The Inquisitor. Gayle Wilson

involved in the murders.

      Just like every woman who opened the door to Albert Di-Salvo believed he couldn’t be the Strangler.

      She closed the folder in which she’d been attempting to add notations. That was as pointless as trying to get what had happened an hour ago out of her head, but surely she could put it into perspective. Hundreds of people had talked publicly about those three murders, both on the air and in the newspaper. Was the killer going to come after each of them?

      Or maybe only the ones who fit the victim profile.

      She realized that her hands were trembling. Just as they had been when Murphy walked out of her office.

      That had been mostly the result of anger. If there was any consolation to be taken in how she’d conducted herself, it would be that she hadn’t given in to the tears she’d been on the edge of. Growing up, she’d always had a tendency to cry when she got really mad, a trait she thought she’d conquered long ago.

      If she wanted to indulge that childish propensity, it would have to wait until she reached the privacy of her own home. Which couldn’t be soon enough, she decided.

      She picked up the phone and punched in Sheila’s extension. “I’m leaving for the day. Any change in tomorrow’s schedule I should know about?”

      “Nothing really. Staff meeting at nine. After that you’ve got a full slate of appointments. It is that time of the year,” the secretary said, her tone sympathetic.

      That was something they would talk about in tomorrow morning’s meeting. Everyone was feeling the double stress of the holidays and the murders. She had overheard a couple of the other therapists talking about an increase in requests for appointments, even from their regulars.

      “Try to fight off the least desperate,” she said aloud.

      Sheila laughed. “Will do. Have a good night.”

      Yeah, right. “Thanks, Sheila.”

      She hung up and then looked at the folders stacked on the left-hand side of her desk. With the meeting in the morning, it was unlikely she’d have time to look over the files of the patients she’d be seeing during the day. Still, she wasn’t willing to stay late to review them. If she tried, she’d probably be unable to keep her mind on what she was reading.

      She was going home instead and breaking open the bottle of Jack Daniel’s she’d bought to make sauce for the bread pudding she was to take to her mother’s on Christmas Day. Maybe that would help her sleep. If not, it would certainly be good company while she didn’t.

      The staff parking deck was relatively full for this late in the afternoon, which was also a reflection of the season. Jenna had ridden down in the elevator with a couple of other staff members. Their cars had been closer to the building, so that she was now making her way to the outer perimeter of the deck alone.

      The sound of her footsteps echoed off the concrete roof, seeming louder than they should. She realized as she approached the place where she’d parked this morning that the security light for this section was out, leaving the area in shadows.

      She actually hesitated before she managed to control her uneasiness and continue toward her Accord. She punched the remote, the resulting beep and blinking lights reassuring in their normalcy.

      Everything here was as it should be, she told herself. This was the building where she worked. The deck where she parked her car every single day. She mentally reiterated each phrase, a deliberate litany of the ordinary.

      She didn’t relax, however, until she’d opened the driver’s side door and slid behind the wheel. As soon as she hit the autolock, the tension that had built as she’d crossed the deck released, leaving her drained.

      Her eyes flicked to the rearview mirror and then she turned and looked into her backseat. Something she’d never done before in her life. It was empty, of course.

      And just what in hell were you expecting to be there?

      Disgusted that she’d given in to her paranoia, she jammed the key into the ignition and turned it. The dependable engine roared to life, its sound magnified by the low ceiling of the garage.

      Looking over her right shoulder, she eased past Paul Carlisle’s Porsche, which had been pulled in beside her car at a slight angle. She cleared its back fender, but just barely, congratulating herself as she completed the maneuver, and aligned her car so that it pointed toward the exit.

      She glanced down to shift into Drive when a tap on her window brought her head around so quickly she felt the strain in her neck. Her heart began to pound before she recognized the founder of the practice standing beside her car. She pushed the button that would lower the window, determined to keep any trace of that reaction out of her voice and expression.

      “What is it?”

      “Just wanted to check on you,” Paul said. “I meant to get down to your office this afternoon, but you know what they say about good intentions.”

      She nodded, unsure what this was about.

      “You okay?” Paul asked, his brow slightly furrowed as he leaned forward, peering into the car.

      “Just tired and stressed. Like everyone else this time of year.”

      “The thought of having to make the annual holiday pilgrimage to visit the folks in Douglasville has me thinking seriously about some good mood-altering pharmaceuticals.”

      Although Paul had smiled at his own slightly twisted brand of humor, she knew there was a certain level of truth to what he’d just said. He’d often joked that he had gone into psychiatry because of the practice he’d already had with his extremely dysfunctional family.

      “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share your stash?” she asked, answering his grin.

      “You’re not still worried about that interview, are you?”

      It was the perfect opportunity to tell him about the man who’d burst into her office. For some reason she didn’t; maybe it was the same ambiguity in her feelings about Sean Murphy that had prevented her from calling the police.

      “As long as you don’t feel I said something I shouldn’t—”

      “Nothing but the truth. If it makes one woman more cautious or one cop more diligent, that’s a good thing.”

      She nodded again, hoping those would be the only consequences. Again the idea of unburdening herself to Paul brushed through her mind. Before she could, he smiled.

      “We’re going to talk about all this tomorrow morning.”

      “All this?”

      Did he intend to warn the others to be wary of getting ambushed during interviews? Or maybe to keep their opinions to themselves if they were asked about the murders? She would be uncomfortable with his issuing either of those admonitions. As if he were urging the others to learn from her mistakes.

      “If these homicides go on much longer,” Paul continued, “we’re going to have some serious fallout. People are naturally nervous just knowing there’s a serial killer in the area, and that stress is going to build with each subsequent murder.”

      “Do you know…” Jenna hesitated, unsure she wanted an answer to the question she’d been about to ask. It was probably better to be informed, however, than to continue to operate in the dark. “Do you have any idea how long that might be? I mean, have the police given any kind of timetable…?”

      The question ground to a halt. It seemed inappropriate somehow, with three women already savaged, to be wondering when they should expect the next victim to surface.

      “One of the cable networks said he goes months between acts. Apparently he’s a meticulous planner. That’s one thing that’s made it hard for the authorities to get a handle on him.”

      The matter-of-fact answer wasn’t comforting. Of course,