Page 47 of A Talent for Murder

“I don’t know. I’ve never kidnapped someone before, and I don’t know how long this will stay interesting.”

I arched my back and turned my head, my neck popping and strands of pain radiating up through me. I needed time to think, but I had already decided that if Ethan Saltz was keeping me alive in order to talk with me, then I should do what he wanted and talk back. And I’d decided to tell the truth, about everything except Henry Kimball. There was no reason to bring him into this.

“So I was right,” I said. “You followed Alan Peralta from conference to conference and you killed women he came into contact with?”

“ ‘Came into contact with,’ ” he said, making quote signs. “He’s a bit of a hunter himself.”

“But not a killer.”

“Doubtful.”

“And you did this why?” I said. “To get revenge on Martha Ratliff?”

He was smiling, awkwardly I thought, like a politician in the middle of a televised debate. “How’d you get involved? Martha came calling for help again?” he said.

“She said she thought that her husband might be some kind of serial killer, that she’d found blood on one of his shirts—”

“Oh, she found that?”

“You put it there?”

“I did. Honestly, I was starting to get bored with the Peralta game. I mean, how many high school teacher conferences can one man take? I thought the Jane Austen pin might speed things along.”

“We found out about that,” I said.

“You two researched, like good little library students. And you found a long line of dead women.”

“Basically.”

A look of smug superiority was passing across Ethan’s features. I told myself to keep telling the truth, though. That was why he’d kept me alive, wanting to hear about his triumph. Wanting validation.

“Why didn’t she call the police?”

“She wasn’t a hundredpercent sure it was him, and she knew that if she called the police and he found out about it—which he would have—then that would mean the end of their marriage. She didn’t want to lose that.”

“He was a serial cheater, you know? Hit on women at the conferences, went to prostitutes, the whole thing.”

“I know.”

“So Martha Ratliff called you to bail her out, the same way you bailed her out when she was dating me?”

“Is that how you see it?”

Ethan finished the last sip of his coffee and put the cup on the floor, then picked up my coffee and said, “You ready for this now?”

“Sure,” I said.

He stood up and brought it over to me, getting close enough so that if I’d wanted to, I could grab him, punch him, try to lash out. I took the coffee, the cup lukewarm, and Ethan settled back onto his chair, crossed his legs again. I opened the tab on the plastic lid and took a sip, and it tasted good, even though I preferred tea.

“Is it okay?” Ethan said.

“Not bad. I usually drink tea, but I like coffee fine.”

“Ah, noted.” He looked at his watch, then uncrossed and recrossed his legs. He rubbed at the side of his neck as though he had a kink there.

“What were we talking about?” he said.

“I asked if you thought I’d bailed Martha out of her relationship with you back at Birkbeck College.”

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