This was getting big, fast.
One of the reasons Selena had pushed for their family’s move to Almond Park was that it felt so much different living out here than in the city. She lived and breathed true crime, wanted to understand it. Needed to understand it. But from a distance.
But now it had followed her home.
At least that’s what it looked like.
“There’s no chance it was an accident?” Selena pushed the plunger down on the coffee. Decaf, per the detective’s request.
“Sure, there’s a chance. But it’s hard to believe. The entire family was found poisoned. Right into their water supply. And—”
“And there’s no accounting for that second scarf.”
“Exactly.”
Selena tried not to smile, tried to hide the rush of excitement at the idea that she might be the first to take a crack at a new serial killer. “Cream, sugar, agave? Anything?”
“Just black.” Sharpe smiled and Selena slid his coffee across the counter.
She hoped her glee wasn’t showing on her face — it was so horribly inappropriate — but she couldn’t help thinking how happy Sam was going to be. They could push back some of the episodes they’d already shot, as people would be hungry for an expert’s opinion on a breaking serial killer case. If the murders got national coverage, which they very well might, she would be the expert. Her instincts were crackling right from the start … from the moment she saw that first scarf.
“So,” Selena said with cool professionalism. The police didn’t like to work with experts who fostered sensationalism; it made their job so much harder. “You’re here because you don’t have any leads, but the second scarf is too big a coincidence to ignore.”
“Right.” The detective blew steam from the lip of his mug, then took a sip. “What do you think?”
Having a potential new case — one she could really sink her teeth into — made Selena feel like someone had just given her fresh batteries. The details didn’t fit a normal serial killer profile. The modus operandi for the killings were completely different. There didn’t seem to be any connection between the two families. Or the scarves.
This stuff was all so obvious. As she theorized to the detective, she couldn’t help secretly imagining the TV potential of the case. Being right in the middle of it as it unfolded. This thing could go in any direction. A movie was the obvious start, but studios had been playing that game since the eighties. A season-long anthology series on Netflix or one of the other streaming companies might be better. Something like The Thick Red Line.
Should she hire her own documentary crew now? It would be so much better to get on-the-ground reactions in real time rather than in the aftermath. Surely that had never been done before.
But then again, the world had never really seen a psychologist like Selena Nash.
It almost felt like Fate was on her payroll, doing everything possible to make her a star. The timing was perfect.
Sharpe cut her off as she launched into her theory about the six phases of the serial killer’s emotional cycle. “But serial killers are usually smart, right?”
“That’s a misconception. The good serial killers are the smart ones.”
The mug stopped halfway to his mouth. “The good serial killers?”
Selena laughed: Silly me.
“I mean the ones we remember. The ones we talk about. The ones who get books written, and movies made. There’s never going to be a TV show about a guy who randomly murders people and gets caught almost immediately. There’s no character to a crime like that, so there’s no reason for anyone to care. But the killers who plan and plot and perfect their delinquencies, keeping themselves from discovery for years, if not forever? Those are the impressive ones.”
Sharpe listened intently, like she’d just recaptured his interest.
“The average IQ is around one hundred, depending on which test is given. The average serial killer hovers below ninety-five. That sort of killer will probably strangle or stab or shoot their victims. No finesse at all. Next step up are the bomb makers and planners. Most come from unstable homes, obviously. But you always want to look for the kids who wet the bed or started fires. The ones who didn’t just kill small animals, but tortured them with no remorse.”
Sharpe’s expression hadn’t shifted; he still seemed interested. So Selena went on with the lecture.
“Setting a fire and poisoning a family are two very different crimes, tied together only by the scarves. This isn’t a cheap thrill. Neither one of these crimes is reactionary. Both took planning and execution. So this isn’t a person with anger issues. Or at least that’s not all there is to it. This is obviously someone smart.”
“Do you think the killer lives in Almond Park?”
Selena had been waiting for him to ask. She narrowed her eyes at the detective. Leaned closer. “I do. I had a suspicion after the first one, of course, because getting into a house seems pretty intimate. But now there’s been two, one here and another at Valley Estates. It seems almost personal. It feels personal.”
The detective considered. “You mean like a vendetta?”
“I don’t know what I mean. Yet.”
Selena could no longer pretend that she wasn’t playing for the cameras that would soon be following her everywhere, documenting her brilliant cat-and-mouse game with the killer.
They spoke of motives and hallmarks and sprees, but despite its darker shade it had still turned to small talk. Sharpe promised to stay in touch, and asked Selena to contact him if she had any more insights into the killer’s mind.
She walked him to the door, then returned to the kitchen, where she heard a quiet squeak from the living room. The sound of sneakers on a hardwood floor. She peeked around the doorjamb to find Dane standing awkwardly near the bookshelf, pretending to look for something to read.
He’d been eavesdropping.
He turned, as if surprised to realize she was there. “Hi, Mrs. Nash. I was just—”
“—curious about the murders.” She smiled. “You understand that you can’t talk about anything you might have accidentally overheard?”
Dane flashed her a smile of relief. “Of course. I just … I want to better understand what you do.”
Selena walked to the wine rack, pulled out a bottle of pinot, and poured herself a generous glass, all without saying a word, curious to see how far this might go and knowing it couldn’t possibly be far.
Dane was only a kid. But he was also curious. She had always been a teacher for him, ever since the boys first brought him home. There was no reason she couldn’t also instruct him in the back-and-forth between a man and a woman. It didn’t have to be anything untoward.
She looked at Dane. He was still looking at her.
“The show is over and you’re still here.” She took a sip. “Your friends are all upstairs.”
“I don’t really feel like being bored, Mrs. Nash.”
“Call me Selena.” She smiled and took another, longer sip. “Are you saying that my son is boring?”
“Not at all. But they’re all upstairs playing HardCorp and telling the same old jokes. Especially Elliot. Down here I’m learning something new. With you.”
“What sorts of things are you learning?”
“It’s like we talked about before. The thin line between life and death. You spend so much of your time there. I bet it gets hard to breathe sometimes. I bet it feels good to talk out loud, especially with someone who’s interested in what you have to say.”
“And why is this so interesting to you?”
Dane shrugged and leaned away from the counter. He looked thoughtful, not unsure of what he was going to say so much as perhaps questioning whether he should actually say it.
“Go on …” she prompted.
He hesitated, then seemed to force the words from his mouth, as if he had to get them all out before regret came to claim or retrieve them.
“I’ve been thinking about it. As a career. I know it will drive my dad nuts. He really wants me to go to Stanford, and that’s not really why I want to go there. But every time Levi or Corban talks about your work, or this sort of stuff comes up, I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“You’re thinking of becoming a homicide detective?” She deliberately misunderstood. Wanted to hear him explain why he was interested in what she did.
“I guess I don’t really know much about it yet. Maybe a criminal psychologist, or a profiler. I don’t know about writing books, like you do. But I know that I’m interested … and that you’re interesting.”
Selena felt herself flush. Not because she was sexually attracted to Dane. But because he looked at her with a little bit of awe in his eyes. He listened to her more deeply than Adam had recently. Maybe ever. He wanted to know what she thought. He admired her intellect.
She recognized that it was her ego talking. But surely there was nothing wrong in enjoying mentoring him?
“Are you at all scared that there’s a killer in Almond Park?” he asked.
She imagined that the killer knew that Selena Nash lived in their tiny town. She was a celebrity here. He had to realize she’d be consulted by the police. No doubt he was taking extra precautions to make sure he stayed ahead of her.
Maybe that was why this all felt so personal.
“A little,” Selena admitted. “But no, I’m not usually afraid of the killers.”
“Have you ever met one before … I mean in real life?”
“Of course,” Selena said. “All kinds.”
“Do you think you would know it if you saw one?”
“I do.”
She was about to deliver her latest theory, one that was only now brewing in the nooks of her mind — probably nothing, but definitely fun to discuss with the right person — when Adam entered the kitchen.
He eyed them from the other side of the room as though they were blocking his path to the fridge. He opened it, then closed it a moment later. Nodded at Selena as if to say, don’t let me interrupt. But she didn’t buy it. He always meant to interrupt.
Dane said nothing, but the boy didn’t look uncomfortable, like most teenagers would. He really was growing up. He looked … poised. Like he knew what was coming and was ready.
Selena let the silence continue, seeing if her husband would give up his charade of nonchalance or if he’d keep it going until she called his bluff.
Adam pulled a bottle from the wine rack and a glass from the cabinet, then brought them both to where Selena and Dane were clustered, giving them each a thin-lipped smile.
He grabbed the bottle by its throat and poured himself a splash and a half. Just enough to down in a swallow.
Then he set his empty wine glass on the counter and said, “So, what are you two talking about?”