“Crossed my mind.”
“I can tell you the mutilations appear consistent. Same weapon used—a curved, serrated blade. The cutter was right-handed in both cases. Entry cut was at the same location, just above the belly button. The cutter has some knowledge of anatomy. No unnecessary damage to the internal organs.”
“A doctor? A butcher?”
“Possibly. Or could be someone who has simply gutted a whole lot of people.”
I crossed out my Two different murderers? note. “Thanks, Phil.”
He hung up.
I stared at my notes, my mind drifting, and wrote down:
Jessica.
Sara.
Amanda.
I scratched those out, and then wrote:
Maria.
Lisa.
Carla.
Carla Daniels.
Carla Daniels-Troutt.
But I hated the name Troutt. I didn’t much care for the name Daniels either. That was my ex-husband’s name, and I just kept it for professional reasons.
Though my maiden name, Streng, wasn’t much better.
Did I have to use my name or his name? Couldn’t I pick something entirely new?
I wrote:
Carla Einstein. Carla Aristotle. Carla Hemingway.
And I realized I hated the name Carla, too.
I heard Phin coming back, quickly turned the paper over.
“The doctor said to take you to the emergency room immediately.”
“Of course she said that. She could be sued otherwise.”
“Put your shoes on.”
I reached for his belt, tugged him closer. “I know something that can lower my blood pressure.”
“I’ll meet you in the car.”
He pulled away, rejection prickling me like a blush.
Which was probably how I’d made him feel yesterday.
I hoisted myself out of my desk chair and then went to find my shoes.
This was shaping up to be a really shitty day.
March 17, Fifteen Days Ago
Three Days After the Bus Incident
“Name?”
“Christine. Christine Agawa.”
“How much do you weigh, Christine?”
“What?”
“Did you not hear my question?”
“Yes, I just don’t understand—”
“Your understanding is not integral to this conversation. Answer the goddamn question.”
Her eyes lower. She stares into the table.
He can practically smell the shame and the self-hate radiating off of her.
“Three hundred and seventy pounds.”
“Is that accurate? Or are you keeping a few pounds from me?”
“I haven’t weighed myself in a while. I’m probably heavier.”
“Have you been heavy all your life?”
“Since I was…” She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “Since I was ten.”
“What prompted this?”
“I don’t know.”
“But it isn’t some thyroid condition or anything like that beyond your control?”
She shakes her head.
He slides his chair back and stands.
“Thank you, Christine.”
“Why am I here?” she asks as he reaches for the door. “Please.” Crying now. “I’m so worried.”
“It’s okay, Christine. Quite healthy in fact. But you shouldn’t be worried.” He smiles. “You should be terrified.”
April 1, 1:30 P.M.
It was his first appointment after lunch, a “potential client” intake with a man from Champagne. Their first telephone call had gone well enough to schedule an in-person meeting. The product at issue was a glass-cutter implementing some state-of-the-art, design-around technology that Mr. Siders seemed confident would be a goldmine once brought to market. Then again, that was the trouble with inventors. Seventy-five percent of them were certifiably, batshit crazy, and ninety percent harbored delusions that their invention would make them millions. But one of Peter’s strengths—he liked to think—was his gut-check when it came to accepting new clients. Knowing whether or not to sign them up. Having that innate sense about whether their product had enough potential to make dealing with their mental instability or neuroses, whatever you wanted to call it, worthwhile.
Peter’s phone rang.
He answered on speakerphone, “Yes, Kelly?”
“Mr. Roe, Mr. Siders is here for his one-thirty.”
“Thank you, I’ll be right out.”
He disconnected and lifted the microphone to his dictation machine, entered a 3.25-hour time billing for the response to an office action of the United States Patent and Trademark Office that he’d completed before lunch.
Rising from his desk, he slid into the Versace jacket he wore in court and for initial meetings—had to impress on every conceivable level when you billed out at $625 an hour.
He met Mr. Siders in reception, found a tall man with long, black hair bundled up under a White Sox baseball cap, wearing dark sunglasses, black boots, black jeans, and a long-sleeved black tee from Slayer’s Hell Awaits tour. Not exactly dress-to-impress attire for that first meeting with your patent attorney, but it wasn’t unusual. In Peter’s experience, inventors were a quirky bunch, and most dressed to fit that mad scientist vibe they put out into the world like a Mace-blast of pheromones.
“Rob Siders,” Peter said with a smile he’d honed to perfection over the years—confident, comfortable, wealthy, and friendly without being too open. Important to send these subtle messages to establish the appropriate attorney-client boundaries from day one.
Roe extended his hand, and the man stood up and shook it.
Limp-wristed, cold-fish grip, and something was wrong with the man’s skin. He glanced down.
What the hell?
Siders was wearing latex gloves.
“Mr. Roe, nice to finally meet you.”
“What’s with the gloves, Mr. Siders?” He tried not to make the question sound rude or prying, but Jesus, talk about strange.
“I don’t want to freak you out.”
“You won’t.”
“I have psoriasis. It’s not contagious or infectious, but it’s not very pretty either.”
“Understood. Did Kelly offer you coffee or water?”
“Yes, but I’m fine. Just had lunch.”
“Excellent, come on back.”
Siders grabbed the black duffle he’d brought along—probably contained a prototype he wanted to show off—and Peter led him down the hallway, past the large office where his paralegal and two associates slaved away in cubicles, before arriving at the corner digs he called home.
He stood in the doorway, ushered Siders through.
“Nice office,” Siders said.