Twisted (Burbank and Parker 1)

“Why? Target practice is target practice. A bow, a gun—what’s the difference?”

“About four pounds of trigger-finger pressure and a lot of dexterity and control. Right now I have none of those. It’s possible I never will.” Sloane walked around the table, passing Derek without a backward glance, and heading for the door. “But, like I said, it’s good to see you haven’t changed. Same empathetic guy. Always ready to cut a person some slack. I’ll be in touch.”

CHAPTER

FOUR

DATE: 24 March

TIME: 2200 hours

I crave my time in this room.

Peace, solitude, fulfillment. There’s nothing but me, my thoughts, and her. Being here renews my focus and my strength. And it keeps the demons away.

But only when I’m behind these doors.

I spent hours with Athena tonight. As I suspected, preparing her is harder than the others. She’s young. Intelligent. An unwelcome obstacle. Especially now. I must finish. But it exhausts me.

When I left her, I had to come here. I needed the relief—and the reminder. My resolve has to win out over my weariness. She reminds me of that. She reminds me that I have to channel my energy, even when they scream for justice. Justice delivered by my hand. And she’ll be my muse.

I don’t want to leave here. I want to shut my eyes and breathe, inhale her scent, visualize her beauty. Then I’ll sleep—maybe for an hour or two. It’s the only time I do, the only place I can.

The demons are lying in wait just outside. Once I open the door, leave this sanctuary, they’ll consume me again.

And I’ll do exactly as they command.

Hunterdon County, New Jersey

March 25, 10:15 A.M.

It was that kind of cold, drizzly morning that made you want to pull the comforter over your head and go back to sleep.

Unfortunately, Sloane didn’t have that option. Not only was she buried in work, but her hounds, as she lovingly called them, wanted no part of sleeping in, or in allowing her to do so.

The term hounds, albeit accurate, seemed like a misnomer when it came to Sloane’s three troublemakers. Moe, Larry, and Curly were three miniature dachshunds Sloane had adopted from animal rescue two years ago, as puppies. Moe—short for Mona—was long-haired and the sole female of the trio, Larry was wire-haired, and Curly was a sleek, bald frankfurter—the traditional smooth, short-haired variety. All three of the pups had boundless energy, strong personalities, and were loving and loyal—except when they were fighting.

Today, like every other day, they’d leaped up at daybreak, badgered Sloane until she let them out to do their “business”—which they did as quickly as possible to escape the rain. They then raced through the house and jumped all over the bed, wreaking havoc with Sloane and her bedding until she relinquished any idea of going back to sleep.

It was just as well. Penny’s case was weighing heavily on her mind. She had a lot to accomplish in very little time. Two days, to be exact. After that, she was heading up to Boston, where she was conducting a two-day crisis management and resolution training program at the corporate headquarters of a multinational bank. She was catching a 6 A.M. flight up to Logan Airport on Thursday. Which gave her just today and tomorrow to make some headway.

Settled on the cushy lounge in her home office, with Moe, Larry, and Curly sprawled around her, Sloane reread Derek’s report on Penny’s alleged Atlantic City trip—again. Then she shoved the papers aside and sank back into the cushion. She’d read the file cover to cover three times. No red flags. Still, she kept being drawn back to Atlantic City. It didn’t make sense. Why would Penny go there? She’d grown up wealthy, but practical. Her philosophy about money was simple: spend, but only on those things that mattered. Which to Penny meant her appearance, her education, and anything relating to a career in fashion writing.

Sloane could still remember their annual Christmas outings to FAO Schwarz, when they were kids. She herself was a stuffed-animal freak; she’d run from display to display, unable to decide, wanting to buy everything. Penny would stand off to a side, sizing up the inventory and eventually choosing the stuffed toy that matched her room and conveyed an aura of elegance.

Gambling? Never—not when Sloane knew her. Penny would think that was wasteful and stupid.

Just in case her friend’s habits had changed, Sloane had scrutinized Penny’s credit-card statements. Nope. Same old Penny. Itemized charges for a designer wardrobe and accessories that were in sync with someone climbing the corporate ladder at Harper’s Bazaar. Also, charges for extracurricular courses in everything from modern art to ancient philosophy. No surprises there either. Penny always prided herself on being cultured and well rounded. She loved to learn.

None of those charges was beyond the scope of what her salary could cover. As for gambling, there was absolutely no indication of it in her financial records or the behavioral descriptions provided by her friends and colleagues—and not even a single lottery ticket found in her apartment.

Maybe Penny had planned to meet someone in Atlantic City. But, if so, wouldn’t that person have called when she didn’t arrive? Sloane had checked Penny’s cell-phone records, which had been retrieved by court order. They indicated that no calls had been made or received since April 14—the day of her disappearance.

One dead end after another. Derek hadn’t lied. He’d been every bit as thorough as he’d claimed, leaving no stone unturned.

Sloane would have to rely on her knowledge of Penny to spot a tiny, unnoticed stone and flip it over, hoping to find something beneath it.

Grabbing a pad and pen, she made a list of the people Penny was closest to at the time of her disappearance. It was time to reinterview every one of them—starting with the ex-boyfriend. Maybe if Sloane asked the right questions, she’d provoke an answer, however innocent, that held the filaments of a clue.