The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [122]
Glenda’s grip tightened on the phone. Alone in the middle of Quincy’s office, she stared at the incriminating box of stationery—one sheet already sent to the document section of the science-crime lab—and she wished. . . . She wished she had never taken this goddamn case.
“I don’t think I should be speaking with you,” she said quietly.
“Is Montgomery there?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“You’re alone, aren’t you? Dammit, how did he even qualify to be an agent? Glenda, the UNSUB knows where I live. He understands Bureau protocol, so he knows someone is manning my residence. Hell, for all I know, he also has knowledge of the layout of my home, the best way of scaling the fence, accessing the grounds . . . You cannot underestimate him.”
“Your phantom stalker,” she said.
Quincy fell silent. Good, she thought. Be surprised. I have lived in this house for three days, listening to nothing but hate, and now I have to wonder if it hasn’t all been some horrible, twisted game. Are you the hunter or the hunted, Pierce? I don’t know anymore, and I’m tired!
“What’s wrong, Glenda?” Quincy asked. He sounded wary now, uncertain. She took pride in that.
“There’s no such thing as a perfect crime, Quincy. You should know that better than most. For every little detail that is considered, there is always one or two more that slips through the cracks.”
“The police report came back from Philadelphia, didn’t it? They know the note found at the scene matches my handwriting.”
“What?”
He fell silent again. She could practically feel his confusion across the phone line. It was nothing, however, compared to the sudden acceleration of her heart. She’d still maintained some small residue of doubt about Quincy’s guilt. But now . . . That note, that dreadful note stuffed in Elizabeth Quincy’s abdominal cavity, soaked in blood. He had written it. Pierce Quincy, a fellow agent, the best of the best. Oh sweet mother of God . . .
“You’re a monster,” she breathed. “Montgomery is right. You’re a monster!”
“Glenda—”
She snapped her cell phone shut. She let it fall to the floor where she eyed it as if it were a coiled snake. She had goose bumps running up and down her arms. She had gone nights without sleep and she could now feel it all crashing down on her. She was cold, she was horrified. She had believed in this man. Oh God, she was never going to feel clean.
On the floor, her flip phone started to chime.
She didn’t answer it. She wasn’t going to let him manipulate her like this. The musical ringing went on for ten seconds, then voice messaging took over and the noise stopped. She had just started to relax, when it started again. And went on and on and on.
Dammit! She snatched back up the phone.
“I don’t believe you!” she cried. “You’re making this up. And I am armed, Quincy, so you just stay the fuck away from me.”
“I am in Oregon. I can’t hurt you,” he said.
“I don’t know that!”
“Listen to me. We don’t have much time, Glenda. I did not write that note. I know it looks bad, but I did not write that note.”
“Of course you did. You just said so.”
“I know my own handwriting! For God’s sake, I recognized it the minute the ME’s assistant brought the note into the room. But I did not write it, Glenda. This man, he got copies of my handwriting, he studied it, he did one hell of a superb impression. I don’t know exactly how he did it. But he did it, not me.”
“Listen to yourself, Quincy. ‘It’s my writing, but I didn’t do it.’ Things are unraveling and you’re not even lying very well anymore.”
“Glenda, why would I use my own script? I am a professional. I’ve taken classes on how to analyze handwriting. If I’m so smart, why would I be so dumb?”
“Maybe you’re not dumb. Maybe you’re arrogant. Besides, it’s not just that note. We’ve also traced the original newsletter ad. We know it was sent on your stationery.”
“The bottom drawer,” he murmured. “Christ, it’s been years . . .” And then, “Dammit, then he’s definitely been in my house. Glenda, I beg you, get out