Chapter One

Ten years earlier…

Madeline Ferguson couldn’t help smiling as she and her best friend Charli Cross stopped at Bonaventure Cemetery on their way home from school. Even though it was filled with dead bodies, she loved this place. Dappled light filtered through the trees, seeming to dance on the tombstones around them, and the numerous trees offered respite from the heat. She was with her favorite person in the world, and the day was perfect.

“It sucks Mr. Ferris gave us a pop quiz today. It’s like he knew I didn’t do the Bio reading last night.” With a disgusted snort, Madeline traced a dirt picture of Mr. Ferris with her shoe, making him fatter than he really was. “I mean, I seriously don’t usually bother with the stupid reading anyway, so I guess it was pretty easy for him to catch me off guard.”

Charli threw back her head, her laughter echoing through the cemetery. “Yet, knowing your luck, you probably managed to get an A anyway.”

Madeline nudged Charli’s ankle with her sneaker. “So did you.”

“Yeah,” Charli wagged a finger at her, “but I read the assignment. And I studied my butt off.”

“You always do.”

Madeline didn’t know why her best friend studied so hard. Charli’s brain soaked up every detail like a sponge. The fact she spent so much time reviewing everything she’d no doubt already memorized was total overkill.

But that was Charli. Supersmart, prone to overanalyzing every situation and memorizing every statistic she came across. Although Madeline admired Charli’s self-discipline and drive to learn, she could never lock herself away in her room for hours on end to study. She preferred to be out in the world, enjoying every moment of her life.

While she still made excellent grades, Madeline didn’t stress about academics. There was too much else vying for her attention. She was on the cross-country team and student council. And then there were boys.

“I can’t believe Gordon Keller invited us to his pool party.” Madeline’s toes curled just thinking about it. “He’s a senior!”

Charli wrinkled her nose. “Kind of makes you wonder why.”

Ladies and gents, let me introduce my best friend, Charli. Grade A skeptic.

“Because he thinks we’re hotties.” Madeline bumped her hip against her best friend’s. “Which we totally are.”

Charli snorted. “No, he thinks you’re hot. That’s why he asked you to meet him here today.” She kicked a stone out of her way. Madeline watched it disappear into the grass. “I’m pretty sure he only invited me to the party because I’m your friend.”

Madeline gave her friend a quick squeeze on the forearm. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’m sure every guy in our class would love to ask you out. It’s just…”

“That they think I’m bitchy?” Charli made devil horns grow from her head with her pointer fingers.

“Not bitchy. Just a little…cold?” Intimidating was the better word. “But, like, maybe you can chill and get to know a couple of Gordon’s friends.”

The look on Charli’s face said she highly doubted it.

Oh, loosen up, Charli! It’s okay to live a little and have some fun.

Though Charli was Magaret’s total opposite, they got each other. Best friends since their teacher had seated them next to each other in fifth grade. Madeline couldn’t think of anyone she’d rather have by her side.

“Maybe so.” Charli sighed. “But honestly, I’m perfectly happy with my life the way it is. I want to get into a good college in a couple years, and I don’t need a guy to complicate things or take away from my study time.”

Take away from study time? Her friend really needed to get out more. “Listen to yourself. You’re in high school. It’s okay to study and date guys at the same time. That’s the normal thing to do.” Maybe that was mean, but it was true. Madeline threw her arm around Charli’s shoulder to soften the sting. “When’s the last time you went out with anyone?”

“You’re impossible.” Charli rolled her eyes.

Madeline squeezed her tighter. “What was it Mr. Ryerson called me? ‘Irrepressible.’ I like that.”

Charli laughed again. “‘Irresponsible’ was, I believe, the exact word he used.”

“Yeah, but he meant to say ‘irrepressible.’” Madeline spun in a lazy circle, arms thrown wide, head back as she stared up at the trees around them. She reveled in the warmth of the sun on her skin.

“If you say so.”

After an eternity of chatting and laughing, Madeline checked the time. “Well, it’s been half an hour now. Doesn’t look like he’s going to make it.”

Charli looked relieved but rallied with a supportive, “Don’t worry. He’ll regret not coming. They always do.”

Madeline gave three ceremonial pats to the bronze likeness of the Bonaventure Jogger, the first woman from Savannah to compete in the Boston Marathon. She touched the statue of Julia Denise Backus Smith every time they walked through the cemetery, the way tourists kissed the Blarney Stone. The action brought her good luck for cross-country events.

“I have to tell you about this ridiculous song I heard last night. It’s hilarious.”

Charli shook her head as they continued through the graveyard. “So that’s what you were doing instead of studying?”

“Hey, don’t hate. But seriously, listen to this. I even made up a dance to go with it.”

Halfway through the song, Madeline had Charli laughing so hard that she tripped over an uneven spot in the ground. As her friend crouched to tie her shoes, Madeline skipped farther down the path, belting out the lyrics to the catchy tune.

After a few minutes, she stopped to give Charli a chance to catch up. “Hey, you wanna go to Leopold’s for ice cream this—”

Iron arms snaked around Madeline’s middle from behind, crushing her tight and pinning her arms to her side.

After letting out an embarrassing squeak, she realized who it was. “Get off me, Gordon. Your little prank’s not freaking funny.”

But when she tried to pull away, a hand clamped over her mouth.

“I’m not Gordon, love. No time for introductions now.”

Madeline froze, trying to process.

Not…Gordon.

Adrenaline ripped through her limbs, sending her thrashing against his powerful arms. Though she fought with all her strength, he dragged her like a rag doll alongside the wrought iron fence at the edge of the cemetery.

No. No. No.

His gloved hand over her mouth cut off all her attempts to scream. Hot breath tickled the back of her neck as he chuckled. Like he thought trying to save herself was funny.

Despite the panic rising in her chest, Madeline tried to think. Tried to make herself aware of her surroundings. Of something that could help. There was Charli, still tying her stupid shoe. She always had a thing about perfect double knots. They weren’t too far away yet, if she would just…

Look up. C’mon, look up!

But she kept right on with the shoe.

Madeline lost sight of her friend for a moment as a large headstone blocked her view. Then she saw Charli again, but she felt much farther away.

All of Madeline’s attempts to think vanished when they reached the fence and she spotted a large gray van parked on the street just outside the cemetery gates. No windows. Bland and nondescript, just like her mom had always warned her about.

This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.

Wrenching her head back and forth, Madeline bit the gloved hand. As soon as her mouth slipped free, she screamed bloody murder.

“Don’t…make this…difficult.”

Like an alligator with its prey, Madeline twisted and kicked, her shrieks reverberating through the otherwise quiet space. Except she was the prey, and this man was the alligator.

Where’s Charli?

“Stop!” Way back where she’d knelt to tie her shoe, Charli began sprinting toward her. “Stop, let her go!”

Hope soared in Madeline’s chest. Charli would help her fight off this psycho. But her hope burst like a balloon when she realized they’d reached the van.

“Madeline!”

That gloved hand clamped over her mouth again.

Hurry!

Madeline raked her nails down his arms, drawing blood that dotted his skin in tiny beads. He cursed and loosened his grip.

“Let. Me. Go!”

“Bitch! You’ll pay for that.” The monster rammed her head into the back of the vehicle. Pain shot through Madeline’s skull, and her vision blurred at the edges. He held her with one arm and threw open the door, shoving her inside like a sack of potatoes.

The last thing Madeline glimpsed before the door slammed shut was Charli, at least ten yards away, her face twisted in anguish. As if she’d known before she started running…

Too little. Too late. Too. Late.

Chapter Two

Present day…

Detective Charlotte Cross had stared down cold-blooded serial killers and homicidal maniacs, but as she sat on her couch, waiting for the doorbell to ring, she somehow felt more anxious than any time she’d faced off with a murderer. Less than three weeks earlier, she’d agreed to meet with TV journalist Jack Clarion for an upcoming episode of Ten Years Later, his show about unsolved murder cases.

At first, Charli had been dead set against participating in the interview. But as her fellow detective Janice Piper had so helpfully observed, the show had brought about long-overdue justice and closure for numerous victims and their families. Charli had acquiesced, hoping this episode about the ten-year anniversary of her best friend’s murder would shed some light on her killer.

Back then, after Madeline’s kidnapping but before the discovery of her body months later, Charli had told the story to anyone who would stand still for two seconds. Now, a decade later and wise enough to recognize nothing she could say would bring her best friend back, Charli found it much harder to reopen those old wounds.

In the last few months, Madeline’s killer—or so she assumed—had done enough of that himself, reaching out to Charli with taunting messages and photographs of Madeline during her captivity.

As Charli had discovered, Madeline’s own mother was responsible for some of the harassment. Marcia Ferguson had once been like a second mom to Charli, but her grief over her daughter’s abduction and murder had poisoned her mind. Turned her against Charli. That insanity deepened as the tenth anniversary of Madeline’s death neared, pushing her to leave threatening messages for, in her mind, the girl she thought should’ve disappeared instead.

But she hadn’t written and delivered all of the messages. Hadn’t handcrafted horrifying birthday gifts depicting her lost daughter’s torture. Hadn’t tossed Charli’s house and made phone calls that drove her to live at her parents’ home—and even her longtime enemy Janice Piper’s guest bedroom—for multiple weeks.

With a heavy heart, Charli recalled her final physical altercation with Marcia. That incident, and Marcia’s fierce plea for Charli to find Madeline’s killer “no matter what it takes or what you have to do,” had catalyzed her return of Jack Clarion’s call and agreement to an interview.

And here I sit, in my own private hell, as I wait for him to get here.

Grabbing an electric-blue couch pillow that matched the sofa, Charli squeezed so hard her knuckles turned white as she surveyed the tidy living room. After moving back into her own house, she’d taken time in the last few weeks to straighten up from all the recent vandalism.

Upon the death of her grandmother, Carol Cross, the house in Savannah’s Historic District had passed to Charli, coming already furnished with a mix of sixties, seventies, and eighties decor. One of these days, she should redecorate, but that required time and money, two things she never seemed to have enough of.

Really, the house wasn’t the problem, tidied up for the impending interview or not.

I don’t want to do this.

A shrill, mechanical ring sounded from the old-fashioned doorbell.

Charli jumped, bending back a fingernail on the pillow fabric. She hissed in pain as she got up.

Halfway to the front door, she realized she was still holding the stupid pillow. She turned and threw it like a football back toward the couch. It landed just short on one of her Grandma Carol’s favorite Oriental rugs. Charli growled under her breath and forced herself to complete her journey to the door.

She wrapped her fingers around the worn gold knob, hesitating as the urge to pretend she wasn’t home flashed through her mind.

Stop being an idiot! If talking about what happened helps me find Madeline’s killer, then it’s a small price to pay.

With a deep breath, she unlocked the door and twisted the knob, stepping back to let the door swing open. An attractive man with light-brown hair and brown eyes stood there smiling at her. With his tailored suit and perfect teeth, he looked like he’d just stepped off a runway.

“Charli Cross?”

She squared her shoulders, giving herself a last-minute mental pep talk. You can do anything for Madeline. “Yes, I’m Charli.”

He held out his hand, revealing manicured nails in better shape than her own. “Jack Clarion.” He shook her hand with a no-nonsense grip. “Thank you so much for agreeing to this interview.”

She nodded, struggling to find words around the sudden lump in her throat. “Please come in.”

He entered, trailed by two men carrying an array of equipment. A large white SUV was parked in the driveway with the hatch open, and Charli suspected more gear would be forthcoming. A smaller, older model crossover took up the curb in front of her house.

The first guy, with bulging muscles under a tight maroon t-shirt and short black hair, nodded at her when Jack introduced him as Brandon, the camera operator. By contrast, the lighting guy, Caspar, wore a long dirty-blond ponytail that hung halfway down his back and a button-down denim shirt. Looped over one shoulder was a thick coil of cables that looked almost like an extension of him.

As Charli escorted them into the living room, she glanced at the mirror that had borne such a hateful message—You will die!—not long before. She kept expecting those bloodred words to reappear, like ectoplasm dripping on the walls of a haunted house.

After snatching up the electric-blue pillow and dropping it back where it belonged, she turned to Jack. “I think this room makes the most sense to film in.”

Grandma Carol would have approved. This was her favorite room in the house.

“It’s perfect.” Jack turned to the two men with him, and they both nodded as they made their way to the front door. “I hope it’s okay with you if we move some furniture around. We’ll be very careful with your things, and we’ll put them all back before we leave.”

Move things around?

That was better than a break-in, but just barely. Imagining all the tiny ways she’d be lining the furniture back up with its original position after today, Charli bit back a sigh and somehow dredged up a smile. “Sure, that’s fine.”

Caspar glanced around. “Good natural lighting if we flip things around.” He dropped his yards of cable on the rug with a heavy thud and headed back outside.

Truth be told, Charli’d considered rearranging the furniture so that every time she walked into the room, she wouldn’t picture it as it was after the home invasion. Maybe…this could work okay.

Ants began crawling under her skin at the presence of so many unfamiliar people in her home.

“Excuse me, which room has the best lighting in the house?”

Charli turned as a woman entered, clutching a large rolling case. She was about Charli’s age, with short, unnatural red hair, a silver stud in her nose, and half a dozen colorful tattoos on her pale, thin arms.

“Umm—”

“I’m sorry, where are my manners?” Jack spoke as though chiding himself. “Detective Cross, this is Bonnie Sheffield, who’ll be handling hair and makeup. We were lucky to get her. She had a one-week window between film shoots in Atlanta. She’s one of the best in the industry.”

“Please call me Charli.” She turned toward Bonnie. “What kind of light are you looking for?”

Bonnie waved a hand around. “Kind of looks like this. Natural, but brighter. Easier to see how you’ll look on the set.”

As a detective, Charli’s view of the world oriented toward the unusual and the misplaced. Not the quality of light around her. She squinted at the morning sunrays drifting across the newly uncovered hardwood. “Um, that sounds like the first floor bathroom. Let me show you.”

Once in there, Bonnie glanced around at the frosted window pane letting sunlight in over the closed toilet and gave a quick nod. “Good lighting, and it’s a nice size for a house like this. The space will work just fine. Do you have a folding chair we can set up so I can move around you? It’ll be awkward if you have to sit on the toilet.”

“Of course.” Charli hurried to the utility closet. By the time she returned with a folding chair, Bonnie’s black case had expanded as if by magic to reveal a staggering number of supplies. Brushes, colors, powders, and creams blurred before Charli’s eyes in an incomprehensible rush of details.

After positioning the seat to her liking, the artist began to pile stubby tubes and shiny cylinders onto the counter. “I won’t need you for about twenty minutes.”

“Okay.” Charli stepped around the chair. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Feeling like a stranger in her own house, Charli made her way back to the living room, where an enormous pile of folded, knobbed, and telescoping equipment had appeared.

Brandon and Caspar were already busy rearranging furniture, communicating with each other through a series of grunts. They put the couch down across the room from its original location, flipping it the opposite direction to face the incoming morning light. Then they moved as one over to the coffee table and carried it out into the foyer.

In another couple of minutes, the room was rearranged. Charli blinked at the sudden and complete change of a space she’d known her whole life.

“You okay?”

She spun, startled, as Jack spoke from behind her.

Not exactly.

“Yes, it’s just…a bit much.”

He touched her arm. “I understand. Don’t worry, they’ll put everything back. Why don’t we go talk in the kitchen and let them do their thing?”

She trailed him into the room papered over with floral patterns on the walls. Passing through, he reached the nearby dining room, pulled out a chair at her own table, and offered the seat to her. A floating sensation had Charli checking to make sure her shoes still touched the floor. When had she so completely lost control of her environment?

The second I opened the front door.

Genuine sympathy filled Jacke’s eyes as she sat. “I know all of this must be hard to deal with.”

She forced another smile. “A little.”

Great, I can’t even give more than a two-word answer about that. How in the world am I going to make it through an entire interview?

“It’s hard enough to prepare yourself to open up about something so traumatic, and then we come in and take over your space and rearrange it.” He leaned forward and met her gaze. “I know that must be disconcerting. I promise we’ll be out of your hair as soon as possible.”

“Th-thank you.” She glanced past him toward her black-granite kitchen counter. “Would you like some coffee?”

Come on, Charli. Chill out. You’ve done a ton of difficult things in the last ten years, and you can get through one little interview.

“Only if you’re having some.”

Chewing her lip, Charli got up and rummaged in a cabinet for a coffee filter and her favorite dark roast. Bonnie had said she’d be ready in twenty minutes, but for the life of her, Charli couldn’t begin to guess how many of those minutes had passed since she’d left the bathroom. At least making coffee gave her hands something to do so she didn’t just sit there staring at Jack like an idiot.

With a mild squeak of wood against linoleum, Jack half turned his chair around to semi-face her. “I want to thank you again for agreeing to the interview. I know it will be personally taxing, but I’m confident that if we get the information out, someone, somewhere will know something.”

She dumped the last scoop of coffee in the filter, spilling some on the countertop. “You really think that?”

Jack twisted in his seat, his brow wrinkled in surprise. “You don’t?”

With a shrug, she gave the counter a half-hearted wipe and turned on the coffee maker. “I don’t know what to think.”

He stood and closed the distance between them, causing Charli to turn to face him. She didn’t like the feeling of vulnerability having her back to him created. “We’ll find this guy. Serial killers like to feel they’re untouchable, but they’re not. Not when we can enlist the whole world to help find them.”

Frustration rippled through Charli. “Well, this guy’s pushing ten years.”

“Don’t worry. Madeline’s killer, if he is indeed a serial killer, has gone far too long uncaptured.” With a gentle smile, Jack rested a hand on her shoulder. “The odds are against him.

She blew out a breath. “I hope you’re right.”

He squeezed her shoulder. Charli moved a half step backward in response, and Jack pulled his hand away. “I promise you, someone out there knows something, whether they’re aware of it yet or not.”

She nodded as tears pricked her eyes. His confidence was contagious. For the first time, she let herself believe—really believe—Madeline’s killer could be caught soon. That feeling was a gift, and she savored it, clinging to that hope.

A hesitant voice shattered the moment. “Am I interrupting?”

Charli tilted her head so she could gaze past Jack at Agent Preston Powell standing in the doorway. Beneath his surfer-boy flop of sun-streaked brown hair, his handsome face seemed frozen into neutrality. At that expression, her heart did a little stutter of uncertainty.

For most of Charli’s recent case tracking down Marcia Ferguson, Preston had vanished to Henrietta on a case for the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. Gone long enough that, even though he and Charli had agreed to start dating, she couldn’t quite parse his mood. They both knew she wasn’t one to cling, so she’d thought his distance during the trip fine and normal.

But something was off.

She moved away from Jack. “Hi. What are you doing here?”

His chocolate-brown gaze met hers with almost robotic precision, neatly slicing Jack Clarion out of the conversation. In that moment, Charli would’ve given her last paycheck to read her boyfriend’s thoughts. “I came to offer moral support, although I’m not sure you need it.”

Of course not. We both know that. So what exactly does that mean?

“I can use all the moral support I can get.”

Jack stepped forward, extending his hand. “Hi, I’m Jack Clarion.”

With a smile that Charli could tell was forced, Preston shook his hand. “Preston Powell.”

“Well, Preston, you have quite a grip there.” Jack winced. “What do you do for a living?”

Preston raised his eyebrows. “I’m an agent with the GBI.”

The TV host put his shoulders back and straightened his shirt, his movements reflexive. “Ah, how interesting. You know, studies have shown that when it comes to professional careers, police and security jobs attract more serial killers.”

Preston stared at him, a thunderous expression flashing across his face. “Really?”

Jack flushed. “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out like I’d intended.”

Charli looked back and forth between the two of them, trying to understand the male pissing game they seemed to be playing.

Preston gritted his teeth. “For a guy who makes his living by talking, you’re not too careful with your words, are you?”

Charli put her hand on his arm. “Hey, it’s okay.”

Taking a breath, Preston gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry. But you know how I feel about you doing this show.”

Jack cocked his head to the side. “Why? Because you don’t want her reliving the trauma?”

The agent jammed his fists into his pockets. “I’m afraid it’ll antagonize the killer, enticing him to come out of the shadows and harass Charli even more. Plus, there are other nutjobs and whackos who’ll likely come out of the woodwork. The last thing she needs is another stalker.”

Heat crept up Charli’s neck, and she struggled to keep her voice neutral. “I appreciate your concern. I really do, but it’s my decision to make. My choice, my risk.”

“You’re right.” Preston seemed to deflate, and his expression cleared. “It looks like you guys have everything under control.” He snaked his arm around Charli’s waist and squeezed. “I’ve got some work to do, but just call if you need anything, okay?”

That’s more like it.

“Okay. Thanks for checking on me.”

Nodding at Jack, Preston headed out of the kitchen. A moment later, his car revved to life outside.

Jack turned to Charli with an apologetic grimace. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t offend him.”

Charli unclenched her fists, not even knowing when she’d balled them up. “Don’t worry about it. He’s probably just a little on edge because he’s concerned about me.”

Or maybe it’s because you pissed him off with your comment about serial killers in law enforcement.

She couldn’t help but think back to when Preston had met her partner. The two had disliked each other right off the bat, but they’d both come around. Eventually.

Jack sighed. “Trauma like this, and talking about it, can cause different reactions in different people. I’m sure he just doesn’t want to see you get hurt.”

I’m a big girl. I don’t need a man to protect me.

That was what she wanted to say. Instead, Charli measured her words, trying to be diplomatic. “That might be true, but he doesn’t have the right to say what I should and shouldn’t do.”

Preston’s arrival had distracted her from her earlier jitters, but now that he was gone, they came roaring back. She dropped into a chair and twisted her fingers in her lap.

Jack nodded at the coffee maker. “Looks like it’s ready. Can I pour you a cup?”

She flashed him a grateful smile. “That would be wonderful. The cups are in the cabinet above.”

He pulled two white mugs from the cabinet and filled them. “Could I ask your opinion on something?”

“Sure.”

Jack handed her a cup. “I feel incredibly awkward even bringing this up, but some time ago, Marcia Ferguson agreed to do an interview. Considering recent circumstances, though, I’m not sure that putting her on camera is a good idea.”

Charli’s respect for the man increased by leaps and bounds. She rose, retrieving some flavored creamer from the fridge. “I agree with you one-hundred-percent. Marcia is a very sick woman, and if you interviewed her, she could be…unpredictable.” She held the bottle out for Jack, who politely declined.

He took a cautious sip of his steaming beverage and headed for his chair. “See, that was my thinking, but I wasn’t sure how it would make you feel.”

Mug in hand, Charli reclaimed her seat at the table. “I know what she’s been through, and it’s made her crazy. I can’t hold a grudge against her for that. If anything, I think I pity her more, despite everything she did to me.”

Elbows propped on the table, Jack steepled his fingers. “I think that’s very big of you, very wise.”

“The poor woman has suffered enough.” Charli traced the wood grain in the table with her index finger. “And so have I. Being angry with her doesn’t help either of us. At this point, I’m just hoping she can find peace and maybe one day heal.” She drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. “Now, can I ask you why you do what you do?”

“That’s an easy one. To help people.”

Charli almost rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.”

Even said it myself on a number of occasions. While that’s part of it, the truth is so much more complicated.

Jack looked down into his mug. “I know this is going to sound ridiculous, but before I started doing the show, I was just another reporter trying to find his place. I was in San Francisco to do a piece on the rising problem of homelessness in the city. Long story short, I was mugged, and the experience haunted me.” He lifted his gaze, his brown eyes gentle on her face. “I know that must seem silly to you, especially given all that you’ve seen both professionally and personally.”

“That’s not ridiculous. You were attacked, your rights violated. That’s enough to shake anyone up, no matter who they are.” Charli tasted her coffee, letting the warm liquid soothe her mind. “I’ve seen so many people in the police station dealing with so many different emotions in the aftermath of something like that. Shame, fear, anger, hopelessness. They’re all valid.”

Jack flashed her a soft smile as he studied her. “Thanks. I know the experience changed me. What bothered me the most was that they never found the guy, and I got the impression the police never even really tried. They just wrote it off as a lost cause. Of course, that made me feel a sense of injustice, but it also made me feel doubly victimized. That’s the only way I can put it.”

Charli could relate. Though in Madeline’s case, the police had tried really hard.

At least, at first. After a while, they gave up and wrote her off as a lost cause too.

“That’s understandable.”

“I was so obsessed that it started to consume me. Then, a friend suggested I do something about it.” Jack kneaded his slacks. “She said even if I couldn’t find my mugger, there were thousands of serious, horrific crimes still unsolved. If I wanted to make a difference, maybe I could get more exposure for them, seek out people who might know something. That’s how I started the show.”

“Thank you for sharing that.” Charli understood the feeling of being victimized, knew the helplessness of waiting for someone else to solve the crime and restore sanity to the world. She wanted to let him know he wasn’t alone, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to open up that far. “I…uh…became a detective ultimately, I think, for much the same reason.”

“I suspected as much.” Jack pressed his palm flat on the tabletop. His fingertips were so close to hers, the heat of his skin washed over her hand. “Look, I want you to know that when we go in there, if there’s a question you don’t want to answer, don’t. If you want me to rephrase something or are uncomfortable, let me know.”

Charli swallowed the lump in her throat. “Thank you.” The words came out a whisper.

“You’re most welcome. This isn’t about putting you on the spot. It’s about empowering you and, hopefully, getting justice. The show has managed to do that for eighteen other families, which just astounds and humbles me.” He raised his coffee cup to her in a little toast. “I’m hoping it can help bring closure for you as well.“