lived. He was a cop after all, and they were walking into cop territory—into Chief Marshall’s territory.
A few people sitting here and there in large vinyl chairs looked up as they walked into the station. The reception area was pleasant, with lots of windows, ferns and comfy chairs. Unfortunately, the decor was lost on her.
A woman Devra’s age sat behind the large counter. “Hello, can I help you?”
“That’s all right, Mandy,” Chief Marshall said as he walked into the room. “They’re here to see me.”
Startled by his voice, Devra looked up.
“Heard you were back, I was just getting ready to hunt you down.”
She stared at the man who’d haunted too many of her sleepless nights. On the surface, he had a kind face with a hint of gray at his temples and soft gray eyes. But she knew looks could be deceiving. She knew how that face
could darken with hate. “I’ve forgotten how fast news spreads in a small town.”
He grunted. “I’m sure you have.”
Riley held out his hand. “Chief Marshall? I’m Detective Riley MacIntyre from the New Orleans Police Department.”
The chief showed only a second of surprise before the aloof veneer dropped back over his face. He studied Riley for a minute, then took his hand. “Why don’t the two of you come on into my office? We have some things we need to discuss.”
Devra followed him, trying not to let the panic rising within her gain hold. She glanced back behind her at the few people sitting in the reception area. They were staring at her with curiosity alive in their eyes. Soon they’d be whispering about how they saw the woman who’d killed the chief’s son.
She turned away from them and watched the chief walk ahead of her. How had he known she was back so fast? Had her parents called him? Had they told him what she’d said about the others? The feeling of betrayal ate at her.
They entered the chief’s office and sat in the chairs in front of his desk.
“I’ll have to ask you to hang your piece there by the door,” the chief said to Riley.
Devra looked up in surprise. She hadn’t been aware Riley had his gun. Riley nodded and hung his jacket on the coat tree by the door, then removed his shoulder holster and placed it on top of the jacket.
Chief Marshall nodded but didn’t speak, just opened
his drawer and pulled out a thick file with her name on it. Devra took a deep breath to steady herself and tried not to think about what that file might contain, or how many years he’d spent working on it.
Looking away from the file, she saw a picture of Tommy on his desk. Memories flooded her mind—his smile, his laugh, the twinkle in his eyes as he’d chase her through the forest. He’d been her best friend, her first crush. She’d loved Tommy. Yet she’d never been allowed to mourn him, to go to his funeral, to say goodbye. This man stole that from her, that and so much more.
She fought the despair filling her heart and turned to Riley. He reached out his hand. She took it and gave him a grateful smile.
“You’ve been quite a busy woman over the years, Devra.”
“Have I?” she asked, and turned to look at the chief, to face the coldness in his eyes.
“I had a hard time tracking you down at first, once you changed your name.”
A band tightened around her chest.
“It took me quite a few years to discover how you could be making a living, paying taxes, being an upstanding citizen of a community, when it seemed Devra Miller had dropped off the face of the earth. In fact, you have quite a few secrets, don’t you, Ms. Miller?”
Secrets.
She glanced at Riley and gnawed the corner of her lip. “I—I didn’t kill Tommy. That’s why we’re here. We want to discover the truth.”
“Which truth would that be? That you’re not Devra
Morgan? Or that you’re not D. M. Miller? The author who writes stories of gruesome murders, stories that are suspiciously close to murders that have actually taken place.” He sat back in his chair, a Cheshire cat grin splitting his face.
Paralyzing dread grabbed hold and turned her stomach.
“You’re D. M. Miller?” The accusation in Riley’s tone cut her to the quick.
Chief Marshall swiveled his chair around to the bookshelf behind him and pulled down several books, all by D. M. Miller, all books Riley had heard of. In fact, Michelle had been a big fan. He recalled the typed pages he’d found in Devra’s printer describing Michelle’s death. Would his sister-in-law’s last moments end up in Devra’s next book? The thought sickened him.
“Have you read any?” the chief asked.
Riley shook his head. He’d always meant to, just never found the time.
“Fascinating stuff, plots are captivating, compelling. I’m sure it won’t be long before she hits the bestseller list.”
“How’d you find out?” Devra squeaked.
“What do you suppose your publishers would think if they found out your stories were based on actual cases? Or how will your fans feel if they find out you spent five years in a mental institution?”
Riley had heard enough. He dropped Devra’s hand and leaned forward. “I don’t see how any of this is relevant to why we’re here.” He cut in, disgusted by the
chief’s smugness, disgusted that the man would throw her time in the institution back in her face, and disgusted with himself for believing all the secrets were out, that there couldn’t possibly be anything else Devra was keeping from him.
“Don’t you?” the chief asked. “Well that’s because you’ve never read one of her books. Here, let me save you the trouble. Book number one—
A Time to Die.
” He held up the first book. “Our heroine is trying to discover the identity of a serial killer. She doesn’t. Nor does she in books two and three, but that’s okay, there’s plenty of other mischief going on that she does figure out. It’s a great plot device, drawing the readers back, again and again, to discover who the killer can be. But what brings me back are the victims. Here, I’ve made it easy for you.”
He pulled a yellow pad out of the file. “Victim number one, killed in Seattle. Victim number two, killed in Portland. Victim number three, killed in Miami. Ringing any bells yet?”
Riley stiffened, a cold dread working its way through his system.
“All blond, all have long, curly hair, all blue eyes. In fact, the specific details to the real victims in each of those cities are startlingly close, so close one would have to conclude that she’s very good at her research. Except for one small detail.”
Riley frowned.
“Each victim in her stories was left posed with their pinkies intertwined together.”
Riley felt the color drain from his face as the image of Michelle propped against the wall, her hands resting
in her lap, her pinkies interlaced came to the forefront of his mind.
“Yep, thought it would sound familiar to you. Just like that young woman killed down there round your parts.”
Riley pushed back his chair and stood. He rubbed a palm across his face and leaned back against the wall.
Devra couldn’t breathe. The chief had her, dead to rights, and soon Riley would look at her the way the chief was looking at her. As if she were a monster. As if everything she’d ever said to him, everything she’d felt for him was a lie.
“It’s a detail that wouldn’t mean very much, except that was the one detail the police hadn’t released to the papers. So, what I’d like to know, little girl—” Marshall leaned forward across his desk and pinned her to the chair with his cold, hard eyes “—is exactly how you gleaned that little bit of information from those crime scenes.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“She’s psychic,” Riley answered bluntly. His hair was spiked back from running his fingers through it, and a defeated look had settled on his face. But he hadn’t given up on her, not yet.
Chief Marshall snorted. “And you believe that?”
“Yes, sir, I do. And I also believe the man who killed Michelle…that is, the man who killed the woman in New Orleans, intends to kill Miss Morgan—” he shook his head as if to clear it “—Miss Miller next.”
Chief Marshall leaned back in his chair. “That’s very interesting. Psychic, you say.” He twiddled with the pencil on his desk, while his eyes bored through her.
“I’ve spent the last fifteen years compiling this file. In fact, you could say it’s become my life’s work to know everything there is to know about you, to enter the mind of a female serial killer.”
“I am not a killer.” She stated the fact coolly.
He waved a dismissive hand. “There’s just one thing I’ve never been able to determine, and no matter how many times I’ve asked your folks, they won’t tell me.”
Riley stood in the corner, staring at both of them, not saying a word, his face void of expression.
Devra let out a deep breath. “All right, I’ll play. What?”
“How’d you break your right pinky?”
Confused, she stared at him, then looked down at her hand. “What are you talking about?”
“I have your medical records right here and, apparently, at age thirty-six months, you were brought in to Dr. Carleen to have your right pinky examined. It had been broken and set somewhere else, but Mrs. Miller wanted him to do the follow-up visit. So I’d like to know, how’d you break your pinky?”
“How on earth would I know that? I didn’t even know it had been broken.” She stared again at her hand. All her fingers looked fine. Was he jesting? Trying to trip her up? “I’m sure my parents would have told me if I’d broken my pinky, Chief Marshall. I believe you are mistaken.”
“Nope, says right here. Office visit for examination of broken small finger on patient’s right hand. Couldn’t get your parents to remember anything about it either.”
“Well, obviously, there’s been some mistake, be
cause I’m sure my mother would remember if I’d broken my finger.”
He nodded. “I’m sure you’re right. Which got me thinking, why would they lie? What are they trying to hide? Then it occurred to me that maybe they’re not your parents after all.”
“What? That’s absurd.” She looked to Riley.
“Is it? There’s no birth certificate on file for Devra Miller anywhere in King County. Yet your parents claimed they moved here with you from Evergreen when you were three. In fact, they moved to town right before your visit to Dr. Carleen. So I decided to do a little investigating, and would you believe no one remembers the Millers in Evergreen giving birth to a baby girl. Not a soul. I sure find that mighty strange.”
“What are you saying?” Disbelief coursed through her. It couldn’t be. Then a smaller voice, a stronger voice asked, “Then why did they send you away? Maybe they didn’t want you. Maybe you aren’t theirs.”
She stood, and grabbed the back of the chair. Sickness churned in her stomach. “I need to use the rest room.”
“Right down the hall to the left.”
Devra opened the door and flew down the hall.
Chief Marshall followed her flight. “She’s not psychic, Mr. MacIntyre. That little girl is a fruitcake, had been when she killed my boy, was when she’d been up there in that institution. What we have here is a sick little serial killer.” His determined tone almost sounded sad.
The weight of a hundred worlds rested on Riley’s shoulders. “I need to make a few calls.”
Chapter Fourteen
Devra stared at herself in the bathroom mirror of the Rosemont Police Department and splashed cold water on her face, trying to fight back the nausea rising in her throat. Chief Marshall was going to send her back to the sanitarium. He was obsessed with her, and he wouldn’t stop until she was locked up for good.
Tears filled her eyes and spilled onto her cheeks. Even Riley was beginning to doubt her. She could see it in his eyes, and that, more than anything else, was breaking her heart. How could she live through the abandonment again? Through the loneliness and pain of realizing there was no one out there who cared about her? How could they? She was a monster. But it wasn’t her. Why couldn’t they see that?
The chief’s words played over and over in her mind.
No birth certificate on file anywhere in King County.
Her parents had always lived in Rosemont, at least, that’s what she’d been led to believe. Apparently, she’d been wrong.
They’re not your parents. That’s why they gave you up. That’s why they don’t care.
The thoughts ran through her mind, twisting, turning, torturing her until she thought she’d scream. Who was she?
She wasn’t a killer, she knew that. And nothing could convince her she had killed Tommy or anyone else. Her parents, or whoever they were, had a lot of questions to answer and this time she wouldn’t let them off so easy.
She stepped into the hall and glanced into the chief’s office. No one was there. Where had they gone?
To prepare her a padded cell?
Not this time. Not ever again.
She spotted Riley’s jacket and holster hanging inside the door. She grabbed his keys out of his pocket and, after a second’s hesitation, took his gun. She could no longer count on him to protect her. He had his doubts, she could read them clearly in his eyes, and those doubts could get them killed. From here on out, she was on her own.
She slipped the gun into the pocket of her skirt, then shifted the waistband so it wouldn’t show as the gun’s weight pulled on the loose fabric. She heard the chief’s voice down the hall, turned, and quickly walked toward the reception area.
“Are you leaving, Miss Miller?” Mandy asked from behind the counter of the receptionist’s station.
Devra forced a wide, friendly smile onto her face. “Just for a minute, I left something back at the hotel I’d like the chief to see. I’ll be right back.”
Mandy nodded, picked up her coffee cup and waved it at her. “All righty then, see you soon,” she said and headed down the hall.
Expelling a relieved sigh, Devra forced herself to act casual and walk slowly out the door.
RILEY SAT in the conference room and stared at his phone. How much of a coincidence was it that all the victims had their pinkies interlaced and Devra had had hers broken? Where was his gut instinct? Why didn’t he just know what the truth was? He turned on his phone and called Mac, wanting to check in at home to see if anything else had happened while he’d been gone.