Caitlin thought back. Once she’d left Scott Canton’s hospital room, she’d looked up Branford’s teaching schedule. He taught on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. If he’d really called in sick, that made it one of the three. She’d been taken on Tuesday, and was fairly certain she’d been there more than one night. Today had to be Friday. Missing for three days.

The tapping of his gloved fingertips on the tabletop reminded her of heavy raindrops hitting a window, like the night she’d driven back from Kentucky. She took a breath, cleared her throat, and humored him.

“Fine. You’re a high-functioning psychopath, possibly of genius-level intelligence.”

“Not possibly,” he said. “I have certificates to prove it.”

“I’m sure, though the bragging buries the lead.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”

“You need to be recognized. You need someone to appreciate your genius.”

He stood again, paced behind the chair. “Exactly.”

“Which means you’ll be caught soon. You need the world to know, to share your secrets. Who was it, by the way?”

He stopped, obstructing her view of Paige’s pink sign. “Who was what?”

“The parent who didn’t care. Your father or your mother?”

“Ouch,” Branford said, his hand clutching his heart in mock pain. “What else?”

“You’ve gotten careless. The decorations in the room, the room itself, all show a level of meticulous planning worthy of a choreographer playing to the single audience of Paige Lauffer—yet here I am in her place.”

“You have no idea how many moving pieces there are.”

“Maybe,” Caitlin said. “More likely, part of your need to dominate is fighting with your need for respect.”

He wagged his finger at her. “That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t need the rest of the world to know. I’ve got Caitlin Bergman, right here, part of my collection.”

Jesus. His collection.

She looked away from his smug smile. “How many? Me, Paige Lauffer, Angela Chapman?”

“Antoine Foreman, eat your heart out.” He sat again, leaned across the table, and reached out, touching her arm near her elbow. “Two years. Can you imagine that?” His gloved fingertip slowly traced its way up her arm, the exploration of each new inch causing Caitlin to flinch against her unyielding restraints. “I didn’t expect the local hicks to have a chance, but they assigned an FBI special agent, a profiler no less, and he hasn’t come close in two whole years.”

He stopped at her shoulder, looked directly into her eyes, smiled, then pushed some of her hair behind her ear. “You’ve been here what, a month?”

Caitlin swallowed hard, but didn’t look away. “If today’s Friday, I’ve been in town for three weeks. It is Friday, isn’t it?”

“Nice try.” He pulled back and slapped the table. “I’m hungry. Are you hungry?”

Caitlin let her breath escape. “What about the rest of your rules?”