Christine thought fast. “I have to see him one more time, tomorrow morning. To tell him about you.”

“One and done?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Griff eyed her behind his bifocals. “You’re putting his interest above your own?”

“I guess so.” Christine could feel Lauren’s eyes on her but didn’t look over.

“Hmph! Can I trust you not to talk to him about the case?” Griff wagged an index finger at her, his knuckle as gnarled as the knot of a tree.

“Yes.”

“You give me your word?”

“Absolutely.”

“That was easy,” Griff said, with a derisive snort. “You sure you’re a real reporter?”

Chapter Twenty-one

The two women walked down the street from Griff’s office, with Christine mulling over the meeting, preoccupied. The sun still burned in the sky, and the air still felt humid. The only shade came from tall trees that lined the sidewalks, which were of red brick. They passed an antique store with a window display of painted cast-iron doorstops and a barber shop with an old-school barber pole mounted on its brick façade. The town seemed busier, with more traffic clogging the narrow streets, couples strolling hand-in-hand to restaurants, and young people bopping around, toting backpacks, icy Dunkin’ Donuts drinks, and smartphones. Christine spotted people wearing white ribbons pinned to their clothes, and more than one shop window had a sign that read GAIL, YOU WILL BE MISSED!

“Mission accomplished,” Christine said, after a moment. “We got Zachary a lawyer.”

“Yes, and I like Griff.”

“You mean Gruff?”

Lauren laughed. They passed a hair salon with a sign that read STUDENT CUTS ONLY TWELVE DOLLARS, since West Chester was home to West Chester University. “He knows what he’s talking about, even if he reminds me of those Muppets in the balcony.”

“Staler and Waldorf?” Lauren laughed. “Exactly. He’s Waldorf.”

“Right.” Christine smiled, but it faded. “So we only have one meeting left with Zachary. I have to ask him tomorrow morning.”

“You can do it. And you need to since you’re too nice to convince anybody you’re a reporter. I bet Waldorf is Googling you right now.”

“He doesn’t have the Internet, remember.” They turned the corner, passing a local bank, and spotted her car down the street.

“You must want to get off your feet. Let’s go to the hotel and check in.”

“Right.” Christine got her car keys from her purse and chirped her car unlocked as they approached since it was on their side of the street. “Did you hear what Griff said, that Zachary hasn’t been linked to the other murders? It was the same thing Zachary said.”

“What’s your point? That he’s not a serial killer?”

“I guess,” Christine answered, but she didn’t know what her point was, truly. Her emotions were bound into a knot that she was too tired to unravel.

“If you kill even one person, that’s too many.”

“I agree.” Christine went around the back fender of her car and waited for traffic to pass until she went to her door. “But what if he’s innocent? What if it’s not him? He seems too emotional to be a sociopath, doesn’t he?”

“Then we just got him a good lawyer,” Lauren answered before she got inside the car.

“I’m worried.” Christine turned on the ignition and went through her air-conditioning routine.

“You’ll feel better after you shower and rest, we both will.” Lauren buckled on her seat belt. “Oooh, I want to use towels I don’t have to wash, then put on a bathrobe that’s nicer than mine.”

Christine only half-listened, pulling into traffic and stopping at the red light, on the road that led to the highway back to Collegeville.

“I wonder if our hotel has room service. I want to lie in bed and have people bring me food. It’s like a hospital for moms.”

Christine’s thoughts churned, and she felt like she needed a sounding board. “The problem is that there are so many possibilities, and I can’t figure out which ones are true.”

“Like what?” Lauren looked over.

“Let’s start with whether Zachary is Donor 3319. We both think he might be, but that’s based on our intuition and some facts.”

“Not a lot of facts.”

“Right.” Christine watched the traffic light burn red. “Tomorrow we find out the answer, but there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to know.”

“Because you’re afraid it’s him?”

“Yes.” Christine had a second thought. “But the only reason I’m afraid it’s him is because he’s in jail, charged with murder, a serial killer. If he’s innocent, I’d like it if he was our donor. He’s a nice guy. He’s smart, personable, and he’s so good-looking.”

“I get that. I understand.”

“So I’m not crazy?” Christine hit the gas when the traffic light changed, going forward.

“Not at all. This is a hard situation, and I’m proud of you. You’re doing a great job, considering all you’ve had for sustenance is saturated fats.”

“Ha.” Christine glanced over at a street sign, which read WARWICK STREET. “Warwick Street? How do I know that name?”

“I don’t know.”

“I read it somewhere.” Christine braked slowly, causing the car behind her to start honking. “I remember, in the newspaper article online. Warwick is the street that Gail Robinbrecht lived on. Where she was murdered.”

“That’s weird.” Lauren grimaced.

“Not really. It’s a small town. We’ve seen it ourselves, you can walk places here.” Christine stopped the car, her eyes on the WARWICK STREET sign, letting traffic flow around her. “Can you get her address for me, on the phone?”

“Does this mean we’re not going to the hotel?”

“Not yet.” Christine got a second wind as she turned onto Warwick. “Aren’t you curious?”

“As between a murder scene or room service? No.” Lauren chuckled, but she was already scrolling though her smartphone. “Here we go. Robinbrecht’s house number is 305.”