The way he lived so comfortably with so little impressed her—no doubt because she’d half expected to find him drowning in booze. She knew what it was like to crave relief from the whys, to use whatever she could to block out the memories. But it appeared that he spent his time hunting and fishing instead of drinking. A stuffed alligator held pride of place in one corner, and pictures of Fornier and others, holding this catch or that, adorned the walls. Not one thing in the room looked as if it’d belonged to a woman or child. There wasn’t even a framed photograph of his family. He’d rid himself of all reminders of the past.
“It’s warm in here,” she said.
He let that comment hang without response, which made her wonder if he thought she was looking down her nose at him and his potbellied stove. But she didn’t follow it with anything more. She waited as he lowered the volume of the movie he’d been watching and motioned for her to sit across from him.
Inching as far away from the stuffed alligator as she could without being too obvious about it, she perched on the edge of an armless chair that must have hailed from the 1960s. “Thanks for giving me an audience.”
He nodded, but his silent perusal, and the suspicion in his eyes, made her nervous. She wondered if his face always looked as though it was hewn from stone or only when he was confronted with a stranger intent on probing his darkest moments.
“I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t think it was important,” she explained.
“I want you to know that. I understand what you’ve been through—” she thought of the shooting and his subsequent incarceration and backed away from that statement a little “—to a point.”
“Are you a cop?” he asked.
“No.”
“You talk like a cop.”
He was probably referring to her explanation of a killer’s signature. “Together with two of my friends, I run a charity that helps victims, and I have some experience in criminal profiling.”
“But you’re here for personal reasons.”
“That’s right. I’m here because of my sister and that package I mentioned.”
“So what do you want from me?”
His brisk manner was insulting enough that she stopped trying to tiptoe so carefully around his feelings. “I want to know if you’re sure you killed the right man.”
A muscle flexed in his jaw, but he raised a hand as if to acknowledge that he preferred the direct approach. “I’m positive.”
“How do you know?”
“They found my daughter’s blood on some of his clothing.”
“Was she sexually assaulted?”
He swallowed visibly, telling Jasmine the emotion he struggled to control hovered just beneath the surface—like the alligators swimming barely submerged in the bayou outside. “Yes.”
“Did you find anything else in the house?”
“A video of their time together.”
She winced, knowing how difficult that must’ve been for a father to see. “Did he keep any souvenirs—a piece of clothing or jewelry?”
“Like the bracelet someone mailed to you? Even if he did, it doesn’t mean the man who sent you that package has any connection to Moreau. A lot of sick bastards keep trophies.”
“There’s a connection,” she insisted.
“How do you know?”
The name had leapt out at her while she was reading the microfilm, made her heart beat faster. “Intuition.”
He laughed, but it was a cynical laugh. “Intuition. God, I should’ve let you leave.” Standing, he started for the door; their interview was over. “There’s nothing I can do for you, Ms.—”
“Stratford. Jasmine Stratford.”
“Ms. Stratford. You’re just another person grasping at straws to ease the ache in your chest. But take it from me. You’re wasting your time, and mine. Adele is dead. Moreau is, too. You need to search elsewhere for the man who took your sister.”
“We could be talking about a copycat killer.”
“Or a coincidence.”
He couldn’t deal with it. As tough as he tried to appear, he couldn’t handle the memories. Jasmine understood, even sympathized because she used to be the same way. And yet his stubborn denial frustrated her. “I’m only looking for a few facts.”
“It’s not my problem.”
“I thought you were a soldier,” she said softly.
He turned on her so fast she put out her hands to stop him and encountered a hard, solid chest. Her fingers burned from the warmth of his body, a warmth that didn’t reach the icy cold of his eyes. But he seemed to realize he’d frightened her.
Abruptly stepping back, he opened the door as if he hadn’t reacted at all.
Jasmine didn’t walk through it. A photograph had caught her attention—and held her riveted. It was tucked into the glass doors of a bookcase shoved full of books and magazines. The dim lighting made it hard to see much detail, but she knew without drawing closer that it was Adele. That picture had been used in the newspaper and in the police flyers.
Fornier had kept one concession to the past.
He was still waiting for her to go, but she moved toward the picture instead—and an image crystallized in her mind.
“We’re finished here,” he bit out.
Jasmine barely heard him. She was having one of her visions, a random impression that came to her—a man’s hand, reaching into a locker somewhere to pick up a child’s pendant. She’d had enough experience with her abilities to know what it was, but that kind of sudden knowledge—of another place, another time—always unnerved her.
“Ms. Stratford?”
Straightening, she confronted Fornier. “It wasn’t a crime of opportunity.”
“Your sister?”
“Your daughter.”
His chin jutted out. “You don’t know that. You don’t know anything about my daughter.”
“I’m only telling you in case you’ve been beating yourself up for letting her ride her bike home alone.”
The blood drained from his face, making him almost ghostlike in the dark room. “It was only around the block,” he said, his voice a mere whisper.
She tried not to experience his pain—but that was impossible. “He stole her necklace from somewhere before that. I don’t know when, but it was at a—a gym or a dance class or maybe a swimming pool. Someplace that has lockers.”