“Rob Young? Are you serious? The guy was a pussy. Didn’t have it in him to kill anyone. Weak and pathetic. You know he was there that night? Didn’t even try to put up a fight. Just did as he was told. Took you from your bed and left town. Dumb too. Word of advice, Jessica: never leave sharp objects lying around with your fingerprints all over them.”

“Why didn’t you just kill me, too, if you thought I was such a problem?”

Catherine Tavernier looked surprised by the question. “Slaughter a child while she slept? I’m not a monster.” She paused a beat. “But here’s the thing, Jessica: you’re not a child anymore.”

“When did you find out who I was?” Jessica asked. “I only found out myself a few days ago.”

Catherine said, “Within ten minutes of your phone call to my secretary. I told you, a PI from out of state turns up asking for me, I’m going to do some digging. The first hit was your own website. The second was a link to an article about Tony Shaw’s photography exhibition attended by his proud daughter, Jessica. I recognized him immediately from the photo. Although, I have to say, he looked a lot happier in that art gallery than he did when he discovered your mother’s dead body.”

“You’re sick.”

Tavernier stared at her through narrowed eyes. “I think you’re the one who’s sick, Jessica. You know, you really don’t look too good. Did the wine not agree with you?”

Jessica looked into the empty glass she still held loosely in her hand and saw a tiny smudge of white powder stuck to the bottom. The glass slipped from her grasp and shattered against the hard floor. “You drugged me?”

Each word, each syllable, was a massive effort.

Catherine shrugged again. “I didn’t want to take any chances with you. The others? They were already full of booze and easy to take by surprise. I thought you’d be different. Street smart, alert, a decent match for me.” She picked up the bottle of Scotch, a quart of it gone, and waved it at Jessica. “I guess I was wrong.”

Catherine Tavernier set the whiskey on the table and pulled a knife from her pants pocket.

Jessica recognized the weapon as a Benchmade. She had carried one herself before swapping a blade for a firearm at Tony’s suggestion. Her own knife had been a quality item, but this one was in a different league altogether. A high-end product. Five hundred dollars’ worth of innovative design that could do untold damage in the wrong hands. Double-action, out-the-front automatic opening. Billet aluminum handle. A spear-point, plain-edged blade, length just shy of four inches, and glinting wickedly under the motel room’s harsh light.