Gif sighed in defeat. “In the meantime—”

“I’ll watch my back.”

“Better yet, don’t turn it to him.”

After ending the call, Drex had gone to bed, but hadn’t slept that long or well before the dream woke him. Giving up on going back to sleep, he’d gotten up, made coffee, and, restless and edgy, turned on the receiver and waited to hear something from the house next door.

Jasper had come downstairs first and cooked himself breakfast. Drex could hear a TV news show in the background, pans clanking, coffee beans grinding. Finally, Talia joined him. She’d told Jasper good morning in a voice slightly hoarse from sleep. Drex had imagined them exchanging a hug, a pat on the rump, a light kiss. That was as far as he’d let his imagination run.

Then for close to an hour, he’d listened to their breakfast dialogue. For the most part, it was inconsequential. She reminded Jasper that he needed to consult an arborist about one of their trees. His tailor had called; the clothes he’d had altered were ready to be picked up. He made polite inquiries about the family who were off to Africa, but he didn’t sound that interested in Talia’s answers.

There were also stretches of companionable silence.

Drex hadn’t sat up and taken notice until Jasper had asked her, from out of nowhere, what she and he had talked about last night while alone. His heart had skipped a beat, not because the question made him anxious, but because he wanted to hear how Talia would respond.

He told himself it didn’t matter. Lately, he was lying to himself a lot.

It came as no surprise that Jasper was leery of him. But Jasper hadn’t emphasized to Talia just how mistrustful, had he? He hadn’t told her that he had gone downstairs in the dark to search for a listening device that he suspected Drex of planting.

Had he omitted mention of that because he hadn’t wanted to appear comically foolish? Or because he couldn’t explain to her why such a notion would even enter his mind?

Drex was already aware of Jasper’s suspicion, but it was helpful to learn the extent of it.

Talia also harbored doubts about his honesty, but she’d given him the benefit of the doubt, seeming more inclined to think he was exaggerating rather than outright lying. She’d also sounded sympathetic when she spoke of his mother.

After that, the tone of their conversation changed, subtly but noticeably. Having it piped into his ears through the headset seemed to have amplified the silent subtext as well as their spoken words. He wished he could have watched their expressions during that exchange, to gauge whether the testiness he’d sensed between them was real or imagined.

After Jasper left the house, there was no point in eavesdropping. Drex stored away the audio surveillance gear, booted up his laptop, and began rereading the information he had collected over the years about the eight women who had disappeared. If the material were converted to hard copy, the contents would fill a moving van.

Today, he applied what he now knew or sensed about Jasper Ford, searching for a connection to his victims. Had one of the women been a gourmet cook? Had one favored the bourbon Jasper drank? Had one shared his preference for Dijon mustard over ketchup? One small thing, previously overlooked, could be the link Drex was desperate to find, especially now that he feared his culprit had an even darker side.

Was it invisible to his victims until it was too late? Had his victims sensed it but ignored it? What had made them susceptible? What had made Talia susceptible?

He was still dwelling on that question several hours later when there came a knock.

He sat with his hand cupped over his mouth, absorbed in whatever was on his computer screen. When she tapped on the doorjamb, he came out of his chair so abruptly, it went over backward and landed on the hardwood floor with a loud clack.

“Mercy.” Talia pressed her hand against her thumping chest. It would be hard to say which had startled her most: his sudden reaction, or seeing him shirtless and barefoot, wearing only a pair of cargo shorts. Flustered, she said, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I scare easily.”

She doubted that. A man with reflexes that lightning quick would have little to fear.

He righted the chair, closed his laptop, and came over to the door. She asked, “What are you most afraid of?”

“Failure.”

She’d been teasing, but he hadn’t paused to think about it, and he’d answered so unequivocally, she knew he was serious. Feeling awkward and rethinking the wisdom of coming over, she said, “Should I have called ahead?”

“You don’t have my number.”

“Oh. Right.”

He smiled. “If you’ve come to borrow a cup of sugar, I’m all out.”

“Oh. Well then…” She heaved a sigh and turned as though to leave.

He chuckled. “What’s up?”

She came back around and glanced beyond him at the setup on the table. “I don’t want to pull you away from your work.”

“Please. Rescue me.”

“I’m not bothering you?”

He looked on the verge of saying something, but apparently thought better of it. To this point they’d been talking through the screen door. “Want to come in?”

“Only to be nosy.”

He grinned and unlatched the lock.

“I’ve never been up here,” she said as she stepped inside.

“I doubt you’ll think the view is worth the climb up those stairs.”

She stood in the center of the room and pivoted to make a complete circle. When she came back to him, he grimaced and reached up to rub the back of his neck.

“I know,” he said. “It’s not even—what’s the term?”

“Shabby chic?”

“This is shabby shit.”

She laughed. “It has potential. With a can of paint and…”

“A hundred thousand dollars.”

They shared another smile. She gestured behind her toward the window. “The tree is lovely, though. The moss seems to have been draped by a decorator.”

“Yeah. It gives me something to stare at while I daydream.” He wasn’t staring at the Spanish moss in the tree, however. He was looking into her eyes. Abruptly he said, “Excuse me a sec.”

He went around her and into the bedroom, pushing the door partially closed. She walked over to the window. He didn’t exactly live in the shadow of their house as Jasper had said, but through the branches of the tree, she could see the back of it almost in its entirety. Screened porch, kitchen windows, the windows of the master bedroom upstairs. Since the Arnotts’ departure in June, she hadn’t had to concern herself with keeping the window treatments closed at night. She realized the need to now.

Hearing him reenter the main room, she turned. He’d put on a faded t-shirt and his docksiders, but she didn’t comment on the change, because it would make them each mindful that she’d caught him bare-chested and wearing a pair of shorts that hung tenuously from his sharp hipbones. It seemed best to pretend she hadn’t noticed.

The t-shirt was faded. His chin was bristly. He had bed-head, the saddle brown strands even more unruly than they’d been the night before. But his eyes—agate in color and ringed in black like those of a tiger—looked anything but sleepy as they focused on her.