“And that was your intention when you tattooed over the five dots that were originally there. Five dots. One in the middle representing the prisoner, four more on each corner representing the prison. A pattern that’s almost always tattooed on the hand between the thumb and forefinger. It’s the placement that gives it away more than anything else.”
“How do you know so much about prison tats?”
“Like I said, I used to run with a rough crowd.” She looked him in the eye. “Your turn.”
He jammed his hands in his pockets and glanced away from her. “Well, you’re right. I had a drug problem in grad school, and I got in so deep that I supported my habit by selling some to my fellow students. Really stupid. I went away for thirty months. I got clean, got my Ph.D., and never looked back.”
“Except when you look at your hand. There are probably ways to get rid of that tattoo more completely these days.”
“It’s okay.” He held up his hand and looked at it. “Sometimes it’s good to remember what an idiot I can be. You know?”
She nodded. “I know.”
“So may I still call you?”
Kendra studied him. She liked Dean’s forthright manner. No excuses, no tap dancing around the mistakes he had made and clearly regretted. She also appreciated that dry sense of humor and his lack of intimidation when she’d virtually ruined the possibility of a normal evening. Mom was right, he was a good guy. She smiled. “Sure. Call me.”
“Great.” He kissed her on the cheek, turned, and headed back down the sidewalk toward his car.
* * *
MYATT READJUSTED HIS BINOCULARS as he shifted in the tall grass. He had found a spot that offered him an excellent view of the Cabrillo State Bridge. Close enough to see what was going on, far enough away that he could watch undetected.
He panned across the bridge, taking in the scene.
The wrecked cars.
The smoldering van.
The elegantly dressed corpses.
It was beautiful.
Kendra Michaels’s visit had thrown the cops into a tizzy, and the scope of the scene had abruptly changed. They already knew it was more than just an accident. He had expected them to make that discovery later that night or possibly in the morning.
No matter.
If anything, Kendra’s appearance was a welcome development. Disappointing that she had left with such an apparent lack of interest, but he’d draw her back in.
The game is on, Kendra.
Even if you don’t realize it yet …
CHAPTER
2
Seaport Village
San Diego
THE SEVEN-YEAR-OLD GIRL WAS squeezing Kendra’s hand so tightly that she threatened to cut off her circulation.
Zoey Beale was a new client whom Kendra had only seen twice before. The child showed signs of agoraphobia; she was terrified of crowds and clearly uncomfortable in any environment other than her home. Zoey did, however, enjoy music, which prompted her referral from a psychologist affiliated with Rady’s Children’s Hospital. Kendra preferred to meet clients in her studio, but she had made an exception in Zoey’s case, bringing a guitar to the girl’s home to calm her and build trust over the course of the two initial sessions.
Building trust to take her out of her comfort zone.
The little girl nodded even as her hand squeezed tighter. They walked down the embarcadero and approached Seaport Village, an open-air shopping center by the bay. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, and the place was already jammed with shoppers and lunchtime restaurant patrons.
And scores of street performers. Perfect.
Three African men stood on the sidewalk playing a soothing melody on their wood pipes. Dressed in orange-and-yellow tunics, they swayed in perfect unison to the music.
Kendra stopped fifteen feet away and glanced down at Zoey. The music had captured her attention. She was transfixed, and after a minute, her iron grip loosened. A minute after that, the crowds and unfamiliar surroundings seemed to melt away.
Kendra pointed ahead. “There are more musicians up there. Want to go see?”
Zoey nodded. As they walked together, Kendra sensed less hesitancy from the little girl.
Good. Come on, Zoey. It can be a wonderful world out here. Let me show it to you.
Two young men were using an assortment of inverted plastic industrial food containers as drums, beating them with kitchen utensils. Zoey obviously liked the rhythms and unusual sounds, and she began bopping her head to the beat. Again, her surroundings seem to fade, but faster this time.
This could work.
This could be the key that Zoey needed to—
The little girl shrieked.
A pair of mimes had jumped in front of her and were doing their usual shtick. They were pretending to be marionettes, jerking in time to the performers’ drumbeats.