Page 105 of Obsession
“He’s getting sloppier.”
Frowning, Elliot looks at me again. “Sloppy?”
Without looking up at him, I nod as I take some more notes. “It’s the first time he sexually assaulted a victim.”
“Why does that make him sloppy?”
“Well…” I pocket my notebook. “Think about it. Some serial killers are driven by their sexual urges. This killer isn’t. So what drives him? Why is he doing this?”
“Last time you said he’s killing the women because he wantsthis…” He gestures to the crowds of people.
“Thanks for your time,” I say to the police officer before walking away from the crowds. Elliot follows like an obedient dog.
When we’re out of earshot of other reporters, I turn around. “If his crimes were sexually motivated, he would center the killings around the sexual act. This is his fifth victim. And it’s the first time there’s been proof of sexual activity.” Worrying my lip, I scan the crowds. “Most killers grow bolder with time, but this is different.” My head spins with theories, trying to put the pieces together. “I’m missing something.”
“You’re missing something?” Elliot watches me with a healthy dose of intrigue. “What do you think you’re missing?”
Caught in his gaze, I’m suddenly aware of the chill in the wind. I break eye contact and skate the crowds until my attention lands on the police officer. “I’m not sure,” I mumble under my breath before crossing the clearing once more.
Aviator guy flicks the toothpick when he spots me approaching. “Can’t say I’m surprised that you’re back again. Out of all the reporters here, you’re the most persistent.”
“Except for the scarf, was there something else out of the ordinary?”
The toothpick flicks left and right. Seconds pass while he assesses me. He removes his sunglasses with a quick swipe of his hand. “You will go far as a reporter. Do you know why?” His gaze bounces between us before settling on me. “Because you don’t ask the standard questions or theobviousquestions. You ask the type of questions that make me second guess how much information I can divulge without losing my job.”
“In other words,” Elliot chips in, “the type of questions that will gain her readers.” The look he gives me is meaningful.
My cheeks heat.
Ignoring him, I focus back on the police officer, who slides his sunglasses back on and says, “There was something very odd.”
“Odd?” I ask, hanging on to his every word.
The police officer nods, extending my anticipation into seconds that feel like an eternity. “There was an unopened can of cola on the railing, and beside it?—”
His words drift away on a breeze of icy panic sweeping through my chest. His mouth keeps moving, but I can’t hear him. Everything falls silent except for the roaring in my head.
A storm is brewing,and the wipers struggle to keep up with the flurries of snow sailing through the air. I focus on the swishing sound, watching them move rapidly on the windscreen while the heater blows hot air straight at my face.
Elliot eases up on the accelerator at a bend, careful now that the driving conditions aren’t ideal. His gravelly voice cuts through my twister of thoughts. “The items on the railing…”
I wince, resting my temple against the icy window. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You need to tell James.”
“I’m not telling James.”
A muscle tics in his jaw. “The same two items found at the crime scene were sent to your workplace a few weeks back. I was there, remember? I saw how you reacted. It wasn’t the first time. You have a stalker, Savannah.”
“Pointing out the obvious.”
He white knuckles the steering wheel. “You could be next.”
I don’t reply. I’m too tired to have this conversation. I need to go home, have a glass of wine, a hot bath, and watch a crappy movie. Not overanalyze and speculate.
“Are you listening to me, Savannah? This is serious. Your stalker is The Bridge Killer.”
And Robbie Hammond. Let’s not forget him. Apparently, I have a knack for attracting psychos.
