Stranded

was the first genuine feeling he allowed her to see.
    “That’s right.”
    “I love college football,” Maggie said. “Do you play?”
    “Naw.”
    “You didn’t want to go to K-State?”
    “Didn’t want to stay at home.”
    The statement delivered, Maggie thought, exactly like a regular teenager.
    “This killer,” he said, without prompting. “How many people has he killed?”
    “We’ve found five,” Maggie said, continuing to keep her tone gentle. She had him talking. “We know there are more.”
    His eyes flashed. He seemed surprised by the number. His brow furrowed as though he was trying to remember, or maybe trying
not
to remember. Detective Lopez had told them that Noah had been found wearing only his underwear and had been covered with blood. Most of it not his own.
    Then in a whisper that Maggie could barely hear, Noah asked, “What did he do to them?”
    She hesitated but only for a second or two before she said, “Probably the same things he did to Ethan.”

CHAPTER 37

    VIRGINIA
    Gwen hated being back at the prison. This time AD Kunze tried to abbreviate the full-body search that Warden Demarcus ordered. Demarcus knew he had something they wanted or they wouldn’t be back here this soon. He had the upper hand and he was going to use it to his full extent. For his effort, Kunze ended up getting groped as well.
    This time, however, Gwen had worn sensible shoes and her control-top pantyhose again, along with what she called her best “old lady” bra. Still, the guard managed to grope and paw, not even pretending that any of it was accidental.
    As soon as Otis sat down across from her—even as the guard finished clasping his shackles to the floor—Gwen noticed the bruise on Otis’s face. It looked fresh and swollen, deep purple, the size of a golf ball above his left temple. Maybe larger because part of it blended into his sideburn.
    She waited for the guard to leave.
    “How did you get that bruise?”
    “Oh this?” Otis smiled, uncharacteristically wide and toothy,his signal that he wasn’t going to tell. His fingertips brushed over the area. “That’s just a love tap.”
    She saw his eyes dart over to the wall of tinted glass that kept Kunze and Demarcus invisible as they sat and watched and listened.
    Had Demarcus struck a prisoner? No, he probably wouldn’t have done it himself. Just like his full-body searches, he would have had one of his men do it. But why? She tried to remember what Otis may have said the last time. Of course, it might not have been related to her visit. It could have been something else. Some other disciplinary action that had been well deserved.
    “I hoped you’d come back,” Otis said.
    He was watching her. His lopsided grin firmly in place. He was sitting back with his arms crossed—that is, crossed in an awkward manner because of the shackle and short length of chain. Again, he reminded her of an overgrown teenager, uncomfortable and not knowing what to do with his hands.
    Then without waiting for her to speak, he said, “You found something.” A statement, not a question.
    “Yes.” It was silly to say anything else.
    “And now you believe me.” His tongue flicked over his lips. He was pleased.
    “Yes.”
    His face lit up like a little boy’s on Christmas morning. Obviously pleased, so much so that even the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes smiled.
    “I’m hoping,” she continued slowly, deliberately, “that you’ll share with me more of what Jack told you.”
    “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, then paused, head now tilted, watching her, gauging her body language. He still didn’t trust her. “Why would I wanna do that?”
    She wondered the same thing. Why would he want to share?If he had wanted a deal to reduce his sentence or one that gave him any perks, he would have brought it up last month when he shared the first information about the victim in the culvert with the orange socks.
    Gwen suspected Otis had shared Jack’s stories with her and with the news reporter last month simply because he enjoyed the attention. Even he had pronounced himself a “powermaniac.” She knew that arsonists—especially serial arsonists like Otis—set fires not just because of the power they felt through destruction but also the power they gained from the attention. But now he was looking at her expectantly, like there was something tangible he wanted from her.
    “Depending on what else you offer,” she said, “I would certainly