Page 7 of So Smitten

Serial killer. Serial killer. Serial killer.

Dawson and Edgely glanced at each other. “Are you familiar with the Copycat Donkey Killer case?” Dawson asked.

Gina shook her head and unconsciously began chewing on her fingernails, a habit that, ironically, had ended the year she had started high school, the year she had met Faith Bold.

“Um,” she said, “the guy who cuts people to pieces in Philadelphia?”

The agents shared another look. “More or less,” Dawson demurred.

“Well, it’s not more or less, it’s what he does,” Gina said with a touch of exasperation. Her senses were returning to her, but that was proving to be little comfort.

Dawson nodded. “Well, we believe that he’s targeting a number of past and present associates of Faith Bold.”

“Why?” Gina asked.

“We’re not at liberty to say.”

Gina stared at him. “You’re telling me that a brutal serial killer is threatening my life because of a woman I haven’t seen in over fifteen years, and you can’t tell me why?”

“That’s correct. I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Sorry? You’re sure—" Gina bit her fingernails again and looked out the window. Yolanda Ramirez was working in her garden, carefully tending to the hydrangeas and poppies and chrysanthemums she had arranged in a long, narrow planter her husband Diego had built for her a few years ago. She looked through the window at Gina and smiled.

Gina lifted her fingers in a brief wave, then pressed them to her lips again. “So… why are you telling me then?” she asked.

“The Bureau is willing to place you and your husband under surveillance until the killer has been arrested,” Dawson said. “ We would station agents outside your home to watch for any suspicious activity.

Gina felt that fog settles over her again. “So, basically, you’d wait for this killer to show up and hope you get to him before he gets to me.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How would I recognize that it’s you? I mean, how would I tell that your agents are the ones watching me and not the killer? If someone comes to the door and says they’re FBI, how do I know they’re telling the truth?”

“We don’t anticipate the agents will need to speak with you. In the event they do, they will come to you in pairs, just as Agent Edgely and I have. We believe this killer is working alone. If an individual comes to you alone claiming to be FBI, you can reasonably assume they’re not telling the truth.”

“You believe he’s working alone?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A point behind Gina’s left eye began to throb. “When would… I mean… When would all of this happen?”

“Immediately.”

Gina released a noise somewhere between a gasp, a laugh and a sob. “So, just to make sure I have everything straight, you’re offering to put my husband and I under guard because I am in danger of being murdered by a serial killer because I once built a volcano out of papier mache, baking soda and vinegar with Faith Bold in freshman year of high school, and you can’t tell me why that is. Is Faith Bold the Copycat Killer?”

“No, ma’am,” Dawson replied.

“Stop calling me ma’am!” she snapped.

“I apologize, Mrs. Sawyer.”

Gina stood and crossed the living room again. Her mind screamed at her to just take the deal, to do whatever she needed to do to be safe, but an irrational part of her brain insisted that if she did that, then she would somehow be putting herself in more danger, as though by admitting to the existence of that danger she made herself vulnerable to it.”

“So you’d just watch us from across the street or something.”

Dawson and Edgely shared a look again. Gina had to quell an irrationally powerful surge of anger.

Stop treating me with kid gloves! Goddammit, I don’t have cancer!

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