Sebastian had kept the hateful note in case he ever decided to sue for custody. He wanted to be able to prove that Colton ’s stepdad had a dark side-a temper disproportionate to whatever trigger set it off.

If only he’d known how dark Malcolm could be…

“Mom, forget about the storage,” he said.

“You want me to stop searching?” She sounded relieved.

“Yes. I know where we can find what we need.” In that note, Malcolm had used almost every foul word in the book. But now Sebastian was glad Emily’s husband had put his thoughts on paper.

“Where?” she asked.

He told his mother where to look; then he smiled as he hung up. “You won’t get away with it,” he said to an imaginary Malcolm, setting his phone aside so he could finish lifting weights. He needed to get back to the motel and call the florist. It wasn’t likely that they’d have an address other than the P.O. box Malcolm put on everything else.

But Sebastian planned to check, just in case.

Malcolm admired Latisha as she moved around the kitchen, preparing dinner. She made a damn pretty sight wearing nothing but his T-shirt. He would never have guessed he could be so attracted to a black woman. He’d purposely kidnapped these girls because he thought they’d pose less of a temptation sexually. But now that he was being a little more open-minded, he had to acknowledge that Latisha was as fine as any young woman he’d ever seen.

Damned if he’d admit that to another white person, though.

The image of his father, his face contorted with disgust, appeared in Malcolm’s mind, but he quickly shut it out. He no longer had to worry about pleasing that racist asshole. Warren Turner didn’t even know that his youngest son was alive.

Latisha must’ve felt him watching her because she sent him a tentative smile.

Maybe kidnapping her hadn’t been a mistake. Besides making life more enjoyable in other respects, she’d been cooking and cleaning all day.

But her sister. God, Marcie was a different story. When he’d gone into the bedroom to tell her he hadn’t hurt Latisha one tiny bit, she’d called him a rapist devil and spit in his face. If she ever got free, she’d be dangerous. She was the type who might come after him. He should kill her and get it over with, but he couldn’t do it quite yet. It hardly seemed fair to go back on his word so soon after Latisha had made him happy.

“I’m not a rapist,” he said aloud.

Latisha stood at the stove. “What?”

“I said I’m not a rapist. I didn’t force you. You offered, I accepted, and you enjoyed yourself as much as I did, right?” Heck, she was the one who’d asked for more.

The answer came so softly, he could hardly hear it. “Right.”

“What?”

After clearing her throat, she spoke louder. “I said ‘right.’”

“You need to tell your sister because no matter what she says, I’m nothing like the men I used to put behind bars. I’ve met them. I’ve seen the crime-scene photos. I know what they’re like. You don’t have a single bruise on you.”

“I’ll tell her.” Her voice was low again, but at least he could make out her words.

“Good. Otherwise, I might have to kill her.”

Latisha whipped around, wearing a stricken expression. “You promised me you wouldn’t! You promised me you wouldn’t hurt either one of us!”

“I won’t put up with her bullshit. I just want you to know that.”

“You promised,” she said again.

He scowled. “I don’t want to hurt you or anyone else, but…you’d better tell her not to provoke me. Okay?”

With a curt nod, she went back to cooking, and he fantasized about how peaceful and pleasant it would be if he had Latisha all to himself and didn’t have to worry about her nasty sister. It wasn’t as if he could marry Latisha-how would that look? He had some pride. But, for the time being, she was better than nothing.

He thought of Mary McCoy. His ex-girlfriend was the woman he really wanted. But that relationship was riddled with risk. If they were going to have a chance, he’d have to convince her to cut all ties with her past. If he could make her believe a friendlier version of what had happened the night Emily and Colton died, it was possible. He could say Colton was playing with his gun, accidentally killed his mother and then freaked out and shot himself. He could claim to have staged the crash because he knew the authorities would look at him before anyone else, and he didn’t have an alibi.

But even if she bought that, letting go of her family and friends wouldn’t be easy. He should know-it’d been difficult even for him. And after what Pam Wartle had told him, he was beginning to wonder if he could trust Mary. Whenever he brought up his real name, she didn’t indicate that she’d heard about the deaths of his wife and stepson. Yet Pam had told him that his nemesis had dogged anyone and everyone he’d ever known.

Had Sebastian contacted Mary? If so, why hadn’t she mentioned it during their discussion of Malcolm Turner? It was natural that she would, wasn’t it? Anyone would…

Opening his laptop, he logged on and checked his buddy list. Mary wasn’t online. But she’d sent him an e-mail.

You on for this weekend? I can’t wait.

I have a surprise for you. A sample of what you can look forward to. I want to overnight it so you get it immediately. Where should I send it?

Love, Mary

“‘Where should I send it?’” he muttered.

“What?” Latisha asked.

He waved her off. Mary’s question seemed innocuous. But was it really? Why would she be so interested in couriering him a package if she was planning to see him this weekend?

What is it? he wrote, then deleted the message before sending it and sat there brooding. How could he determine whether or not she was telling him the truth, whether or not she was trustworthy? There had to be a way…

He chewed his fingernails while he tried to think. He could call her work, ask the nurses if she’d ever mentioned Sebastian. But he doubted they’d open up to a total stranger. He could call the house and pretend to be Sebastian, see how she reacted, but she might recognize his voice…

Then, Malcolm had it-the perfect plan. He’d send her an e-mail from Sebastian, see if they’d been in touch. He knew Sebastian’s e-mail address, didn’t he? They’d exchanged a few messages when Emily and Colton were alive. He couldn’t use that exact account because he didn’t have the password, but lots of people had more than one e-mail address. After dinner, he’d create a new account using a variant of Sebastian’s name-with the same server, if possible-and send her a message as if they’d already spoken. Something like, “Hey, any word from Malcolm?” That generic a question could mean today, yesterday, in the many months since contact had first been made. In this situation, less was definitely more.

If she wrote back demanding to know who he was and how he knew Malcolm, he’d trust her. And if she didn’t, if she wrote back and said, “I haven’t heard since asking for his address,” Malcolm would set up the meeting she’d been angling for-and kill them both.

Fifteen

The florist turned out to be a bust. Pretending to be Wesley Boss wanting to double-check the billing address he’d provided with his credit card, Sebastian had spoken with Love in Blooms. But the manager there merely confirmed the P.O. box.

As he ate some more of the Chinese takeout he’d picked up for dinner, he tried to come up with other ways to track Malcolm and, as usual, thought about the charred body. It’d been found in Malcolm’s car, which was discovered the day after Emily and Colton were murdered. Did Malcolm kill a drifter, whose corpse he used for that purpose? Did he “borrow” a freshly buried body from some remote cemetery? Or did he pay off a mortician? If Sebastian could turn up a lead on that body, he might be able to tie it to Malcolm. But he’d spent the first two months of his investigation working that angle and had found nothing.