“Spense, get over here and check this out.”
The study in her mother’s home, plagued by small windows, was an optometrist’s dream. Abandon all hope of escaping eyestrain, ye who enter here.
She reached over and tugged the cord of an antique brass banker’s lamp. Green tinted light shone down onto her hand, making her skin look even more olive and adding a minute amount of illumination to the room.
“Don’t open that attachment.” Spense squeezed her shoulder lightly.
Her breath caught—like it did every time he touched her. She did her best to ignore his distracting nearness. “I’ll do a virus scan first, but did you see the subject line?”
He leaned over her, and she caught a whiff of Old Spice. Funny how a scent that she’d once found old-fashioned and a bit overpowering now sent tingles skittering across her skin and made her stomach feel like she’d just risen to the top of a Ferris wheel. “No, just the sender . . . that is an intriguing subject line. Especially considering the fact no one can raise Cayman at the moment. How do you think You Don’t Know Me8 got hold of your e-mail addy?”
“Came through a contact form on my website. I still have my private consulting site up.”
“You should get rid of it.”
“Good thing I didn’t.”
Scanning for viruses complete.
“You want every crackpot on the internet e-mailing you clues to your cases? I’m surprised this is the first time it’s happened.”
She smiled before clicking on the attachment. “I think I can handle one e-mail without pulling a muscle.”
“Suit your—holy mackerel.” Reaching past her, Spense used his fingers on the touchpad to enlarge the images. Then one by one, took screen shots, elbowing her in the process.
“Ouch.”
“Sorry, I didn’t want to take a chance on this vanishing into cyberspace. We should print out all of this stuff.”
“You mean all of this stuff you didn’t want me to open?” She’d already powered up her travel printer. Less than a minute later, it began to spit out copies of what appeared to be pages from Ty Cayman’s passports. Next came an image of Cayman posing in a photo-booth with a beautiful young woman, who looked a little too young to be out with him.
The image was a bit degraded. With her pulse pumping out jets of adrenaline, Caitlin first held the photo far away then brought it closer to her face. “Is that Angelina?”
He wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She gently removed them—too distracting.
“I don’t think so, but she’s the same type,” he said.
The dark-haired woman had laughing, blue eyes. She could’ve passed for either Angelina’s sister, or Laura’s or . . . Harriet’s.
Caitlin clicked on a file on her laptop and called up images of all three women, lining them up side by side.
Spense covered her hand with one of his while using the touchpad on her laptop with his other. Her body instantly responded with an ache low in her solar plexus. Her thoughts careened off topic like an escaped grocery cart. She took a deep breath and steered her mind back on course.
Spense minimized the images, navigated to her consulting website then clicked and saved her display photo. “Don’t freak out,” he said as he maximized the other women’s photos. Now they all lined up: Laura, Harriet, Angelina . . . Caitlin.
Her gut tightened, but she laughed off her nerves. “That’s coincidence—I mean the fact that I fit the type. But these women clearly are a type and that matters because they’re all connected to Laura.”
“Are they? Or are they all connected to Ty Cayman? When did he come into the picture?”
“After the kidnap,” she said.
“Unless he was Angelina’s boyfriend.”
She bit her tongue. “He did lie about Laura having dinner with Ron Saas. And he did disappear with no explanation.”
“If we find out that something untoward happened to our new mystery woman—the one posing with Cayman here—it sure will throw cold water on the idea that Laura lost her marbles and killed Harriet in a compulsive re-enactment of an old trauma.”
“If something happened to our new mystery woman, then this thing has serial written all over it. Do you want to call Hatcher or should I?” she asked.
Spense paced to the door and back. “Let’s hold off. He’s not exactly a true believer in our predator theory. I’d rather gather a bit more intelligence first.”
“Such as what?”
“Such as who is she, and where is she, and who is You Don’t Know Me8?”
“The last one seems obvious.”