Midnight Disclosures. Rita Herron

she didn’t fight her attacker?”

      “If she did, the M.E. didn’t find evidence. But she was injected with enough Percoset to make her sluggish, probably so she couldn’t fight.”

      “That’s interesting. Some killers get off on watching their victims struggle.” Claire paused. “And Percoset? I wonder why the killer chose that particular drug and where he obtained it. Maybe he works in some kind of medical job, or perhaps he was injured and got hooked on pain killers while in treatment.”

      “Or maybe he’s a junkie.” Mark drummed his fingers on the table. “I’ll make sure we follow up on all those theories.”

      “She wasn’t raped or sexually assaulted?”

      “No.”

      “Hmm. Do the police have any suspects?”

      “Boyfriend’s alibi stands up. He was with another woman at the time.” Mark’s foot tapped on the floor. “They’re still questioning friends, relatives, acquaintances.”

      “What about the second woman?” Claire asked. A surge of emotions crowded her throat at the thought of the poor motherless baby left behind.

      “M.O. is the same. She was found facedown, blindfolded and strangled. Again no signs of struggle, no DNA found, no sign of sexual assault.”

      “Suspects?”

      “Husband claims he was in a business meeting in Charleston. His story checks out.”

      “How about her co-workers?”

      “Nothing so far, but they’re still being questioned.”

      “And the women didn’t know each other, or run in the same circles?” Claire asked.

      “No mutual friends or acquaintances that the police have discovered. Dianne rented a small apartment in the low-rent part of town, Beverly and her husband own a home in the historic district. Dianne ran with the working class, Beverly with the society crowd. No mutual clubs, volunteer organizations, hell, they didn’t even shop at the same clothing or grocery stores.”

      “Odd.” Claire considered the information. “Usually a serial killer typecasts his victims to resemble the person he lost or his abuser.”

      “I know.” Mark shifted. “Your show seems to be the only common factor so far.”

      Claire bit her lip, the idea that she might have attracted the killer and led him to these women too daunting to fathom. No, the show hadn’t drawn him to kill; it was the other way around. He was using the show to flaunt the murders and gain publicity. “There has to be a connection. We just haven’t found it yet. Keep looking.” She paused. “Are there photos?”

      Mark’s foot began tapping again, a sign of distress. “Yes.”

      “Is there anything distinctive about the way the women are lying? Are they posed?”

      He shuffled the photos, obviously spreading them across the table. “Both victims were lying facedown. Clothes were wrinkled and dirty, but again, no signs of sexual abuse.”

      “Are their arms behind them, above their heads?”

      Mark sighed. “Stretched above their heads.”

      “Hmm, they’re lying facedown, as if they’re ashamed of themselves, even in death.”

      Mark stilled beside her. She could feel the tension in his body. And as much as she detested doing it, in order to understand the killer, she had to get inside his head. Try to think like he would.

      “He calls them bad girls,” Mark said. “But these women aren’t prostitutes.”

      “Still, they’re not perfect in his eyes.” Claire shifted. “The fact that there’s no sexual abuse is interesting. It suggests he may be impotent or disabled in some way. And the way the hands are stretched above them, it shows his sense of control and power, and their lack of it. He wants them to be submissive. He gets off on proving how strong he is.”

      Mark’s tapping became faster as he continued examining the photos. “Dammit.”

      Claire’s hands tightened in her lap. “What is it?”

      “The rose. It’s red just like the one on your pillow this morning, except this one is dead, crushed, the petals scattered around her body in the sand.”

      Claire inhaled sharply. So it was the killer who had been in her cottage. Why had he left her a live rose when he’d left his victims holding a dead one?

      MARK FISTED his hands around the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. The killer had definitely been in Claire’s bedroom watching her sleep this morning, touching her things, dropping a flower on her pillow as if marking her as his next victim. He’d known it, but seeing the photographs of the women in death had still sent a shock of reality through him. For a moment, Claire’s face had replaced those of the victims.

      He’d damn near lost it.

      Grappling for control, he reminded himself that the killer hadn’t warned any of the other victims. Maybe he didn’t plan to murder Claire, maybe he was just using her….

      He wished to hell he could believe it.

      Tires squealed as he took the turn. Claire’s hands were clenched around the seat belt, her sightless eyes wide and staring into space. Guilt forced him to slow the car; he was scaring her. “I’m sorry.”

      “It’s going to be all right, Mark.”

      He tossed out a sardonic chuckle. “How can you be so calm?”

      “You’re frantic enough for both of us.”

      He laughed again, but his laughter held no humor. Claire had always been calm in the face of a storm, the reason she was such a good psychologist, where he’d let his temper rule his actions.

      Except on the battlefield. He had to rein in his emotions to do his job, and he had done it. The controlled soldier, meticulous with details, focused on the hunt when tracking down a war criminal, religious about tamping his personal feelings.

      Except for the night he’d lost his men. Then he’d fallen apart.

      But he had to maintain his control now.

      Because Claire was involved. This battle was personal. She was in danger.

      “You can drop me off at the center,” Claire said quietly.

      “Not a chance, Claire. I’m going in to start questioning the staff.”

      “Oh…right.”

      He neared the Coastal Island Research Park’s main facility, and slowed, frowning at the cluster of people gathered around the front steps. “Is the center hosting some special event today?”

      “No, why?”

      “There’s a crowd out front.” He parked and cut off the engine, scanning the group. “Dammit. The press is here, too.” He opened the car door, furious. Claire stepped out with her cane, and he halted. “Wait here, Claire, let me see what’s going on.”

      “This is my business environment, Mark. I’m going with you.”

      He scrubbed his hand over his chin and met her in front of the car, then grabbed her hand and placed it on his arm. “Then hold on.”

      She tensed, but finally acquiesced, and he led them through the throng until they were close enough to hear the speaker. He recognized Ian Hall, the Director of CIRP, from the photos Devlin had shown him. Cameras were trained on him, while he held a microphone in his hand.

      “Ladies and gentlemen, I appreciate your time today,” Hall said. “On behalf of CIRP, I want to publicly express our concern over the two young women who phoned Dr. Claire Kos. She’s a valuable member of our team, and has done an outstanding job combining her