That made sense. Laurel held the file folder against her chest. “You did a good job on this case, Officer Zello. In fact, I think you did the best you could without any support from the sheriff.”

Zello also stood. “Don’t tell him that. Besides, if I’d done a good job, Charlene Rox wouldn’t be dead.” His shoulders went back. “If I can do anything to help you find her killer, call me. Please. I want to help. She was really scared, man. Terrified.”

* * *

He meticulously made a notation in his notebook. She’d walked out of her building and down the icy sidewalk to get a yogurt. Why? Had she been hungry or had she needed to get outside, even though the weather was freezing? He’d watched her when he could for weeks, and this was the first time she’d ordered a yogurt.

Though she’d very often walked out of the place she worked to the little shop on the corner, she normally had a latte, muffin, or oatmeal. Not yogurt.

What a mystery she was turning out to be. Oh, she was an uptight and vicious bitch, but at least she was interesting. The satisfaction he’d felt at killing Sharon had disappeared surprisingly quickly. He’d been so aroused, had tried to share his excitement with her, but he’d failed. It had been her fault.

Then the world had gone black.

The rage had been so complete and so raw. He’d come back into himself to find her face gone and his gloves bloody. The darkness of the blood on his gloves had matched the flowers perfectly. The black dahlia flower—the beauty of betrayal.

Every woman was full of betrayal. It was all they knew.

Yet so was he. He’d learned from the best. He could put on a good face. Could mirror their actions and their movements. Even their damn emotions. They thought they were so fucking brilliant, but he was smarter than the smartest of them all.

His hands clenched in the cold. He’d had to destroy the gloves after taking away her beauty with his fists. So much stronger than she’d expected. But the rage had ruled; he hadn’t been able to enjoy the moments. Didn’t really remember them. But those gloves had told a story . . . a bloody one. So bloody he’d never be able to clean them, so he’d burned them out in the woods. Then he’d scattered the ashes and let her go for good.

She’d deserved to die.

Then the same thing had happened with Charlene. He’d thought she was stronger than Sharon, because she was definitely of stockier build. Like a purebred mare, but even so, he hadn’t been able to complete the act. He’d lost it again, and it had been her fault.