“I might say she was old enough to get out, she had people to run to, but she didn’t. And we may never know how he managed to wrap the chains around her that kept her with him.”
She got up now, let herself move.
“That woman, cowed, fragile already, is brutally, viciously attacked, raped, beaten, choked by an assailant that uses staging to terrify his prey. Who humiliates her—and this woman had already suffered, no question, constant humiliation. During the long, brutal, and humiliating assault, her husband’s struck down, and in turn, she is struck down. Blow to the back of the head. When she recovers, she’s in such deep shock she ends up wandering the streets naked in the middle of a frigid night.”
She looked toward the board and Daphne’s battered face.
“She wanders outside because the assailant released her, as he had with previous targets. Other couples, with similar lifestyles, social and financial standings. A pattern. Murder changed the pattern, expanded it, so the assailant pushes his escalation, in time frame, in violence.”
She could see it—God, she could feel it. All of it. All sides of it.
“It was always going there,” she said. “Always. From the first time he tried to intimidate a woman, to push himself on her, and was rejected. From the first time he fantasized about a woman he couldn’t have, it was going there. This?” She gestured to the board. “This was always in him, no matter what mask he wore to hide it. He couldn’t have this woman. Might have made some overture, was rejected. Maybe simply kept it to fantasy, but the fantasy kept cycling, deepening, darkening.”
She walked back to her comp, opened a file, ordered an image on screen.
The man and woman stood with their arms around each other’s waists, laughing. An ocean flowed behind them. She wore a short, billowing dress that the breeze blew high on her thighs. Her hair lifted in it, swirling dark, wildly curling around a singularly beautiful face.
While the man was handsome, fit, appealing—leaning toward distinguished—she dominated the image.
“This was taken about twenty years ago, for a profile on the couple, published in some glossy mag.”
“Who are they?”
Eve held up a finger, called up another image.
Now two couples stood together, formal wear, jewels, glamour. Along with the glamour was an ease, a look of enjoyment.
“Are the women related? There’s a resemblance, though the one on the left is…”
“Exceptional. Stunning. The object of his desire.”
Roarke nodded, came to lean against the curve of the command center. “His mother?”
“No. His mother’s on the right. His aunt’s on the left. He spent a lot of time with his aunt and her family. Visiting, spending school breaks.”
She called up a picture of the woman, just the face, then split-screened it with another.
“Do you see it?”
Roarke glanced back at Eve, then looked more closely at the two images. “Both have dark, curling hair, both are extremely beautiful.”
“It’s more,” she insisted. “The shape of the face, the shape of the mouth. Not exact, but very similar. The way their eyes are set—I did a comparison. They don’t resemble each other, but they do, on a kind of subliminal scale. It’s the balance of their features, the almost perfect symmetry. He may not have understood it, not consciously, but there, suddenly, the woman he’d fantasized about most of his life. There she was, young, beautiful, available. But—”
Eve reached for her coffee. “She didn’t want him. She wanted his cousin.”
“You believe…” He had to look at the board to read the name. “You believe Kyle Knightly attacked his cousin, beat and raped his cousin’s wife. Stole from them, tormented them, shattered them because he lusted for his cousin’s mother?”
“I know it. I felt something off, just off, when I talked to him at the studio. Something about the way he talked about Rosa—not the words, so much. But he did say that he’d seen her first, like he was joking, but his eyes weren’t joking. He said he’d told his cousin to make a move, even though she was with someone else. But today, she told me she’d made the move. It’s a small thing, but it’s going to matter, I think. And I think when I talk to her alone, she’s going to tell me Knightly approached her, she’ll tell me she had to brush him off.”
“Rejected him.”
“She wouldn’t have seen it that way. She’d have barely seen him at all because she’d already seen Neville. She told me today that the minute she saw him, that was it.”
Pausing, Eve turned to Roarke. “I know what she means. That’s another echo for me. The first time I saw you—that was in a crowd, too, the funeral for one of my dead—it hit, and hard. I didn’t like it one bit. It pissed me off, but it hit.”
“On both sides. One look.” Without thinking, he slid a hand into his pocket, rubbed his fingers over the button he’d carried ever since, one that had fallen off her truly ugly suit the day they’d met. “So, she barely saw him because all she saw was his cousin.”
“And, oh, that festered. He wants what he wants. He’s rich and powerful, actors and screenwriters and industry people come to him, and she says no? The others say no? His cousin thinks he can steal what should be his? First his cousin’s mother flaunts herself, makes him want, but won’t let him have. Now his cousin takes the fantasy that’s standing right in front of him, young and fresh. They have to pay for it, they all have to pay, these fucking people who remind him, over and over, of what he’s denied. Because he’s the best those bitches have ever had, and he can make them admit it.”