She hadn’t been carrying a purse. Where did she keep her keys? Not in her jeans pocket, I hoped. I really didn’t want to open the trunk again until we’d reached our final destination. Well, technically, it was only Isa’s final destination. I reached in the backseat and rummaged in the front pouch of her backpack. With a satisfying jingle of metal, I came up with her key ring. I dug in my own pocket for the Ziploc baggie. Inside it were a few of Conor Sullivan’s hairs, taken from the comb in his bathroom. I walked to Isa’s Nissan and pressed the fob. The door unlocked with a faint chirp. I sprinkled half of the hairs in the driver’s seat. I saved the rest for later.

The crime scene technicians had better find my little gift.

I got back in my car and drove out of the lot. A glance at the dashboard clock told me the entire feat had taken six minutes. I smiled. I’d allowed eight, but Isa had gone down with no resistance. No time to waste, though. I had a schedule to keep.

The campus disappeared in my rearview mirror. I headed for West Philadelphia and the crumbling house I’d selected for the next stage in my plan. Isa was victim number three. After I finished with her, I had one more death on my agenda. I would need to pay close attention to detail for the next phase, and its execution would require finesse.

CHAPTER 25

25

Louisa clutched her purse in both hands as she hurried for the elevator. The fake smile she’d donned for the driver and doorman felt brittle as centuries-old metal. If she touched her face, her pleasant, composed veneer would crumble to dust. The elevator dinged at the eighteenth floor. The doors parted, and the hallway stretched out. She fumbled with her key, missing the lock several times, unable to hold her hand steady. Finally, she rushed into the foyer. Kirra met her in the hall and followed her into the kitchen. Louisa dropped her purse on the counter.

She’d expected to fall apart the second she was in the privacy of her home. Instead, numbness slid over her as if she’d wrapped her body in an ice pack. She leaned on the counter, the granite under her fingertips as cold and unyielding as her fear.

Kirra bumped her leg, and Louisa crouched to stroke the dog’s head. Kirra had been hurt, and yet she trusted Conor instinctively. What did the dog know that Louisa didn’t?

She’d hurt him too, wounded him in a way that would leave a scar. Guilt magnified her turmoil. She hadn’t meant to reject him, but she hadn’t been able to speak. Reflex had taken over. Her mind had shut out what it couldn’t accept.