Page 113 of If You're Reading This
He wasn’t giving up. Not now. Not ever.
Andi couldn’t get the bottle of medicine out of her mind.
Could this be the clue they were looking for?
The prescription had been for valproic acid. He’d also had anti-depressants and an antipsychotic.
Even stranger?
Dr. Winters had prescribed them.
Yazzie’s phone rang. He answered, said a few things, then turned back to them.
“That was the crime lab,” he explained. “The medical examiner was looking at the burned body from the lightning tree.”
“What did they find?” Andi asked, though she was already dreading the answer.
“It’s not Zimmerman.”
Duke looked up sharply from where he’d been examining the forced lock. “What do you mean it’s not Zimmerman?”
“The ME can’t get DNA results for days, but there were some personal effects that survived the fire. A watch, a wallet partially protected by the victim’s clothing. The ID belongs to someone named Marcus Webb—a drifter with a record of petty theft. Similar height and build to Zimmerman, but definitely not him.”
Andi’s blood went cold. “So Zimmerman’s still alive?”
“Maybe. Or maybe the killer needed a body for his composition and grabbed the most convenient victim he could find.” Yazzie paused. “But Andi, there’s something else. We have units stationed at three of the most likely locations for the final photograph—anywhere with aurora visibility and the right terrain match. Full surveillance, snipers, the works.”
“That’s good,” Duke said.
But Andi was already shaking her head.
“No, it’s not.” Her mind worked furiously. “Don’t you see? It’s too easy. The killer has been ten steps ahead of us this entire time. He wouldn’t just walk into a trap he could predict.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I think we’re looking in the wrong direction. The final photograph isn’t going to be at any of the locations we’re watching,” Andi said with growing certainty. “He’s planned something completely different. Somewhere private, somewhere he can control every variable.”
“Where?”
“I . . . I don’t know. That’s what we need to figure out.”
CHAPTER
SIXTY-FOUR
The basement doorcreaked open the rest of the way, and footsteps descended the wooden stairs. But this time, when the figure reached the bottom, he pulled off the Picasso mask.
Logan sucked in a breath.
Tom Zimmerman.
The nervous, terrified pharmacist who’d been blackmailed into providing sedatives. The man they’d been trying to protect. The man they’d thought had been burned beyond recognition.
He was actually the killer.
“You,” Logan breathed.
Zimmerman smiled—not the anxious, frightened expression Logan remembered. This smile was cold and satisfied. “Hello again, Trooper Gibson. I do hope you’ve been comfortable.”
