"That makes a lot more sense than the bunch of you being stalked by a maniac," he shot back. "Stop dramatizing everything."
"If we're dramatizing it," Jaine said, "so are the police." Then she bit her lip. She didn't want to get in the middle of a domestic dispute. T.J. and Galan had enough trouble without her adding to it.
Galan shrugged again. "T.J. said you're marrying a cop, so he's probably humoring you. Come on, pooch." He turned and walked back to his den and his newspaper, Trilby scampering around his feet.
"Forget him," T.J. said. "Tell me what happened." Jaine related what Cheryl had said and the time frame. T.J. glanced at the clock; it was now just after noon. "Four hours, at least. She isn't grocery shopping. Has anyone called Shamal?"
"His number's unlisted, but Sam will take care of it." They went into the kitchen, where T.J. had been reading. Her open book lay in the alcove. T.J. put on a pot of coffee. They were each on their second cup, the cordless phone at T.J.'s elbow, when it finally rang. She snatched it up. "Sam?"
She listened for a moment, and watching her face, Jaine felt the hope die out of her. T.J. looked stunned, all color draining from her. Her lips moved, but no sound emerged. Jaine grabbed the phone. "Sam? Tell me."
His voice was heavy. "Baby, I'm sorry It looks like it happened last night, maybe as soon as she got home from the funeral."
T.J. laid her head on the table, weeping. Jaine reached to touch her shoulder, trying to offer comfort, but she could feel herself folding in, giving in to the grief, and she didn't know if she had any comfort to offer.
"Stay there," Sam said. "Don't go anywhere. I'll be there when I can get free. This isn't my jurisdiction, but we're all putting our heads together. It may be several hours, but don't go anywhere," he repeated.
"Okay," Jaine whispered, and hung up.
Galan came to the door and stood hovering, staring at T.J. as if he hoped she was still overreacting, but something in his face said that this time he knew better. He was pale. "What?" he croaked.
"That was Sam," Jaine said. "Luna's dead." Then her fragile control broke, and it was a long time before she could do anything except weep and hold on to T.J. It was sunset before Sam arrived. He looked tired and angry. He introduced himself to Galan, because neither Jaine nor T.J. thought to.
"You were at the funeral," Galan said suddenly, his gaze sharpening.
Sam nodded. "A Sterling Heights detective was, too. We hoped we could spot him, but he's either too slick or he wasn't there."
Galan glanced at his wife. T.J. was sitting quietly, absently stroking the black-and-white cocker spaniel. Yesterday Galan's gaze had been remote, but there was nothing remote about the way he was watching her now. "Someone's really after them. It's so damn hard to believe."
"Believe it," Sam said briefly, his guts twisting with fury as he remembered what had been done to Luna. She had suffered the same vicious, personal attack, her face battered beyond recognition, the multiple stab wounds, the sexual abuse. Unlike Marci, she had still been alive when he stabbed her; the apartment floor was awash in blood. Her clothes had also been shredded, just like Jaine's. When he thought how close Jaine had come to dying, what she would have suffered if she had been at home on Wednesday night, he could barely contain his rage. "Did you get in touch with her parents?" Jaine asked hoarsely. They lived in Toledo, so they weren't far away. "Yes, they're already here," Sam said. He sat down and put his arms around her, cradling her head on his shoulder.
His pager beeped. He reached for his belt and silenced it, then glanced at the number and cursed, rubbing his face. "I have to go."
"Jaine can stay here," T.J. said, before he could ask. "I don't have any clothes," Jaine said, but she wasn't protesting, just stating a problem.
"I'll drive you home," Galan said. "T.J. will go, too. You can pack whatever you need, stay as long as you want." Sam nodded in approval. "I'll call," he said as he went out the door.
Corin rocked back and forth. He couldn't sleep, couldn't sleep, couldn't sleep. He hummed to himself, the way he had done when he was little, but the magic song didn't work. He wondered when it had stopped working. He didn't remember.
The bitch in red was dead. Mother was so pleased. Two down and two to go.
He felt good. For the first time in his life, he was pleasing Mother. Nothing he had ever done before had been good enough for her because he had always been flawed, no matter how hard she tried to make him perfect. He was doing this right, though; she was very pleased. He was ridding the world of the whoring bitches, one by one by one. No. Too many "ones". He hadn't done three yet. He had tried, but one hadn't been at home.
He remembered seeing her at the funeral, though. She had laughed. Or was it the other one? He felt confused, because the faces kept swimming in his memory. One shouldn't laugh at funerals. It was very hurtful to the bereaved.
But which one had laughed? Why couldn't he remember? It didn't matter, he thought to himself, and felt better. They both had to die, and then it wouldn't matter which one had laughed, or which one was "Ms. C." It wouldn't matter, because finally – finally – Mother would be happy and she would never, never hurt him again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
On Monday morning, Sam sat in the Warren R D. with his head propped on his hands, wading through the Hammerstead files again and again. The NCIC computers hadn't given them a hit on any of the names, so he and Bernsen were simply reading and rereading, looking for something that would click in their heads and give them the clue they needed.