The Inquisitor. Gayle Wilson

      Jenna wasn’t sure Sheila still wouldn’t place that call to the police, despite the fact it had been vetoed. She also wasn’t sure she wouldn’t be relieved if she did.

      She looked back at the man who had invaded her office and now seemed to fill it. He, too, had watched the secretary’s departure. He turned back as Jenna refocused on his face. There was something in his gaze that looked like approval.

      Because she’d been crazy enough to let him stay?

      Or maybe he was pleased at the ease with which he’d gotten his way. Something he seemed far too accustomed to doing.

      “You can put your money away, Mr….?”

      “Murphy. Sean Murphy.”

      Although she waited, he didn’t offer to elaborate on the information, so she went back to the salient part of what he’d told her. “You said you’re here in an attempt to ‘save my life.’ I’m not sure what that means, but given how serious it sounds, I’m willing to listen. You have…” She glanced at her watch to make her point. “Exactly ten minutes before my next appointment.”

      He held her eyes, maybe assessing how serious she was about the timeframe she’d just given him. After a few seconds, he closed his wallet. He struggled to push it back into his pocket, verifying her initial assessment about the tightness of his jeans.

      Now, if only she’d been equally correct in gauging his mental state…

      “I saw your interview yesterday.”

      Something shifted in the bottom of Jenna’s stomach, cold and hard and a little frightening. She swallowed, determined not to display any outward sign of that sudden anxiety.

      “The one on holiday stress?”

      “Must have missed that part. What I saw was you giving your professional opinion about the man who killed three women here.”

      “I tried to make it clear to the reporter that serial killers don’t fall within my area of expertise—” she began, choosing her words with care.

      “What you made clear, Dr. Kincaid, was that you thought the poor, mistreated son of a bitch just couldn’t help himself.”

      The apprehension Jenna had felt was suddenly replaced by anger, most of it self-directed. She had known she should have cut the reporter off when he’d started that line of questioning. Instead, she’d been too conscious of the public-relations aspect of the interview. If she’d seemed uncooperative, that might well have been the only part of the segment to be aired.

      And what if it were?

      Of course, it was easy to sit here now, without the red light of the camera focused on her face, and know what she should have done. She’d made a mistake, but she didn’t deserve to be chastised for it by someone who obviously had his own agenda.

      “I never said that. I never said anything like that.”

      “Close enough. And as a psychologist, you had to know he’d feed off your remarks.”

      She had thought something similar yesterday. Not that the killer would “feed off” her comment about sociopaths being the products of abuse, but that he would delight in hearing anyone talk about the murders. Just as he would relish the increased terror that kind of interview would bring within the community.

      “He’s already feeding off the media frenzy,” she said, refusing to allow this jackass to intimidate her. “I doubt anything I said yesterday is going to add to his enjoyment.”

      Since the police had announced the connection between the homicides, not only had the local media been all over the story, the twenty-four-hour cable news stations were carrying it as well. It seemed that the killer had now been linked to several murders in other parts of the country.

      Jenna hadn’t had time to do more than glance at the lead story in the morning paper. That had been enough to let her know this was going to remain at the top of the front page until this killer was caught. Or until things got so hot for him here that he moved on to another location.

      Which was essentially all she’d said yesterday, she reiterated mentally. Actually, there was nothing she’d said that wasn’t completely accurate.

      She had talked about the interview to Paul Carlisle, the founder of the practice, as soon as she’d gotten to work. That’s when she’d discovered that the station had replayed the part about the murderer on both the late-night news and again this morning, although they hadn’t bothered to repeat the rest of the interview.

      Maybe Sean Murphy had seen one of those broadcasts. In any case, there was nothing she needed to apologize for, she decided. No matter what he thought.

      “You really don’t have a clue, do you?”

      “I’m sorry?” Her voice rose on the last word.

      “You tell someone who likes torturing women that he’s just some poor abused kid who isn’t responsible for what he’s done—”

      “I never said that. I never said anything like that.”

      “Yeah? Well, you can bet that’s what he heard.”

      “And who made you the expert on what he heard?”

      “A long and intimate acquaintance.”

      Her analytical mind took over, replaying his words. “Are you saying…you know him? You know who he is?”

      “I know what he is. And I know what he does. Apparently a lot better method of ‘knowing’ him than whatever crap you were spouting.”

      Jenna stood so abruptly that her desk chair rolled back and hit the wall behind her. “We’re through here.”

      She reached across the desk to punch the button on the intercom. If he didn’t leave, she’d tell her secretary to do what she had wanted to when he’d first barged in.

      “You’re exactly his type, you know.”

      Startled by the change in tone, Jenna looked up, her finger stopped in midair. There was no longer any trace of approval in his eyes. They were cold. And very angry.

      “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

      “You can look it up when the locals finally get their act together. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Tall. Slender. And not a prostitute or a waitress among them.”

      The trepidation she’d felt when he said he’d come to save her life stirred in her stomach again. Today’s front page had featured pictures of the local victims. And the description he’d just given fit them all.

      “I don’t know that he’s ever done a psychologist,” Sean Murphy went on, seeming to relish the impact his words were having, “but I’ve got a feeling he’d be interested.”

      “In me? Are you suggesting that the killer would be interested in me?”

      “Since you’re out there telling the world what a poor, misunderstood bastard he is.”

      She didn’t bother to refute the accusation again. He had decided that’s what she’d said. There was probably nothing she could do to dissuade him from his perception.

      And what if he’s right? What if that’s what the killer heard, too?

      Which would be a hell of an assumption. First, that the murderer had even heard the interview. And second, that he’d misinterpreted her words exactly as this arrogant SOB had.

      “Thank you for your concern,” she said, working to keep any emotion out of the conventional words. It was obvious Sean Murphy had come here to frighten her. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d succeeded.

      As soon as he was out of here, she would call the police and tell them what he’d said. That business about having a long and intimate acquaintance with the killer would probably be of interest