Fine. If she couldn’t break the straps, she’d break his plan. She reached for the plate, set the dinner on her lap. The scent of rosemary overpowered the garlic, and Caitlin loved rosemary.

She picked up the plastic fork, tucked it under her right leg, then grabbed a handful of mashed potatoes. No way she’d give Branford the satisfaction. He’d already changed her clothes once, and not for her comfort. He wanted her neat and clean.

She smeared the white goodness across her chest, careful to get both the straps and the pajama top. She reached back to the plate for a handful of broccoli florets, crushed them against her pants until she felt the wet paste through the material. She finished up with the chicken and remaining potatoes.

Caitlin didn’t know what damage she could do with a plastic fork, but she wanted to find out.

Chapter 63

CHAPTER

63

HE SHUTTLED THE footage backward until he saw the BPD cruiser in the driveway of the duplex.

They’ve found me. Taking Caitlin was a mistake.

He changed feeds, checked the front door at the same time stamp. A uniformed female officer knocked, peered through the glass, and left after a minute.

He switched back to the driveway cam. The officer sat in the cruiser for two minutes, then drove away.

He ran to the kitchen door, grabbed his binoculars, and stepped outside. No sign of the cruiser near the duplex registered to Chad Branford. He replayed the voicemail.

“Mister Branford. This is Detective Jerry Greenwood from the Bloomington Police Department. Please call when you have a moment.”

He took a breath, calmed himself. Not a mistake. An opportunity.

He dialed the detective’s number. Greenwood answered after two rings.

Chad Branford’s pleasant voice went to work. “I was on a bike ride and didn’t hear my phone ring. How can I help, Detective?”

“Won’t take long, Mister Branford. I’m looking for a woman named Caitlin Bergman. Know who I mean?”

“Sure, the reporter. Does this mean there’s been a break in the Chapman murder?”

Greenwood didn’t answer right away, but Branford hadn’t overplayed the part. His dialogue followed the natural curiosity a college professor might have.

As if on cue, Greenwood broke the dramatic pause. “Why would you say that?”

“She stopped by on Tuesday and asked me questions about Angela that no one else ever had.”

Greenwood took the bait. “What did Miss Bergman ask?”

“I’m not sure I feel comfortable talking about that.”

“Do you mean over the phone?”

Branford gave a little laugh. “Actually, I mean talking to a cop without some sort of, you know, common understanding. I guess you could ask her what we talked about, and anything she says I said would be hearsay.”

“That’s the problem. No one’s heard from Caitlin Bergman since Tuesday.”

Branford slapped his face in mock disbelief. “She didn’t get to Los Angeles?”