Page 74 of The Broken Places

“How, though? He knows the recipe now, and access to victims who’ve experienced trauma of that depth is practically limitless.” Not only that, but people like the ones they’d found murdered often went unreported. Those who lived transient lives weren’t always missed. He might have killed hundreds of them already, and they wouldn’t even know. He might have been “experimenting” for years.

Ambrose was quiet for a few moments, and as she watched him, a sweep of affection moved over her. They were a good team after all. He looked over at her as though something had just occurred to him. “He knows their triggers, though. How does he know these particular people’s triggers? If we’re right and the items listed aren’t random, then he knows exactly what to place there to use as triggers—but ones that the police will miss. A belt. A type of drink, a specific cigarette brand.”

“The podcast,” she said. “That could be how it fits.”At least in one case.

“What podcast?”

She turned more fully toward him. “I talked to Cherish Olsen’s roommate. I know you found her after she overdosed, but ... I had talked to her a few days before that, and she told me Cherish had done this podcast calledThe Fringe. I watched her interview. It was awful, but ...” She put her hand on his arm. “Yes. Oh my God, the toys at the crime scene.” She stared off into space for a moment, feeling ill as she worked out what had happened. “The killer used those toys to trap her in the hotel room of her mind.” The one where her six-year-old self had set her toys up on the edge of the bathtub before the monster in the other room came for her. Oh God, she wanted to weep. She wanted to tear this room apart at the thought of that scene, and it was only a scene in her mind.

“The thing that doesn’t fit is that the other victims—Ambrose, why do you look like that?” He looked stupefied.

He gave his head a small shake. “I was on that podcast.The Fringe.Years and years ago. Before I underwent treatment.”

“You were? But ... I didn’t see you. I scrolled through the thumbnails of all of them.”

“My God, I barely remembered,” he murmured.

“You must have looked very different—”

“I did, but that’s not why you didn’t see me. I called later and asked the podcaster not to share it. He honored my request, like he said he would.”

“Oh.” She thought about that. Could Jamal Whitaker have others, then? Of people that had asked he not post their interview because they’d changed their mind after the fact? If that was the case, she’d certainly have to consider him a more serious suspect. And she would, despite that he had an alibi for at least one of the murders. But ... his empathy for the people he interviewed seemed so genuine. She’d watched dozens of his interviews, and she could tell by the way he treated them that he cared deeply and was personally affected by their stories. Still, people could be deceptive ... and she hadn’t had reason to check the alibi he’d casually tossed out.

“Unfortunately, it’s too late now to contact Jamal,” Ambrose said. “I’ll take you home, and then I’ll meet you bright and early.”

She was tempted to request to stay with him here. It wasn’t necessarily that she didn’t want to be alone, but she desired his presence. She wanted him near her. But she nodded and stood. She was still delicate in any number of ways from what she’d gone through, and some time to herself and a full night’s sleep in her own bed were probably a good idea. And then, tomorrow, they’d resume their partnership that had first ended and then begun again under the most unusual of circumstances.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Ambrose had never been at the building he and Lennon pulled up to the next afternoon. He’dbarelyremembered doing the podcast. It’d been in another location then ... and that’d been an entirely different lifetime. Something he’d merely done for cash, in an endless array of other things he’d done for cash.

They got out of the car and knocked on the door, waiting for a moment as footsteps inside drew closer. Then the door was pulled open by a tall dark-skinned man wearing a ball cap. Ambrose was transported back in time, to a velvet couch, when he’d been called Jett and struggled to sit still for the thirty-minute interview. He swore he could taste the nicotine coating his mouth, even though he hadn’t had a cigarette in seventeen years.

“Inspector Gray,” Jamal said. “I didn’t expect to see you back. Did you find something in one of the interviews?”

“Jamal Whitaker,” Ambrose murmured before Lennon could answer. He felt half in a dream, one foot in the life he’d built and one foot in the one that had crumbled.

The man cocked his head and looked at him curiously. “Hi. Do I know you?”

“You did. Once. I did an interview for you a long time ago. I had bleached hair, and I called myself Jett then.”

Jamal’s forehead bunched, and he rubbed at his lip as he obviously attempted to place Ambrose. “I’m sorry. I do so many interviews, sometimes it’s hard to remember faces. And you don’t look anything like the people who typically sit on my couch.” Jamal opened the door wider. “Come on in.”

They followed him to the open space where the studio was, and though the building was different, the furniture Jamal used on his show was the same, or at least very similar. Either he’d kept them in miraculously good condition or replaced them with similar items as they aged over the years. “Recognize that?” Jamal asked.

Ambrose walked over to the sofa, then ran his hand along the plush arm. “Yeah. I do. I remember this.”

Jamal watched him, crossing his arms. “I don’t get a lot of success stories walking back through my door. You’ve obviously come a long way from when you were a person I’d be interested in interviewing.”

Ambrose smiled, tipping his chin to acknowledge the compliment he knew it was. “Thanks. I’m surprised you’re still doing this.”

“Yeah. I’ve thought about hanging it up a time or two, but ... I don’t know. As soon as I start to consider it, I get an email about how watching someone tell their story changed their life for the better, or how a person saw their own story in someone else’s. So as long as I keep feeling like it’s doing some good, I’ll stick around.”

Ambrose smiled. “I’m glad to hear that.” He joined Lennon where she stood.

“Anyway, you’re obviously here for a reason. What did you find?”

“I was able to find one of the women I was attempting to ID in your material,” Lennon said. She glanced at Ambrose. “But Ambrose told me that his interview wasn’t aired because he called and asked that you not show it. I’m wondering if there are others who might have made the same request.”

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