The ME stood, snapped his gloves off. “Sounds like you already have a hunch.”
“I’ve got more than a hunch,” I agreed. “But I want it documented. When we catch Wilkes, he’s going back to prison for good. I’m not taking the chance he’ll slip through the system again.”
The ME glanced over my shoulder at Russo. “I’m under strict orders to work directly with the FBI—”
“I’m a consultant on the case,” I said. “As is Dr. Brooks.”
A pained expression crossed the ME’s face.
“Russo,” I called across the room. “Will you come over here and give the doctor a written note that says he can share his autopsy results with Dr. Brooks and myself?”
Russo spoke in quiet tones to the ME. When they finished, the doctor turned to me and offered a hand.
“Dr. Watts,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”
I faced Russo. “I hope you won’t be making this case difficult.”
Russo raised his eyebrow. “What’d I do? I just gave you a pass.”
“I’m either in, or I’m out,” I said. “Where are you staying while you’re in town?”
“The Hilton.”
“I’ll head over, check in,” I said. “Please have the case file delivered to my room ASAP. I’d like to get started reviewing what little information we have to go off.”
“Detective—” Russo reached out, grasped my wrist. “There’s one more thing.”
“Okay.”
“I’d like to put a protective detail on you.” Russo spit it out, looking nervous the second the words left his mouth. “I don’t know all that went on between you and Wilkes, but I imagine the results weren’t pretty. Please, consider it.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I figured you’d say that.” Russo rubbed tension from his forehead. “Once we confirm it is likely that Wilkes is responsible for Tate’s murder, I’ll be forced to keep a protective detail on you.”
“Nobody’s holding a gun to your head,” I said. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“It’s either that, or you’re off the case.”
“We’ll talk about this later. Send me the files. Please.”
“Fine. We’ll talk about it—tonight, over dinner.”
I pulled my arm free of Russo’s grasp. “Business?”
“Of course.”
I studied him.
“I’ll bring the case files to dinner,” Russo said. “No protective detail until tomorrow. Final offer.”
I scowled, turned on my heel, and paused in the doorway. “You’re buying.”
“No, detective,” Russo said with a wide grin. “I’m expensing. I’ll see you tonight.”
Chapter 4
My hotel room was basic and plain. There was a functional dresser and television, a queen bed, and a shower that had me reminiscing of the last time I’d stepped foot in a hotel. Russo had walked out with a black eye. This time, I was determined not to cross any sort of lines when it came to the attractive FBI agent—especially not lines that began or ended with a shower curtain.
I lugged the Vera Bradley overnight bag I’d borrowed from my sister’s closet and ignored the floral imprint as I dumped out my change of clothes and the stack of papers I’d packed for the trip onto the hotel room bed. I’d picked up a Jimmy John’s sandwich on my way, and I curled up with it on the bed.
I unwrapped the sub slowly, ignoring the letters on top of the bag until I couldn’t possibly avoid my name written by a careful, no-nonsense hand any longer.
I swallowed, pulled the top one closest to me, and flipped it open. My mouth went dry at the familiar script on the lined paper inside. If my mother knew that my only Valentine’s Day card had come from a murderer, she just might die.
That’s why I hadn’t told anyone about the letters.
His letters.
Ramone Wilkes had been writing me since the week he’d gotten to his would-be-final resting place in a maximum-security facility in Texas. The first one had arrived just over a year ago and had triggered another set of nightmares. I’d woken in the early hours of the morning for weeks on end in a cold sweat, certain Wilkes was standing over my bed with a smile on his face.
The panic would eventually fade, but I’d rarely get back to sleep on those nights. Then, I’d slowly return to a life of normalcy. But always, just when my schedule had gotten back on track, another letter would arrive and would kickstart the garish cycle all over again.
I flattened his latest letter against the bed. My sandwich sat forgotten on the nightstand, my appetite no longer present. I scoured Wilkes’s words—he had excellent penmanship, especially for a male—and wondered if I’d missed something. A clue, a sign that he’d been ready to kill again. He would have teased me with it, taunted me. It was a part of the game.
Dearest Kate,
I hope you haven’t forgotten me. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve written, but I’ve been thinking of you—I always do. Saint Valentine’s Day is coming up, and I hope you won’t be spending it alone. You’re a beautiful woman, Kate, and you deserve love. But you’re like me, aren’t you? It’s just not in your blood. If things were different, maybe you and I could’ve been friends. It’s not too late, you know. There’s still hope.
Sweet Dreams,
Ramone Wilkes
He usually signed his letters Sweet Dreams. It was like he knew the distress he caused me, the way he permeated both my waking moments and my dreams.
I could see the smirk on his face as he wrote, knowing he’d violated every part of my mind—and I couldn’t do a thing about it. Hours of therapy hadn’t wiped Wilkes’s face from my memory, nor had it pushed him into the deep recesses of my brain. With each letter, he pulled himself forward with grimy fingers, slipping like seaweed to the surface.
For a while, I’d toyed with the idea of throwing his letters away. Of tossing them straight into the garbage and ignoring them completely, but I hadn’t been able to do it. After three cycles of stashing unopened letters in a kitchen drawer, I’d torn them open one after another during a wine-fueled panic in which I was convinced I’d missed a clue. A sign that Wilkes had somehow defied the odds—escaped from prison—and killed again.
My heart pounded in my chest. My worst nightmare had happened. I’d played by the rules, opened his letters, battled the nightmares, and still, I’d missed it. Where was the clue?
I scanned the letter, noted his last lines.
It’s not too late, you know. There’s still hope.
What was I supposed to make of that? He always promised to see me again, to visit when he got out, to keep me company. He waxed poetry about the two of us becoming friends and teaming up, or of murdering me and my family. His letters were always intensely personal, but for a year, there’d been no sign that it had been anything more than a deluded fantasy.
A fantasy that he’d made come true.
I smacked the letter down and stood up. In a moment of unbridled fury, I picked up the remains of the sandwich and its wrapper, balled them both up, and slam-dunked the mess into a trash can. How could they have let Wilkes escape? The entire country knew he was dangerous thanks to the national coverage his case had received. The case that had nearly broken me while simultaneously propelling me to moderate local fame. I’d take the anonymity over the cost of fame any day.