less than two weeks ago. But he was determined to stand before the judge and plead guilty. How could you be so quick to catch him, but no one can find my sister’s killer? Why don’t you spend some time on that!” She paused to take a breath.
Reilly jumped at the opportunity. “I’m not Detective Delancey,” he said quickly. “People make that mistake all the time. I’m—”
She jerked off her glasses and took aim with those lasersharp eyes. “What do you mean you’re not—” She stopped, frowning at him.
Reilly assessed her more closely as, behind him, Phillips chuckled. Then Dagewood spoke up loudly. “Need any help there, Officer Delancey?”
Without the glasses shielding her eyes, he could see something behind their cool expression. Something that was far from cool and far from confident. The lids were rimmed with red and faintly puffy. Her generous mouth was pressed into a severe line, and the skin along her jawline appeared stretched tight. He could see pale blue veins under the delicate skin of her neck. The black-haired beauty was wound tight as a spring about to break.
He replayed her words in his mind, fitting the pieces together.
Detective Delancey—
My father … pleaded guilty—
She was the daughter of Ryker’s serial killer. That surprised him. He wracked his brain, but couldn’t come up with the man’s name.
“No. You’re not Detective Delancey,” she said, shaking her head.
He shrugged, intrigued that she’d arrived at that conclusion so quickly. Usually it was the other way around. He’d had people actually argue with him about which twin he was, and so had Ryker. Which was funny, because he didn’t think he and his brother were alike at all. Both of them had always been lean, but Ryker had put on a little weight in the past year. And Reilly was a lot less OCD about haircuts and clothes and life in general.
“Sorry,” he said to the woman. “It happens a lot. Especially if I’m dressed up.” He ran his finger under his collar again. “Which is as seldom as possible. I hate suits.”
The tension around her mouth softened a bit.
“I’m Officer Reilly Delancey. SWAT.” He held out his hand.
From behind him he heard, “The Delancey that didn’t make detective,” followed by Phillips’s annoying laugh. One day he was going to punch Dagewood.
She ignored or didn’t notice his hand as she sent a swift, withering glance toward the two detectives. “Where is Detective Delancey?” she asked, looking at her watch. “He disappeared as soon as the judge dismissed us. I thought maybe he’d be out here.”
“My guess is, if he’s not scheduled for another court appearance, he’s gone to check on his fiancée,” Reilly replied.
The woman in front of him stiffened even more.
“To check on his fiancée? Of course. That’s exactly what I’d do after I put a sick old man in prison. Or maybe I’d go to Disney World.”
Reilly’s hackles rose at her sarcasm, although he could hardly blame her for being upset. After all, she’d just witnessed her father plead guilty to what—four counts of murder? Still, he leaped to his brother’s defense, choosing his next words carefully.
“My brother’s fiancée was injured on the day your father was arrested,” he said carefully. “She had a doctor’s appointment this morning.”
Her sharp glance and the grimace of pain that passed fleetingly across her face told him she understood what he hadn’t said. Ryker’s fiancée’s injury had been at her father’s hand.
“I’m sorry about your father—and your sister,” he offered.
Her mouth tightened. “Why?” she asked. “You don’t know me. Or my family.”
“I know a little about your father’s case. How the death of your sister—”
“How can I find Detective Delancey?” she interrupted, two bright spots of color appearing in her pale cheeks.
Despite her words, what he heard was that’s none of your business. And it wasn’t. He’d crossed a line. He immediately backtracked.
“He’s probably already left the courthouse. If you want, I can make sure he gets in touch with you.”
She glanced at her watch, then back at Reilly. Suddenly she appeared unsure, and that surprised him. She didn’t seem like the type to ever be unsure of anything. She might be wrong, as she was in thinking he was Ryker, but she would always be sure.
“Hand me your phone,” he said.
She put her glasses back on and gave him a narrow look. For a moment he wasn’t sure she was going to comply. But finally her hand snaked inside her purse and she handed him a smart phone. He quickly programmed his number and name into it, then pressed Call. His cell phone began to ring. He dug it out of his pocket, answered it, then hung up her phone and handed it back to her.
“What’s your name?” he asked without looking up.
“Dr. Moser,” she said without hesitation.
He raised his gaze to hers.
“Christy—Moser.” She stared for an instant at the display on her smart phone, then stuck it into the pocket of her jacket.
Reilly finished entering her name into his phone. “Okay. I’ll get my brother to call you.”
“How soon? I need to find out what happens next. How long my father has before he—” She stopped and cleared her throat. “I have to go,” she said. She fingered the watch on her left wrist and looked at it for the third time. Or was it the fourth?
“Yeah, me too,” he said, checking the time on his phone’s display before he pocketed it. His seventeen minutes were up. He had to get to Courtroom Three.
Christy Moser turned and walked away. Reilly watched her excellent backside sway in the black fitted skirt. It was amazing how high-heeled shoes affected a woman’s walk. In a good way.
Dr. Moser. He’d have to ask Ryker what kind of doctor the serial killer’s daughter was.
CHRISTMAS LEIGH MOSER stood at the front door of the house where she and her sister Autumn had grown up in Covington, Louisiana. Yellow crime-scene tape crisscrossed the doorframe, garish against the dingy white paint.
She stared at it, aghast. Why was her dad’s house a crime scene? Nothing Detective Delancey had told her had indicated that her father had done anything here. Horror churned in her stomach, mingled with shame.
She hadn’t been in the house since her sister’s death. She should have made more of an effort to get back here to see her dad. But two years of residency plus a fellowship in pediatrics at one of the foremost children’s hospitals in the northeast made it difficult to get home to sleep, much less take a trip thirteen hundred miles away.
She’d called him every week—well, nearly every week. How had she not known something was dreadfully wrong with him? How had she not realized he’d gone off the deep end?
A twinge under her breastbone gave her the answer to that. She had known something was wrong. Known it and ignored it. She’d chalked up his monotone answers and disinterest to mild situational depression, and had encouraged him to get out more, see his friends, get back to playing golf. She’d told him he should talk to someone and suggested that he ask the pastor of his church about a grief-counseling class or a therapist.
She thought about the one time she had visited her dad in the past five years. She’d attended a seminar in New Orleans. She’d met her dad at a restaurant for a hurried dinner before kissing him on the cheek and rushing back to her hotel room to prepare for a talk she was giving the next day.
Now