Or what she believed to be his secret. Through twenty years of marriage, she’d believed him to be gay. It wasn’t the optimal solution, but it did explain to her satisfaction why he never touched her. He closed the door into the kitchen, frowning when he switched on the light. Something was different. It took him only a second.
She’d moved the cat’s bowl. He didn’t like it when she changed things. She knew this. It had been the only occasion he’d needed to strike her during their marriage. She’d learned quickly and kept things the way he liked ever since. Until tonight.
He opened cupboards, careful not to wake her. He didn’t care a whit if she got her beauty sleep, but she was his cover. That’s all she’d ever been. The cat’s bowl was nowhere to be seen. Maybe she’d broken it and hoped he wouldn’t know.
He always knew, could always instantly see any item out of its place. He climbed the stairs, his temper seething. It was exhaustion and he reined his temper in. He’d deal with her in the morning, after she’d woken to see him soundly asleep beside her.
He’d brought her a cup of tea tonight, as he always did. Laced it with enough narcotic to have her sleeping through the night, as he always did when he was going out. As he’d done every night this week. He closed the bedroom door behind him.
And stopped. She wasn’t in the bed. Carefully he turned. And stopped again.
She was sitting in one of the chintz chairs by the window and in her hand she held a gun. His heart began to beat harder. He recognized the gun. It was one of the many he kept at his place. She’d been to his place. “What’s this?” he asked quietly.
“I didn’t drink the tea tonight,” she said. “Or last night. Or the night before.” She paused meaningfully, tilting her head. “Or the night before that.”
Sunday. “Why didn’t you drink your tea?” he asked, injecting a note of hurt into his voice. She was small, manageable. Taking the gun would be no issue.
“Because of your cat. I was sneezing all the time, so I took an allergy pill.”
“What does this have to do with the tea?” He took a step forward and she brought the gun up, smoothly. Interesting. They’d been married twenty years and he never knew she could handle a weapon. Looking back, he probably should have asked.
“Don’t come any closer,” she said and he could hear the underlying fright. Panic. Disgust. “And keep your hands where I can see them. The allergy pill interacted with whatever it is you put in that tea. It made me sick. I threw up the tea. And I was awake when you came in on Sunday night. Monday morning, actually. You were out all night.”
“I was with a patient,” he lied.
“You had sex. I can always tell. I thought you’d gone discreetly about your business with your newest boy of the month. Which was fine, but then you were gone Monday night, too. You slipped into bed, thinking I was asleep. I smelled perfume. Ladies’ perfume. I could accept your alternate lifestyle. I was willing to be your cover. But you were cheating. With women.”
He tilted his head, feigning puzzlement. He needed to get to the gun in his pocket. “Let me get this straight. You’re angry because I’m not gay?”
“Don’t,” she said, disgusted. “Don’t even try to charm me. I followed you.”
He narrowed his eyes. “And?”
“I know what you did. I saw you last night. I followed you to your other house, saw you change cars, then I watched you wait for that woman outside that bar and follow her home.” She sat back and leveled him an even stare. “I thought, ‘He has another home. Another life. Maybe even another wife. That’s why he doesn’t want me.’ I couldn’t stand wondering, so I went back to that house today.”
His fists clenched. “You had no right.”
She laughed, hollowly, dully. “My God. You can stand there and speak to me of rights? I saw your basement. Your… shoes. My God. You’re a monster. How long? How long have you been killing?”
“Thirty years,” he said, oddly pleased that he could finally tell someone.
She shook her head, helplessly. “I… opened the pit. I can’t stop thinking about it. I see that hand, sticking up, every time I close my eyes. Why did you do it?”
“Because I wanted to,” he said simply and she shook her head in disbelief.
“You’re a monster. And no one will believe that you’re capable. You have everyone fooled. Everyone but me. I know what you are and you aren’t going to get away with this.” She started to pull the trigger, but he was faster. He leapt forward and wrested the gun from her hand, her cry of pain barely registering. He tossed the gun to the bed and dragged her up against him, his arm over her throat. Her gun had no silencer and the shot would wake the whole neighborhood.
Pulling his own silenced gun from his pocket, he pulled her to the bathroom and shoved her into the tub, holding her as she fought. “Just one question. Where is my cat?”
She twisted to stare up at him, defiant in her fear. “Dead,” she spat.
He clenched his jaw. “You bitch.” Then he shot her in the head, stepping back as she slumped. “I should have stayed single,” he murmured, panting. “Dammit.”
Now he’d have to explain to their friends where she’d gone.
Thursday, February 25, 7:00 a.m.
Coffee. Noah drew a deep breath, the aroma teasing him awake. Sex and coffee. He wasn’t sure a man needed a whole lot more than that. He rolled out of bed, a little creaky after tackling Dell, but his mind was alert. He hadn’t gotten any calls during the night, so Natalie Clooney and Kathy Kirk, Eve’s last two red-zone cases, were all right.
He still didn’t believe Donner had killed five women, but he had the very bad feeling that Farmer’s mocking “pow” and “night-night-Noah and his pretty Eve, too” were more than petty taunts. Donner was involved, or he wouldn’t have run.
Pulling on pants, he found Eve sitting in his kitchen wearing only his shirt, frowning at the morning’s newspaper headline. He pressed a kiss to the back of her neck and stole a look down the shirt at her breasts. “I like you in my shirt,” he murmured.
She looked up over her shoulder, her dark eyes troubled. “Sit down.”
She gave him the front page and he hissed an oath. “I guess we expected this,” he said grimly. HAT SQUAD MURDER-SUICIDE, the headline read. He scanned the article, keeping his temper in check. “They make it sound like we know Jack did it.”
She got up to pour his coffee, then set a mug next to his elbow and leaned over his shoulder, her cheek pressed against his. It was the support and affection he’d craved, and greedily he took it in.
“They mention Farmer’s capture,” she murmured, “and his father’s murder a few pages in, but nobody’s tied their motive to Jack and Katie.”
“We should have tied it together for them last night.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“It’s an internal investigation now. They’ll have to clear Jack.”
“I called the hospital this morning. They’re not giving out any information.”
“Abbott said he’d call when he heard something. I guess no news at this point is still good news. I wish MSP never published that damn article. When you were untying Brock last night, Dell was screaming that the magazine made us look like gods.”
“I thought ‘white knights,’ when I first read it.” She kissed his temple. “You want some eggs? I can’t do omelets because I couldn’t find the knives.”
“You started talking in your sleep, so I got up and locked them in my gun safe. I’ll make you a key so you can get to them when you’re awake.”
She sighed wearily. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We both bring baggage, Eve. We both have nightmares.” He hesitated. “Mine are especially bad whenever I go to the bar.”