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“You were a psychologist.” She moved to stand on her own. “The state stripped you of your license, or did they give you a pass in Fruitland?”
Chris Ellingson gripped her elbow, pulling her back into her seat. The picnic bench shuddered with the impact. “Fruitland? I assure you, I don’t know what you mean. Is that someplace I’m supposed to know?”
“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about. See, I might be concussed or traumatized and tired, whatever you want to call it, but I can still tell when someone is lying to me. Everyone has a tell, and I know what yours is, Mr. Ellingson.” She almost wanted to knock her shoulder into his as though they were friends clearing the air. “Did you know Michelle Cross was writing a book about my father’s arrest? She was trying to prove Joel Brody did not, in fact, kill my brother and his best friend. She had someone else in mind, and she’d put a fair amount of research into it, too.”
“Michelle always did have quite the imagination. It was one of the reasons her parents had sent her to see me. She’d rather daydream than pay attention in class.” Ellingson pressed his hands together, waiting to strike like the snake he was. “In any case, my answer is no. I did not know Michelle was writing a book about the investigation, but I can tell you I caught her on my property several times. One time in my house. You of all people know how that feels. To have someone come into your personal space, go through your things, learn your secrets.”
“Is that what Michelle did?” She shouldn’t be here. She should try to go back to the scene, but the mystery that’d driven her up through the ranks of law enforcement and into the FBI was right in front of her. A carrot she could practically bite. She had no doubt Chris Ellingson had produced that carrot intentionally, had probably even done a little research or analyzed her himself. Know thy enemy and all that crap. “Learn your secrets?”
“You know, come to think of it, yes, Agent Brody. I think she did.” Echoes of voices shouted orders from off in the distance. Ellingson focused on a small, giftwrapped box she hadn’t noticed until now. “I think she learned I’m lactose-intolerant. I was rather hoping to keep that information private.”
And here she’d expected an entire admission of guilt.
But Chris Ellingson wasn’t a petty criminal in over his head or intimidated by police. He tested wills and refused to back down or stand corrected. Threats and reprisals—violence in and of itself—were tools he’d polished to an art. In his world, consequences didn’t exist. At least not for him, but for his victims… They would be expected to obey every command or suffer. Until he broke them completely.
Leigh eyed the brown paper packaging. The box wasn’t much in size. Rectangular tied with string. Like a present. “What’s in the box?”
“Would you believe me if I said it was for you?” He set the box between them as though knowing her curiosity would get the better of her. “I know you’ve been eyeing this one for a long time.”
She wouldn’t touch it. This was another of his games, same as the ones he’d played with his patients. Look how that’d ended for a handful of them. “Am I supposed to say thank you?”
“I suppose you’ll stare at it a while after I leave. Just to prove I haven’t piqued your curiosity. That I don’t have some kind of hold on you.” He got up from the bench. The lack of balancing weight tipped the table to one side and thrust her off center. “And while admirable, in the end, you’ll do what you’ve always done. You’ll succumb to your incessant need for answers.”
He slid his hands into his slacks pockets, stopping to turn back for just a moment. “Oh, and I’m truly sorry about your home. If I may make a recommendation. You’ll want to take photos of the crowd watching the blaze. The person who did this”—he nodded toward the glowing cocoon of ambered light on the other side of the park where her house had stood—“will want to commit the scene to memory and watch as long as they can. Arsonists often attempt to gain pleasure and power and attain a feeling of success, however slight, in their lives. It’s not just about controlling the victim, but also police, firefighters, and other figures of authority. He’s gotten a taste of it now, and I’m afraid this may just be the beginning. Then again, as you said, I’m no longer a psychologist. What do I know?”
Chris Ellingson walked straight into the darkness as quickly as he’d materialized.
There one second, gone the next.
Tremors climbed up through her forearms, and she slapped one hand to stop the progression. Shock, dehydration, her body’s last resort to keep itself from going into hypothermia—Ellingson had taken her away from help to show his own need for control and power, to force her to do as he willed as he had so many others. But it wouldn’t work.
Leigh dragged the gift-wrapped present from the table and slid off the bench, collecting a couple splinters in the backs of her thighs. She stumbled forward.
“Brody!” Boucher and Chandler Reed sprinted toward her from the scene. The lieutenant caught her just as her legs gave out. The box fell from her grip, and in that moment, she knew exactly what waited inside the packaging. “Shit. Didn’t you hear what I said? Stay in the rig. Keep the mask on. You’re freezing. Damn it. You’re going into shock. We have to get her back to the ambulance.”
“Ellingson was here.” The words hurt coming up her throat. Too much talking. Too much smoke inhalation. Too much almost dying.
Chandler picked the box off the ground, shaking it again. He cut his attention to her, his expression telling her he was familiar with the sound as much as she was.
Chris Ellingson had gifted her a set of Legos.
NINETEEN
Lebanon, New Hampshire
Monday, March 15
8:30 a.m.
Getting to sleep at the hotel hadn’t been a picnic.
But it was better than waking up in a bed soaked with gasoline.
She could still smell the accelerant in her hair. No amount of hanging her head over the bathtub to scrub herself raw had done a damn bit of difference. EMTs had wrapped the burns on her shins as best they could at the scene and sent her off with two ibuprofen to dull the pain. It’d been enough at the time, but now she was regretting not taking a full dose.
Leigh knocked one leg into the driver’s side door as she got out of her rental and couldn’t keep her expletives to herself. It took her upwards of a minute to get her breath back.
“You don’t look like a sailor, but you sure swear like one.” Boucher leaned against the trunk, his expression announcing they had all the time in the world as he stared at the passing cars. He even waved at one. “You sure you’re up for this?”
