Page 28 of Just Right

She was getting used to the look and feel of these motel rooms. They were the same—basic but well equipped and strangely comforting in their anonymity.

When she'd showered and devoured two of the sandwiches and a soda while sitting on the small armchair, she got into bed. But her mind was too active to sleep. She texted Ethan, wondering if he was still up.

"You awake?"

"Yes. Back home, but awake. You turning in now?"

"I am. I'm thinking of this guy, this killer. I feel so helpless. He’s going to kill again, and I haven't been able to use enough technology to find him."

"I know. But you can't help that. I'm sure you will."

"I feel like I'm not doing enough."Cami sighed as she keyed in the words.

"I know. But you're doing the best you can. He might make a mistake, do something that will give you a better picture. You can't do the impossible. I’ve learned that on cases."

"I guess so."

"Don't let yourself get too caught up in the what ifs. Get some rest. Tomorrow, you and me and Connor, we'll catch this guy."

"It's a deal."

Cami took a deep breath, feeling better, realizing that he was right. She couldn't control this situation. She was doing all she could. Cami put her phone on the bedside table and stared out of the window, seeing the gleam of the moon, and the strip of lights from the parking lot.

Not quite ready to give up for the day, she opened her phone again, looking at the meager case file that had been all the FBI had gathered on her sister. Did her family know more? Had her father given more information to the FBI, trusting that they would handle the case, and had they suppressed it or destroyed it for some reason?

She'd never thought that way before. She'd never had anything but angry thoughts about her father, her family, since that catastrophe had played out. It felt weird, now, to think of her father as not being the main villain in this tragedy. What if he'd been a victim in a way, unable to take this further because of the police protocol and the structures of law enforcement?

But why had that case not been more thoroughly investigated? Why so little information?

Was it just an incompetent agent, or was there more to it? After all, surely there was a reason why that file had had the malware added to it, ready to seek and destroy if anyone tried to access it?

She wondered again how much IT knowledge that agent had possessed, if he was the one who'd done this.

She put down her cell phone, then lay on her back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. She felt emotionally drained.She lay there pondering this, thinking about the map, her eyes heavy, her mind unwilling to switch off.

She didn't think she would fall asleep, but she did, even though her rest was uneasy and punctuated by nightmares. In them, she was running along a long, dark corridor. She knew that Jenna was at the end. She was certain of it. But the way was blocked by a shadowy figure whose face she couldn't see. He had a menacing, aggressive presence, and he was not going to let her pass.

"Let me through!" she screamed at him. "Let me through. I need to find her!"

She began hammering him with her fists, trying to make him move away, hitting and punching him.

And suddenly, she was sitting bolt upright in bed, with gray light seeping through the blinds. The hammering was Connor, knocking on her door, calling out in a sharp, tense voice.

"Cami? We need to get going. There's been another murder just called in."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Cami felt a sick sensation in the pit of her stomach as she heard Connor's voice outside her door. Another murder. This killer was continuing his rampage. This was evil, pure and unadulterated. It was all the worse to have known that it was going to happen and to feel that she had somehow not been able to prevent it. Guilt churned inside her even though she knew it was irrational to feel this way.

"I'm coming," she called, her voice hoarse after her night of deep, though nightmare-infested, sleep. At least her mind felt sharper again.

Quickly, she pulled on her clothes and grabbed up her things. She hurried out of the room. Connor was there, looking grim. He was dressed in a black top and jeans, his gun in a holster on his belt, his FBI jacket slung over his shoulders. He did not look rested, and he was frowning, his face set in troubled lines.

"Let's go," he said.

"Where was the murder?" she asked, as they hustled downstairs and out to the car. The car clock showed it was five forty-five.

"On a small farm, a few miles south of Milwaukee, near the Interstate 94."

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