Page 153 of Bad Blood

Jenks doesn’t waste time. He relaxes just enough for me to notice. His wheels start turning. “Do you have any idea who’s behind the murders?” He glances over my shoulder, and I follow his gaze to find Dax staring at us from the window beside the door with his arms crossed over his chest.

“No,” I lie, copying Dax’s posture.

“Three women from your hospital, and there are no leads?” He laughs, but it’s a serious question.

“Correct.” The idea that Kline is behind these pops into my thoughts, but I push it into the recesses of my mind, where I keep the idea of him being involved locked up tight. I still don’t want to admit to myself that he could be involved.

“Did you know the recent victim?” he pulls a notepad from his breast pocket, his eyes scanning the page. “Tara Perez?”

“Briefly. Did you?”

Jenks jerks back as if I’ve slapped him. “Of course not.”

“Are you sure? It’s convenient, you being at the scene of each crime.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m a news anchor. I take all the big cases.”

“I thought the peons had to go on scene.” I lift a hand against the glaring sun, trying to keep an eye on him and read his body language.

He says nothing as he stands there with his jaw clenched, staring at me.

Sweat beads along my brow, reminding me I didn’t actually sleep much last night. I lay awake watching the rhythmic rise and fall of Dax’s chest as he dozed off and on next to me, one hand clasping onto mine.

I steal a peek behind me. There’s no movement from inside, but I can feel Dax watching me. Watching us. I press a trembling hand to my forehead. It’s at this moment I admit to myself that I have no clue what to do or say.

Jenks stalks toward me with intensity, forcing me to move backward until he reaches me, his proximity pinning me against the railing. He’s so close I have to tip my head up to look at him.

“I see what you’re trying to do. We’re done here.” He twists his pointer finger in the air in a circle, the cameraman not needing to be told twice. “If you think of anything or you’d like to stop trying to run your own investigation, you know where to find me.” He plods down the steps with the mic hung at his side.

“Wait!”

Jenks entertains my request but doesn’t turn to face me.

“I know.”

An exaggerated breath leaves his mouth, and he shakes his head as he continues down the sidewalk without a word.

“About Margo.”

That gets him to pause. He takes his time turning. “And?”

“Your involvement in Kline’s divorce.”

“I don’t know Kline.”

“But you’re more than friendly with the woman who’s raking him over the coals.” I follow him as an idea flickers through my mind.

“She has nothing to do with this,” he says, impatient. He drags a hand over his face and drifts back to me, leaving a couple of feet between us.

“But you know who does.” There is a piece of this that he has, and I don’t. And I’m not going to let him leave until I know what it is.

“I have a theory,” he says, one punctuated word at a time. A woman with a white poodle walks past us, and Jenks smiles, tipping his head in her direction.

Other reporters notice our conversation. A couple of them closing in from a few brownstones away. The sound of neighbors in and out, the commotion of the street waking up and getting around fills the stagnant air as the morning comes to life after the chaos of last night.

His cameraman leans against the news van, steadying his camera on his knee, yawning at the lack of action.

“I’ll talk,” I say as I point at the camera. “You have one minute.” I’m almost convinced I have no other choice—if I want to get my point across to a specific someone and let on that I know what’s happening. I haven’t been able to help in other ways. Maybe this will benefit the cases. I need to do this, even if it risks making things more complicated. This might be my only chance.

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