Christmas Confessions. Kathleen Long

voice trailed off noticeably toward the end of her sentence and Jack noted the angry look that flashed across Robert’s face.

      Apparently Abby’s partner wasn’t a Dwayne fan, either, although he said nothing in response to Abby’s statement.

      “Did you call the authorities?” Robert asked.

      Jack nodded, pursing his lips. “I’m working with local police, keeping them abreast of any developments. And I dusted for prints myself.”

      “And?” Robert’s features tensed.

      “And they agree with me that as of right now we have nothing to go on except the fact both cards bore no useable prints and were prepared using materials that could have been acquired anywhere.”

      “What about the photographs?” Robert asked.

      “My thought—” Jack pulled the second postcard from his case file “—is that the photos used to make the postcards are scans of the originals.”

      “And you’re some sort of photography expert?” Robert’s brows lifted toward his too-neat hairline.

      Jack shook his head, not even trying to hide his amusement at Walker’s arrogance. “And you are?”

      Walker shrugged. “I used to dabble. May I take a look?”

      Jack handed the photo to Robert, studying the man as he stared intently at both sides of the card.

      “I think you’re right. The quality isn’t that of a true photograph.”

      “More like a high-quality personal printer.”

      Robert nodded, continuing to scrutinize Emma’s photograph, his expression revealing not a clue as to what he was thinking. “Pretty girl.”

      “She was.” Jack fought the urge to put his fist through a wall, something he had only done once in his life—the day Boone Shaw walked free.

      “One of your victims?” Robert’s expression brightened.

      “Yes.” Jack gave a sharp nod. “And she’s my sister.”

      Robert let loose a long, low whistle. “My sympathies.” He turned over the card to reread the message, drawing in a sharp breath as if the words meant more now that he knew the victim was a relative. “When?”

      “Same week as Melinda Simmons. Christmas week, eleven years ago.”

      Robert handed the card back to Jack. “Why confess now? Why use our site?”

      Jack tucked the card back into the file without looking at Emma’s full-of-life eyes captured in the photograph. How long had she lived after that moment? What hell had she suffered at the hands of her killer?

      “I’d imagine he saw your People magazine feature and decided you were the surest means to an end.”

      “An end?”

      “His fifteen minutes of fame.” Jack gathered up his notes, tucking the folder and his papers back into his briefcase. “For some reason he’s decided now’s the time to get the credit he deserves.”

      “I’m not following you.” Robert narrowed his eyes.

      “You’d be surprised how many psychopaths reach a point where they want to be caught,” Jack replied.

      A shadow crossed Robert’s face, an emotional response Jack couldn’t quite read.

      “Isn’t that a bit clichÉd?” Robert asked.

      “Perhaps.” Jack forced a polite smile. “But true. These killers work so hard not to get caught that there’s no notoriety for them. Sometimes they crack. They want the attention they feel they deserve.”

      “The credit?” Robert repeated, as if weighing the word.

      Jack nodded.

      “Why now?”

      “Maybe he’s sick or feels he’s running out of time. Maybe he feels threatened by a new killer. Maybe he’s simply bored with being anonymous.”

      “Amazing.” Robert smiled, the move not reaching his unreadable eyes. “Good work, Detective.” Then he turned, heading toward the door. “Speaking of work, I’d better get to mine.”

      With that, Robert was gone, leaving Jack and Abby to their roomful of postcards.

      “Not a warm and fuzzy fellow?” Jack asked after Robert was out of earshot.

      “He doesn’t like the cards.” Abby handed Jack a cup of coffee. “He probably broke into a cold sweat just being near this many.”

      Jack frowned.

      “Says they give him the creeps,” Abby continued.

      “So why does he do this?”

      She screwed up her features as if the answer were a nobrainer.

      “He does it to help me.”

      Jack said nothing, knowing from years of interrogation that sometimes silence was the fastest way to discover additional information. Abby didn’t disappoint.

      “He handles the business aspect and the promotion. I handle the postcards and write the weekly blog.”

      “And this keeps you both busy full-time?”

      She shook her head. “I paint. Landscapes mainly. Murals. Robert does freelance marketing. Speeches. Brochures. Advertising design. Things like that.”

      “So you both work here all day then work at home each night.”

      Abby nodded. “More or less. We rarely put in full days here. This—” she gestured to the office in front of and behind her “—allows us flexibility to do our own things.”

      “You working on a mural right now?” Jack asked the question knowing it seemed unrelated to the case at hand, but realizing you never knew where the facts of a case might lead you.

      But Abby only shook her head. “Last thing anyone wants at Christmas time is a mural painter in their home or office.”

      Jack scanned the stacks of cards filling the room. “Any income from this?”

      “Only from the advertising. It’s enough to cover hosting and office expenses, but not much more. We really didn’t start this for the money, so that aspect doesn’t matter to either one of us.”

      “Any enemies?”

      His question visibly startled Abby and she took a backward step. “Not that I know of.”

      Jack pushed away from the table. “Then we keep our eyes and ears open until we know for sure who’s on your side and who isn’t. And in the meantime, let’s go write that blog of yours.”

      JACK STOOD OVER Abby’s shoulder as she worked, later than usual in drafting her weekly blog.

      Typically, she tried to have the site updated just after midnight each Friday night. Considering it was now after noon on Saturday, she was running seriously behind schedule.

      Robert had stayed less than forty-five minutes before he’d claimed to have forgotten a social event scheduled for that afternoon. Abby knew him well enough to know he hadn’t planned on having company here at the office. He’d probably packed up the bills to take home for processing.

      As for the blog, Abby had tucked away the cards she’d planned to feature, working instead from only one.

      The postcard and photo featuring Emma Grant.

      The young woman’s smiling face haunted Abby. She couldn’t begin to imagine the kind of hurt the image had brought to life deep inside Jack.

      For all of his hard-shelled bravado, the detective’s eyes provided a window into the pain he’d locked inside. Abby didn’t need to be a rocket scientist