Page 33 of The Last Close Call

Something flickered across his face—just for an instant—and then it was gone.

“The other day you said eight cases total. Has there been another one?”

Jack held her gaze, and she got a knot in the pit of her stomach.

“How come it wasn’t on the news?” she asked.

He watched her, and she could see his wheels turning as he probably debated how much to tell her.

“Off the record?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not a reporter. Who would I tell?”

He picked up a chip and seemed to consider that.

“Well, this depends who you ask,” he said, “but there’s a recent San Antonio case that may or may not be connected.”

The knot in her stomach tightened.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I believe it’s linked, but I’m pretty much alone with that take.”

“Why do you think it’s connected?” she asked, knowing he probably wouldn’t tell her. But she was burning to know, and she had to at least ask.

“A hunch.”

“A hunch? That’s it?”

He nodded. “I’ve been investigating this UNSUB for years. In some ways, I feel like I know him.”

His eyes were dark and serious now, and she could tell he didn’t like having some sadistic psycho stuck in his head. Working a serial case for years had to be its own kind of torment.

They ate without talking for a few moments, letting the bar’s bluesy music fill the silence.

“So, what about you?” she asked, deciding to turn the tables. “You’ve been doing this awhile now. Do you ever feel burned out?”

He waited a beat.

“I try to focus on the positive,” he said, not really answering the question—which she supposed was answer enough.

“Which is?”

“I try to get to the facts,” he said. “When I meet people, often they’ve just been through the worst experience of their life. They’re shaken up. They want answers.” He looked grim now. “Doesn’t bring their loved one back or undo a sexual assault. But it helps hold people accountable.”

Guilt gnawed her. She used to feel that way about her work, too. But she’d traded a deep-rooted sense of mission for a chance to get some semblance of balance back in her life.

A phone dinged beneath the table. Jack dug his cell from his pocket, and his expression tensed as he checked the screen.

“Need to go?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He looked up. “Sorry.”

“No problem.”

He signaled the server, and they paid the bill. Less than three minutes after someone had pinged him, they stepped from the warm restaurant into the cold night air. The drizzle had stopped, but the slick sidewalks told her it had been raining while they ate.

She glanced at her car.

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