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“You!” she shouted. “Get down here now.”

He stood there, a slight smile on his face. Pointed to himself with a look of surprise and mouthed, “Me?”

“Now,” she repeated.

He took his time walking down the slight incline, which made her blood boil, but it also gave her time to pull herself together.

Most women would have called Trent Calderon handsome. Skye might have agreed once, if she hadn’t seen the monster beneath the surface. Dark hair, damp from the fog, swept back with precision, rich brown eyes framed by long lashes, dimples that flashed asymmetrically when he smiled. Every expression looked practiced.

His showing up here wasn’t a coincidence. He wanted to watch.

“Detective Truman,” he said as he approached. “I thought I recognized you. What happened?”

“Why were you watching from the trees?”

“I wasn’t.”

“I saw you.”

He shrugged. “I was jogging, and someone told me the path was blocked off, so I headed into the trees to walk around.”

Skye didn’t believe him. He knew she didn’t believe him.

“You can see why you showing up at this crime scene is suspicious.”

“Detective, I jog in this park all the time.” He gave her a small smile. “So do you. Hard to miss all that hair and those long legs.”

She forced a poker face, though his comment threw her for a second. He knew where she ran. Here, on this exact trail. She’d been here yesterday morning because she had Fridays off. Had he picked this woman, this spot, because of Skye? A chill went down her back, but she kept her voice calm.

“Where were you last night?”

“That’s none of your business,” he said, not taking his eyes from hers. “If you want to interview me, call my lawyer. But I’m done with this conversation.”

She watched him retreat. He glanced toward the river. From here, they couldn’t see the blue tarp. But he knew. He knew the body was there. Was he gloating over his handiwork? Worried he had left evidence? Feeling guilt that he had killed a woman?

Or gloating that he was going to get away with it?

Calderon was a successful lawyer in the governor’s office. Served on the board of a wildlife protection organization. Had been photographed cleaning up trash in a park, serving food to the homeless, and raising money for youth sports. A whisper campaign suggested he would be running to replace Governor Brown when her term expired. Last year, Salem’s newspaper had crowned him one of the top five most eligible bachelors.

To Skye, he was only a predator.

She watched him retreat until she could no longer see him.

II.

On Monday morning, Trent Calderon walked into Salem PD. The lion’s den. That familiar, seductive jolt of excitement hit him, a deep physical vibration he could barely contain. He smiled, keeping it just shy of a gloat.

This would be the third time Detective Truman interviewed him. He didn’t have to come down, but if she had anything more than her suspicions, she would have come to him with an arrest warrant, not a polite call to stop by the police station at his convenience.

The first interview had been at his office ten months ago, when she’d told him she was talking to every man who left the bar within an hour of a girl who had been “attacked.” She’d asked him to come downtown. He’d declined, wanting her on his turf, and set up a meeting in his office.

And it was in that moment, while he sat behind his desk and she peppered him with questions, that he knew that she thought he was guilty. He wasn’t overly concerned. A cop couldn’t arrest him without evidence—and there was none. No DA would give her a warrant for his DNA without evidence. She had no leverage to compel him to give it up voluntarily. She knew all these things—just as he did. She thought he was guilty, but she couldn’t prove it.

That’s when he started having fun.

The second interview was over the summer, and he’d brought his lawyer with him. It was short and to the point: He had an airtight alibi and could prove he was visiting his mother two hours away when another young woman had been raped. He didn’t think that fact would stop her, but it would slow her down. She couldn’t prove he returned to Salem that night. He’d already had his lawyer talk to the police chief informally; the next step would be to have the detective officially reprimanded.

Trent didn’t have to come down here today when she called and requested yet another interview. But he wanted to. He wanted to watch her explode, or at least implode. She had amazing control over her anger.