“I want to know where Jason Jones comes from,” D.D. stated, working her way up the stairs. “Guy as cool and collected as that. Working as a small-time reporter, sitting on four million, and according to his own child doesn’t even have a best friend. What the hell makes this guy tick?”

Miller shrugged.

“Let’s get two detectives digging into some deep background,” D.D. continued. “Cradle to grave, I want to know everything about Jason Jones, Sandra Jones, and their respective families. I can tell you now, something there is gonna click.”

“I want his computer,” Miller murmured.

“Hey, at least we have his garbage. Any news?”

“Got a crew on it now. Give them a couple of hours, they’ll have a report.”

“Miller?” she asked with a troubled look on her face.

“What?”

“I know Ree saw something that night. You know Ree saw something that night. What if the perpetrator knows it, too?”

“You mean Jason Jones?”

“Or Aidan Brewster. Or the unidentified subject 367.”

Miller didn’t answer right away, but started to look concerned, as well. Marianne Jackson had been right: Ree was very, very vulnerable right now.

“Guess we’d better hurry up,” Miller said grimly.

“Yeah, guess so.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I dreamed of Rachel last night. She was saying, “No, no, no,” and I was finding all the right spots to change her “no, no, no” to “yes, yes, yes.”

“It’s not my fault,” I was saying in my dream, “you have such perfect breasts. God wouldn’t have given you such perfect breasts if He’d really meant for me to leave you alone.”

Then I was pinching her nipples between my fingers and she was leaning back and breathing heavy and I knew I was winning. Of course I was winning. I was bigger, stronger, smarter. So I rubbed and stroked and cajoled until that magic moment when I was sinking deep inside her and maybe she was crying a little but what did it matter? She was also gasping and writhing and I made it good for her. I swear I made it good.

In my dream world I could feel it all building. Her legs wrapping around my waist. Her breasts rubbing against my chest. And I wanted. Oh God, I wanted. And then …

Then I woke up. Alone. Hard as a rock. Mad as hell.

I rolled out of bed still breathing hard. Made it to the shower, cranked it on as hot as it would go. Barreled into the steam and finished my business, because when you’re a twenty-three-year-old registered pervert, this is as good as it gets.

Except it’s not. In my mind I can still touch and taste the girl I want. The girl I have always wanted. The girl I can never have.