*

As Toomey drove along Pacific Coast Highway and Santa Monica gave way to Malibu, they passed one beautiful home after another. But after forty-five minutes of oceanfront driving, they came to one that was different.

Jessie tried to hide her awe.

Despite her concern about Ryan, she couldn’t help but be amazed at what she saw.

She’d been to some pretty stunning houses. She’d even lived in one for a while before learning her husband was sociopathic killer. But she’d never encountered anything like this.

Set apart from the other houses, which often only had just a few feet of space between them, this one was on an enclosed estate, resting on a cliff that dangled arrogantly over the water. It was the home of Jett Collison.

The three-story-tall Spanish-style mansion was surrounded by an elaborately designed twelve-foot stone wall that looked like it had been shipped in from Spain itself. The gate appeared to be made of thick wood but was actually metal delicately painted multiple hues of brown. In the distance, the Pacific Ocean stretched as far as the eye could see.

They parked in front of the gate. Even as Murph got out of the car, the perkily familiar voice of Jett Collison’s assistant, Matilda, came over the intercom.

“Hi, are you with Hunt?” she asked. Jessie realized she’d never given the girl her first name. Apparently Matilda thought it was “Hunt.” That was fine, as it made it less likely she’d be identified.

“Yes,” Murph said, seemingly feeling the same way. “We’re all part of her team.”

“Could you please hold up your identification to the camera?” she asked politely.

Murph pulled it out and was about to unfold it to the photo page inside when the gate opened. Apparently Matilda was satisfied with seeing the exterior of a leather wallet.

Murph shrugged at Toomey as he returned to the passenger seat and got in.

“She’s a sharp one,” Toomey muttered under his breath.

They drove up the stone path to the main entrance of the house. As they arrived, Matilda came out to meet them. She didn’t look like Jessie expected based on her voice. Short and heavyset, with glasses and a thick mop of curly dark hair, the only hint that this was the same person from the phone was the way she bounced on her toes, as if she couldn’t control her own energy. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-three years old.

“She looks more like an excitable librarian than an entertainment professional,” Dolan said.

“How is an entertainment professional supposed to look, Agent Dolan?” Jessie asked sharply, taking her annoyance at her own assumptions out on him.

He looked at her, slightly taken aback, but said nothing. Jessie got out, trying to set aside her frustration with herself. Despite her training and experience, she still repeatedly made the cardinal sin of drawing conclusions before the evidence supported them. Just because Dolan had done the same thing didn’t excuse her. She was supposed to be a criminal profiler, using facts to make assessments, not prejudging people based on how they looked or sounded.