Allison Brennan - Cutting Edge

“Yes.”

“If you can get to her tonight or tomorrow morning, find out what she knows about Maggie O’Dell.”

“Will do. Watch for the photo.”

Nora hung up and said, “I’m getting a photo of O’Dell.”

Duke watched Nora’s phone. A few seconds later, a message came in. She clicked it.

The photo loaded fairly quickly. In ten seconds, they were staring at a stunning girl with long brown waves of hair and huge, round brown eyes. The shape matched Nora’s, but nothing else resembled her. Nora didn’t know why she was relieved.

Maggie looked a bit familiar. Not just because of the eyes, but …

Duke snapped his fingers. “She was the girl who threw the soda at you on Monday.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

There was a tap on Duke’s door and J.T.’s stellar administrative assistant, Heather, walked in, sharply dressed in a pricey business suit. “We found an apartment,” she said, handing Duke a folder.

Duke opened the thin red folder.

510 °College Blvd., #A124, Roseville.

Rented to: Margaret Lovitz .

Landlord: Ted Albany .

“Heather, you’re incredible.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Do you need anything else?”

“Not right now, but thanks.”

Nora looked at Duke, weary, her fight with Quin draining her.

Duke tried to offer a reassuring gaze. “I had our staff call every apartment building in Placer County starting with those near Rose College. Bingo-I found one. Rented to Margaret Lovitz.”

“How did you find it?”

“I gave Heather a list of likely aliases-O’Dell, Wright, Plummer, Lovitz-and a time frame: rented after June of this year.”

“I’ll call Hooper to get a search warrant.” She stood and smiled. “Thank you. For this-and everything.”

He caressed her cheek. “Anytime,” he said slowly. “For you, anything.”

Maggie bolted upright in bed, panicked. Where was she?

Quin’s house. Quin’s bed .

She let out a long, quiet breath and listened. Something had woken her up. Finally, Quin had to be home.

She glanced at Quin’s simple, old-fashioned alarm clock, the kind with the bells on top and a traditional clock face. It was only four in the afternoon. Had she left work early? Why?

Someone was moving around downstairs. Into the kitchen, the creak of the linoleum a slightly different, louder sound than the soft carpeted footfalls. Water running. Turning off. Footsteps again.

Maggie swung her body out of bed, picking up the knife. She wished she hadn’t cut herself so much. Quin was going to see the blood. But that couldn’t be helped.

Now was the time to convince Quin that they should be a team. Just the two of them.

On the stairs, Maggie coughed twice and cleared her throat.

It wasn’t Quin she glimpsed downstairs. It was a man.

Maggie scurried to the closet, grabbing the comforter on her way. She practically threw herself inside and closed the door.

And was very, very silent.

Maggie O’Dell’s apartment would alone convict her.

At first, Nora saw nothing out of the ordinary in the small ground-floor garden apartment. In fact, it was virtually empty: The living room had a secondhand couch; the dining/kitchen area a small table with two chairs; and the bedroom a mattress on the floor with sheets and a blanket pulled tightly around the corners. But as she dug deeper into the dark crevices, Maggie’s crimes became clear.

The pristine kitchen concealed death well. A container in the refrigerator matched that one with the fatal iced tea in Anya Ballard’s dorm room. This one, too, was full. Nora didn’t know if it was poisoned, but they would find out.

In a drawer, jimsonweed was spread on paper towels, drying. In the drawer next to it, a set of knives, handmade, perfectly aligned in a special tray that appeared to have been built for this set of knives.

One knife was missing.

Nora wondered if one or more of them would test positive for blood.

It was the bedroom closet that had Nora most on edge.

The closet was a walk-in, nearly as large as the bathroom. The few articles of clothing hung far to the left side. Every inch of the walls was covered with photos and articles. For a moment, Nora thought she’d walked onto a cheesy movie set when she saw a picture of Jonah Payne taken from a distance at his Lake Tahoe house. Written in black permanent marker across the top:

You’re dead .

Pictures of Maggie with Scott, with Anya, with Quin. Quin . What was going on? Nora resisted the urge to pull them down, and swallowed, focusing on the unspoken message Maggie was leaving.

The captions were everywhere. You’re dead. I hate you. I want you to beg. I hate you. Slut. Pervert .

There was a picture of Anya Ballard in a naked embrace with Leif Cole, taken from outside a window. A picture of Quin with … Danny? Yeah, Danny. Whoever was the guy before the new one, Devon. They were at a house Nora didn’t recognize, probably Danny’s. The woman was a voyeur.

The picture of Maggie and Quin bothered Nora the most. Centered on the wall with a big heart around them. She recognized Quin in the picture. It was taken three or four years ago when Quin had gone through a short-hair phase and sported a sleek bob. They both were smiling, Quin’s arm slung over Maggie’s shoulder. The image unnerved Nora. Quin trusted Maggie, and that trust could get her hurt, or worse.

“Nora,” Duke said quietly.

She turned around. He’d closed the door. On the back side was a violent shrine dedicated to Nora.

Traitor. Bitch. Traitor. Murderer. I hate you I hate you I hate you .

Over and over, covering pictures of Nora taken while she worked, while she went to the store, while she was sunbathing in her backyard earlier this summer.

One of the pictures had her head cut off. Another, her throat slit with what looked like dried blood around the edges. And another had her heart cut out.

“Oh God,” she gasped.

Steve Donovan called her name from the bedroom.

She opened the door with a shaking, gloved hand.

“Donovan.” She motioned him to go inside while she stepped out.

“Holy shit,” he said.

“She doesn’t stay here,” Nora said, looking around. “It’s too dark, too barren. No privacy. This is her stop-ping-off point. A place to hide, to regroup, to keep her supplies close. Donovan, we need every photo analyzed to see where it might lead us. Every nook and cranny and hiding place. She has another house. It’s private, no neighbors. That’s where she’s living.”

She stepped outside, close to being claustrophobic in the sterile apartment. She dialed Quin’s cell phone. With each unanswered ring, Nora’s fear grew. She should never have let Quin leave Rogan-Caruso without an armed guard. What had she been thinking? About her own pain and guilt, forgetting that she was dealing with a killer who had a connection to her family. Her only family, Quin. If anything happened to her sister it would be her fault.

Voice mail picked up, Quin’s cheerful voice proclaiming, “Hello, buttercup, this is Quin Teagan, I’m not available-ha ha-but leave a message and I’ll call you when I’m free.”

Nora said, “Quin, call me as soon as possible. Wherever you are, stay there. Let me know where. You need police protection.” She hung up and bit her bottom lip.

“After seeing that you think she’s going after Quin?” Duke sounded both angry and scared. “Did you see what she did to your pictures?”

“But-”

“You’re the one who needs protection.”

“She knows she can’t get to me, not easily. Especially now-you’ve hardly left my side, I’ve been working, I haven’t been alone. Quin is my Achilles’ heel. Maggie knows I’d do anything to save her.” And Nora would. She’d delivered Quin nearly twenty-nine years ago. She’d been terrified of hurting the baby, certain from her mother’s screams that Lorraine was dying. Then she held her, wrapped in a towel, and knew true love.