The Next Accident - Lisa Gardner [77]
“When I was growing up,” Kimberly said, “I used to think of my father as a general, off fighting in some foreign land. It made me proud. Even when my feelings were hurt, even when I was mad because he missed my soccer game or my birthday, I was proud.”
Dr. Andrews leaned forward. He said gently, “You say you’re proud of your father, Miss Quincy, and I believe that you are. But lately, you’ve also been distancing yourself from him. Why is that?”
She stiffened. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“The anxiety attacks. You’ve mentioned them to me, but I get the impression you haven’t mentioned them to him.”
Kimberly bowed her head again. Her fingers fidgeted in her lap. “I didn’t . . . I don’t know. I tell myself I don’t want to worry him. But I don’t think that’s it. I think . . . I don’t want to seem high-strung. You know—like Mandy.”
Dr. Andrews winced. He sat back, and for the first time, Kimberly noticed how troubled he appeared. The lines were deeper in his face, his eyes didn’t have that stern stare she’d grown accustomed to. For a moment, he almost appeared human. “I have a confession to make, Miss Quincy. I think I might have led you astray.”
“What do you mean?” She sat up straighter. Her heart began to pound again.
No, she thought. No mistakes from you. No mere mortality from NYU’s most-feared professor. Her world was falling apart and even if it was immature of her, she needed the gods in her life to remain gods.
“I’m the one who originally attributed your anxiety attacks to stress,” Dr. Andrews said.
“My sister had died, it made sense.”
“But now we have additional data points. Think of what your father said. Someone has targeted your family. That someone has been at this for at least two years.”
“Yes.” She looked at him quizzically, then it suddenly clicked. The blood drained out of her face. Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. “My feeling of being watched. You think . . . you think it’s him.”
“We can’t rule it out,” Dr. Andrews said quietly. He added with the most kindness she’d ever heard from him, “I am truly sorry, Miss Quincy. I rushed to the most obvious conclusion. Perhaps it’s time to listen to my own lectures.”
“He’s stalking me.” She couldn’t get over that idea. The concept was a curious one. It made her feel at once violated, yet relieved. Violated because some unknown predator had invaded her life and hunted her down like cattle. Relieved because the violation was real, not just in her head. All those times. The goose bumps, the cold chills creeping up her spine. She hadn’t gone mental. Strong, logical Kimberly was still strong, logical Kimberly. Oh thank God . . .
“It fits his MO,” Dr. Andrews was saying.
“Goddammit, he’s been stalking me!” She was mad now. The rage brought desperately needed color to her cheeks, and stiffened her spine for the first time in weeks. Hunted? She would not be hunted.
Dr. Andrews was studying her. He must have liked what he saw, because he nodded encouragingly. “Remember what we were saying. Get curious. Put yourself in the predator’s shoes. What makes him tick?”
She took a deep breath. “Games,” she said after a moment. “He likes playing games.”
“That is consistent with what we know. What else?”
“He doesn’t want a quick kill. It’s not about the murder, it’s about the process. Personal. He wants it to be personal. Intimate.”
“He won’t be a stranger to you.”
“But I might not have met him yet,” Kimberly said slowly. “That feeling of being watched . . . If I had already met him, he wouldn’t have to monitor me from a distance; he’d already be part of my life.”
“Reconnaissance,” Dr. Andrews theorized. “When did the sensation begin?”
“A few months ago. So he’s been doing his homework. Looking for an opening.”
“New boyfriend,” Dr. Andrews offered.
“Too obvious. He’s done that ploy, first with Mandy, and then with my mother. Though he upped the ante with my mother—we think he also posed as someone who received one of Mandy’s organs.”
Dr. Andrews blinked. “Brilliant.”