His eyes flashed. He seemed surprised by the number. His brow furrowed as though he was trying to remember, or maybe trying not to remember. Detective Lopez had told them that Noah had been found wearing only his underwear and had been covered with blood. Most of it not his own.

Then in a whisper that Maggie could barely hear, Noah asked, “What did he do to them?”

She hesitated but only for a second or two before she said, “Probably the same things he did to Ethan.”

CHAPTER 37

VIRGINIA

Gwen hated being back at the prison. This time AD Kunze tried to abbreviate the full-body search that Warden Demarcus ordered. Demarcus knew he had something they wanted or they wouldn’t be back here this soon. He had the upper hand and he was going to use it to his full extent. For his effort, Kunze ended up getting groped as well.

This time, however, Gwen had worn sensible shoes and her control-top pantyhose again, along with what she called her best “old lady” bra. Still, the guard managed to grope and paw, not even pretending that any of it was accidental.

As soon as Otis sat down across from her—even as the guard finished clasping his shackles to the floor—Gwen noticed the bruise on Otis’s face. It looked fresh and swollen, deep purple, the size of a golf ball above his left temple. Maybe larger because part of it blended into his sideburn.

She waited for the guard to leave.

“How did you get that bruise?”

“Oh this?” Otis smiled, uncharacteristically wide and toothy, his signal that he wasn’t going to tell. His fingertips brushed over the area. “That’s just a love tap.”

She saw his eyes dart over to the wall of tinted glass that kept Kunze and Demarcus invisible as they sat and watched and listened.

Had Demarcus struck a prisoner? No, he probably wouldn’t have done it himself. Just like his full-body searches, he would have had one of his men do it. But why? She tried to remember what Otis may have said the last time. Of course, it might not have been related to her visit. It could have been something else. Some other disciplinary action that had been well deserved.

“I hoped you’d come back,” Otis said.

He was watching her. His lopsided grin firmly in place. He was sitting back with his arms crossed—that is, crossed in an awkward manner because of the shackle and short length of chain. Again, he reminded her of an overgrown teenager, uncomfortable and not knowing what to do with his hands.

Then without waiting for her to speak, he said, “You found something.” A statement, not a question.

“Yes.” It was silly to say anything else.

“And now you believe me.” His tongue flicked over his lips. He was pleased.

“Yes.”

His face lit up like a little boy’s on Christmas morning. Obviously pleased, so much so that even the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes smiled.

“I’m hoping,” she continued slowly, deliberately, “that you’ll share with me more of what Jack told you.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, then paused, head now tilted, watching her, gauging her body language. He still didn’t trust her. “Why would I wanna do that?”

She wondered the same thing. Why would he want to share? If he had wanted a deal to reduce his sentence or one that gave him any perks, he would have brought it up last month when he shared the first information about the victim in the culvert with the orange socks.

Gwen suspected Otis had shared Jack’s stories with her and with the news reporter last month simply because he enjoyed the attention. Even he had pronounced himself a “powermaniac.” She knew that arsonists—especially serial arsonists like Otis—set fires not just because of the power they felt through destruction but also the power they gained from the attention. But now he was looking at her expectantly, like there was something tangible he wanted from her.

“Depending on what else you offer,” she said, “I would certainly consider personally testifying to your parole board about how you’ve helped us.”

She had absolutely no authority to make that offer and she imagined Kunze jumping out of his chair and screaming at her through the soundproof wall. Whatever the repercussions, she saw immediately that the payoff would be worth it.

There was something that swept across Otis’s face, an emotion so strong he couldn’t hide it behind one of his silly grins. Gwen recognized that they were his coping mechanism, an internal leveler that he used even when they didn’t match his words or moods. But in the seconds that followed Gwen’s offer, Otis slipped. His eyes flashed disbelief. The smile waned—but just for a couple of seconds, at most. And in that brief momentary lapse, Gwen saw that Otis P. Dodd was surprised—maybe “flabbergasted” was a better word—that someone like her would sincerely offer to speak on his behalf.

“You’d do that?” The smile returned, along with the poke of the tongue.

Finally he sat up and leaned forward, but only slightly. Trust was such a delicate thing, so fragile, not easily earned and harder to repair.

“If you provide us with more information that helps us find Jack, yes, I would do that.”

“Find Jack?”

He slipped back in his seat. He hadn’t seen that one coming and he shook his head as if she had sucker-punched him.

So much for trust. She had shattered it before she could claim it.

“Perhaps you can help me understand him. You know, learn about him and why he does what he does.”

Would he notice how much she was backtracking? If they wanted someone who was good at sucking up to criminals they should have hired a hostage negotiator. She never pretended to understand how to relate to the criminal mind even as she studied it and hoped to dissect it.

“Maybe I will tell you about Jack just because I like your company. And I think you’re pretty.”

Her turn—she had not seen that one coming. It was definitely becoming a battle of wits. And Otis was certainly not a dim one.

“You like older women?” She produced a laugh to make it sound like she thought he was putting her on.

“Why now, you can’t be a day past what’s old enough for me.”

It sounded sweet and charming and only reinforced her image of him as a teenage boy. Even Otis’s neck flushed red.

“Tell me about meeting Jack. You said you spent an evening drinking with him. It sounds like you had an opportunity to get to know him.”

Otis leaned forward. Was he finally ready to confide in her?

“Funny thing about Jack. Just when you might think you’re getting to know him and what not, you sorta realize you don’t know Jack. I think there ain’t nobody that knows Jack.”

“But he told you things.”

“Yep, that’s right. He told me a whole bunch of stuff.”

“Why do you suppose he did that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Otis said, but he wasn’t rattled or defensive. He leaned back and did his search of the ceiling, like he’d find the answers there. “I supposed he saw that me and him have something in common, you know. Both of us kinda got messed up when we were kids.”

“He talked to you about when he was a boy?”

“No, he doesn’t really like to talk about it. I could just tell. Like there was something there. But Jack could see that me and him, we ain’t like normal people.”

“What’s normal? Does anyone know?”

Otis laughed, a genuine chuckle this time. Gwen should have been pleased that she’d made him laugh. Then he squinted at her as if he were trying to determine if she was serious, or if she was playing him.

“Whatever it is, I’m not sure I can get back to normal,” he said.

She met his eyes and knew there was nothing dimwitted about this man. He was too good at throwing out simple remarks that cut deeper.

Gwen shrugged, trying to encourage him to continue. She could see that he wanted to.