Evil Never Dies

“Anything that stands out,” Lizzy said. “Any object that might make you wonder ‘Why is this here?’ or ‘What does this mean?’ ”

“Got it. Where’s Jessica?”

“She had to return to Virginia for a few days. She’ll be going back and forth for a while.”

“What’s this?” Kitally asked, pulling a tiny collar out of the box. “It says Rumpelstiltskin on it.”

Hayley looked at Lizzy. “Isn’t that the name he first gave Ha

Lizzy nodded and looked away. “I didn’t know he had a collar made.”

“And he kept it, too.”

“Look at this,” Hayley said, pulling out a T-shirt that said, “Don’t forget to smile.”

Lizzy smiled. “Jessica gave him that for his birthday. She always teased him about being too serious.”

It went on like that. Kitally or Hayley would pull out something that would make them all remember a particular moment in time. By the end of the day, they had laughed and cried and laughed some more. It was a powerful, emotionally exhausting exercise. However cathartic it might’ve been for Lizzy, they’d unearthed nothing of use for the Strangler investigation.

After Hayley and Kitally disappeared, Lizzy closed each box and stacked them against the wall away from the high windows. The last box she picked up was filled with clothes. Lizzy’s sister, Cathy, had ended up packing Jared’s things for her. Jared’s favorite suit was on top of the pile, zipped up tightly in a garment bag. Lizzy pulled the suit out and brushed her fingers over the lapels before putting the luxurious fabric against her cheek, breathing him in. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she recalled the last time she’d seen him wearing it at a di

As she put the suit back into the bag, she felt something crinkle beneath her fingers. She reached into the inside front pocket of the jacket and pulled out a piece of paper. It was a note, folded twice. She set the suit aside for a moment and opened it up.

Three words: We must talk.

There was a telephone number scribbled below the message. It was a 916 area code. She glanced at the clock. It was too late to call the number now. She would wait until tomorrow.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

After he finished setting up his easel, he readied his palette and then selected a few basic colors to start: titanium white, ivory black, cadmium red, permanent alizarin crimson, ultramarine blue, phthalo blue, cadmium yellow light, and cadmium yellow. He would be using oils and a preprimed canvas.

He peeked through the metal slot in the door.

“What are you looking at now, you disgusting pig? Are you going to drug me again so that you can have your way with me? I know what you do when I’m out cold, you sicko.”

“My little Claire. You have not the tiniest clue of what I do to you when you’re unconscious. Trust me when I tell you that whatever your imagination conjures up is nothing compared to the cold hard truth. I like to experiment and play. Your flesh is as soft and smooth as a newborn baby’s. I like to take my time with you, Claire.”

“Shut up!” She squeezed her eyes shut—all there was for her to do, since her hands and feet were bound with tape.

“I like to take my time with you,” he repeated, louder this time. “I know every curve of your body. I know the scent of you . . . every bit of you.” He breathed in, sucking air through his nostrils as if reliving the moment.

“I hate you!” she shouted, trying to spit at him, but only making a mess of her little bed. “You make me sick.”

“I’ve tasted you, too.” He smacked his lips. “Your every secret has been exposed, Claire.”

“Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! You’re the most grotesque and disgusting monster on earth.” She shook her head wildly back and forth.

If she kept that up, she was going to pass out all on her own.

He let the flap clank shut.

Little Claire was getting on his nerves with all her name-calling over the past few days.

Even so, the excitement was building. He took in a deep, cleansing breath.

It was time to get her image on canvas.

This would be the first time he would paint a portrait of one of his victims while she was alive, right here in the flesh. His insides hummed at the prospect. Everything he’d done to her over the past few days was nothing compared to this.

His magnum opus.

As he pondered which brushes he would use, his phone vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out. The name that flashed across the screen squashed every bit of thrill humming through his body.

Gillian.

The only woman he knew who could kill a buzz in the blink of an eye. Why did she have to call today? She’d always had excruciatingly bad timing. It often seemed as if she had a sixth sense. And yet he knew he must answer the call. To do otherwise would only prove pointless—she would not stop calling until he answered.

“Hello,” he said, failing miserably at hiding his disappointment.

“Thank goodness you answered. I’ve been worried about you.”

“And why is that?”

The poor, nervous female always sounded as if she were standing on a cliff, ready to jump. “Oh, you know me,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to?”

He wanted nothing more than to tell her he’d just been about to walk out the door and had to get off the line, but that would never work. She often talked about paying him a visit, and that was the last thing he wanted to happen.

His gaze fell upon the painting that had been hanging on the wall of the cellar when he’d first moved into the house. The artist had used oils. The artwork was layered, which could mean the painting dated back to the nineteenth century, at least. It was merely a fisherman on a boat, but there was something very dark about the painting. Perhaps it was the bloated grayish clouds or the tumultuous waters. No, he thought, it’s the fish. A single fish at the end of the line, its tail whipping upward in vain as it tried to escape, instinctively knowing death was near.

“Are you there?” Gillian asked, pulling him back into the real world. She’d been talking nonstop, and he had no idea what she’d said.

He forced himself to answer. “Yes, I am here.”

“Your classes are going well?”

He nodded, then remembered he was on the phone and said, “Yes,” letting the s out in a long, drawn-out hiss.

“Are you taking your medications?”

He placed a finger on a pressure point near his left temple, trying to stop an irritating twitch under his eye, because if he didn’t stop the twitching, he might completely lose it and then he wouldn’t be able to speak at all. “I am taking my medication,” he lied. “I am doing everything you’ve suggested I do, and I am feeling quite well. Thank you for asking. I no longer think it’s necessary for you to keep checking up on me—”

“Does that mean you’ve been journaling?”

“Of course,” he said. Journaling wasn’t a new idea. But, of course, Gillian believed she’d dreamed up the idea of writing down one’s thoughts as a form of therapy.

“The last time we talked, you mentioned that you had invented a new coping mechanism for when you’re feeling a high dose of anxiety. You told me you had written it all down in your journal and that you would read me a bit of it next time we talked. Do you think you could do that now?”

“No. Now is not a good time.” His attention was back on the painting, back on the fish. Something about the picture—the frantic movement of the water and the trout—made him shiver with anticipation. It was a speckled trout. The fear in its eyes was palpable. He could almost feel the sting of the hook and the bite of the barb cutting through his own soft flesh just inside his mouth.