CHAPTER THREE

Eliza was waiting when Gray got home that night. He arrived in time for dinner, with a look on his face that suggested he knew what was coming. Since Millie and Henry were sitting right there eating their mac & cheese with hot dog slices, neither parent said anything about the situation.

It was only after the kids were down for the night that it came up. Eliza was standing in the kitchen when Gray walked in after putting them to sleep. He had taken off his sport coat but was still wearing his loosened tie and slacks. She suspected it was to make him look more credible.

Gray wasn’t a big man. At five foot nine and 160 pounds he was only an inch taller than she was, though he outweighed her by a good thirty pounds. But they both knew that he was far less imposing in a T-shirt and sweatpants. Business attire was his armor.

“Before you say anything,” he began, “please let me try to explain.”

Eliza, who had spent much of the day turning over how this could have happened, was happy let her anguish take a temporary back seat and allow him to squirm as he tried to justify himself.

“Be my guest,” she said.

“First. I’m sorry. No matter what else I say, I want you to know that I apologize. I should never have let it happen. It was a moment of weakness. She’s known me for years and she knew my vulnerabilities, what would pique my interest. I should have known better but I fell for it.”

“What are you saying?” Eliza asked, dumbfounded as much as hurt. “That Penny was some seductress who manipulated you into having an affair with her? We both know that you’re a weak man, Gray, but are you kidding me?”

“No,” he said, choosing not to respond to the “weak” comment. “I take full responsibility for my actions. I had the three whiskey sours. I ogled her legs in the dress with the slit up the side. But she knows what makes me tick. I guess it’s all those heart-to-hearts you two have had over the years. She knew to brush her fingertip along my forearm. She knew to talk, almost purr in my left ear. She likely knew you hadn’t done any of those things in a long time. And she knew you wouldn’t be walking into that cocktail party because you were back home, knocked out on the sleeping pills you take most nights.”

That hung in the air for several seconds as Eliza tried to compose herself. When she was sure she wouldn’t yell, she replied in a shockingly quiet voice.

“Are you blaming me for this? Because it sounds like you’re saying you couldn’t keep it in your pants because I have trouble sleeping at night.”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” he sniveled, backing down at the venom in her words. “It’s just that you always have trouble sleeping at night. And you never seem all that interested in staying up with me.”

“Just to be clear, Grayson—you say you’re not blaming me. But then you immediately transition into saying I’m too knocked out on Valium and don’t give you enough big boy attention, so you had to have sex with my best friend.”

“What kind of best friend is she to do that anyway?” Gray tossed out desperately.

“Don’t change the subject,” she spat, forcing herself to keep her voice steady, partly to avoid waking the kids but mostly because doing so was the only thing keeping her from losing it. “She’s already on my list. It’s your turn now. You couldn’t have come to me and said, ‘Hey honey, I’d really love to spend a romantic evening with you tonight’ or ‘Sweetie, I feel disconnected from you lately. Can we get closer this evening?’ Those weren’t options?”

“I didn’t want to wake you up to bother you with questions like that,” he replied, his voice meek but his words cutting.

“So you’ve decided sarcasm is the way to go here?” she demanded.

“Look,” he said, wriggling around for any way out, “it’s over with Penny. She told me that this afternoon and I agreed. I don’t know how we move past this but I want to, if only for the kids.”

“If only for the kids?’ she repeated, stunned at how many ways he could fail at once. “Just get out. I’m giving you five minutes to pack a bag and be in your car. Book a hotel until further notice.”

“You’re kicking me out of my own house?” he asked, disbelieving. “The house I paid for?”

“Not only am I kicking you out,” she hissed, “if you’re not pulling out of the driveway in five minutes, I’m calling the cops.”

“To tell them what?”

“Try me,” she seethed.

Gray stared at her. Undeterred, she walked over to the phone and picked it up. It was only when he heard the dial tone that he snapped into action. Within three minutes, he was scampering out the door like a dog with its tail between its legs, his duffel bag stuffed with dress shirts and jackets. A shoe fell out as he rushed toward the door. He didn’t notice and Eliza didn’t say anything.

It was only when she heard the car peel out that she put the phone back in its dock. She looked down at her left hand and saw that her palm was bleeding where she’d been digging her nails into it. Only now did she feel the sting.

CHAPTER FOUR

Despite being out of practice, Jessie navigated the traffic from downtown L.A. to Norwalk without too much trouble. Along the way, as a way to push her impending destination out of her mind, she decided to call her folks.

Her adoptive parents, Bruce and Janine Hunt, lived in Las Cruces, New Mexico. He was retired FBI and she was a retired teacher. Jessie had spent a few days with them on her way to Quantico and had hoped to do the same on the way back as well. But there wasn’t enough time between the end of the program and her start back at work so she’d had to forgo the second visit. She hoped to return again soon, especially since her mom was battling cancer.

It didn’t seem fair. Janine had been fighting it on and off for over a decade now and that was on top of the other tragedy they’d faced years ago. Just before they took Jessie in when she was six, they had lost their toddler son, also to cancer. They were eager to fill the void in their hearts, even if it meant adopting the daughter of a serial killer, one who had murdered her mother and left her for dead. Because Bruce was in the FBI, the fit seemed logical to the U.S. Marshals who had put Jessie in Witness Protection. On paper, it all made sense.

She forced that out of her head as she dialed their number.

“Hi, Pa,” she said. “How’s it going?”

“Okay,” he answered. “Ma’s napping. Do you want to call back later?”

“No. We can talk. I’ll speak to her tonight or something. What’s happening there?”

Four months ago, she would have been reluctant to speak to him without her mom there too. Bruce Hunt was a hard man to get close to and Jessie wasn’t a ball of cuddliness either. Her memories of her youth with him were a mix of joy and frustration. There were ski trips, camping and hiking in the mountains, and family vacations to Mexico, only sixty miles away.

But there were also screaming matches, especially when she was a teenager. Bruce was a man who appreciated discipline. Jessie, with years of pent-up resentment over losing her mother, her name, and her home all at once, tended to act out. During her years at USC and after, they probably spoke less than two dozen times total. Visits back and forth were rare.

But recently, the return of Ma’s cancer had forced them to speak without a middleman. And the ice had somehow broken. He’d even come out to L.A. to help her recuperate after her abdominal injury when Kyle attacked her last fall.

“Things are quiet here,” he said, answering her question. “Ma had another chemo session yesterday, which is why she’s recuperating now. If she feels well enough, we may go out for dinner later.”

“With the whole cop crew?” she asked jokingly. A few months ago, her folks had moved from their home to a senior living facility populated primarily by retirees from the Las Cruces PD, Sheriff’s Department, and FBI.

“Nah, just the two of us. I’m thinking a candlelit dinner. But somewhere where we can put a bucket beside the table in case she has to puke.”

“You really are a romantic, Pa.”

“I try. How are things with you? I’m assuming you passed the FBI training.”

“Why do you assume that?”

“Because you knew I’d ask you about it and you wouldn’t have called if you had to deliver bad news.”

Jessie had to hand it to him. For an old dog, he was still pretty sharp.

“I passed,” she assured him. “I’m back in L.A. now. I start work again tomorrow and I’m…out running errands.”

She didn’t want to worry him with her actual current destination.

“That sounds ominous. Why do I get the feeling you’re not out shopping for a loaf of bread?”

“I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. I guess I’m just wiped out from all the travel. I’m actually almost here,” she lied. “Should I call back tonight or wait until tomorrow? I don’t want to mess with your fancy, puke bucket dinner.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” he advised.

“Okay. Say hi to Ma. I love you.”

“Love you too,” he said, hanging up.

Jessie tried to focus on the road. The traffic was getting worse and the drive to the NRD facility, which took about forty-five minutes, still had a half hour left.

NRD, short for Non-Rehabilitative Division, was a special stand-alone unit affiliated with the Department State Hospital–Metropolitan in Norwalk. The main hospital was home to a wide array of mentally disordered perpetrators deemed unfit to serve time in a conventional prison.

But the NRD annex, unknown to the public and even to most law enforcement and mental health personnel, served a more clandestine role. It was designed to house a maximum of ten felons off the grid. Right now there were only five people being held there, all men, all serial rapists or killers. One of them was Bolton Crutchfield.

Jessie’s mind wandered to the most recent time she’d been there to see him. It was her last visit before she left for the National Academy, though she hadn’t told him that. Jessie had been visiting Crutchfield regularly ever since last fall, when she’d gotten permission to interview him as part of her master’s practicum. According to the staff there, he almost never consented to talk to doctors or researchers. But for reasons that didn’t become clear to her until later, he’d agreed to meet with her.

Over the next few weeks they came to a kind of agreement. He would discuss the particulars of his crimes, including methods and motives, if she shared some details of her own life. It seemed like a fair trade initially. After all, her goal was to become a criminal profiler specializing in serial killers. Having one willing to discuss the details of what he’d done could prove invaluable.

And there turned out to be an added bonus. Crutchfield had a Sherlock Holmesian ability to deduce information, even when locked in a cell in a mental hospital. He could discern details about Jessie’s life at that moment just by looking at her.

He’d used that skill, along with case information she shared, to give her clues to several crimes, including the murder of a wealthy Hancock Park philanthropist. He’d also tipped her off that her own husband might not be as trustworthy as he seemed.

Unfortunately for Jessie, his skills at deduction also worked against her. The reason she’d wanted to meet with Crutchfield in the first place was because she’d noticed that he’d modeled his murders after those of her father, legendary, never-caught serial killer Xander Thurman. But Thurman committed his crimes in rural Missouri over two decades earlier. It seemed like a random, obscure choice for a Southern California–based killer.

But it turned out that Bolton was a big fan. And once Jessie started by asking him about his interest in those old murders, it didn’t take him long to piece things together and determine that the young woman in front of him was personally connected to Thurman. Eventually he admitted that he knew she was his daughter. And he revealed one more tidbit—he’d met with her dad two years earlier.

With glee in his voice, he’d informed her that her father had entered the facility under the guise of a doctor and managed to have an extended conversation with the prisoner. Apparently he was looking for his daughter, whose name had been changed and who had been put in the Witness Protection Program after he killed her mother. He suspected that she might one day visit Crutchfield because their crimes were so similar. Thurman wanted Crutchfield to let him know if she ever showed up and give him her new name and location.

From that moment on, their relationship had an inequality that made her incredibly uncomfortable. Crutchfield still gave her information about his crimes and hints about others. But they both knew that he held all the cards.

He knew her new name. He knew what she looked like. He knew the city she lived in. At one point she discovered he even knew she’d been living at her friend Lacy’s place and where that was. And apparently, despite being incarcerated in a supposedly secret facility, he had the capability of giving her father all those details.

Jessie was pretty sure that was at least part of the reason that Lacy, an aspiring fashion designer, had taken a six-month gig working in Milan. It was a great opportunity but it was also half a world away from Jessie’s dangerous life.

As Jessie pulled off the freeway, only minutes from reaching NRD, she recalled how Crutchfield had finally pulled the trigger on the unspoken threat that had always hung over their meetings.

Maybe it was because he sensed she was leaving for several months. Maybe it was just out of spite. But the last time she’d looked through the glass into his devious eyes, he’d dropped a bombshell on her.

“I’ll be having a little chat with your father,” he’d told her in his courtly Southern accent. “I won’t spoil things by saying when. But it’s going to be lovely, I’m quite certain.”

She had barely managed to choke out the word “How?”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, Miss Jessie,” he’d said soothingly. “Just know that when we do talk, I’ll be sure to give him your regards.”

As she pulled onto the hospital property, she asked herself the same question that had been eating at her ever since, the one she could only put out of her head when she was intently focused on other work: had he really done it? While she was off learning how to catch people like him and her dad, had the two of them really met a second time, despite all the security precautions designed to prevent just that sort of thing?

She had a feeling that mystery was about to be solved.