Dead Hunt

back from her honeymoon safely.’’
Clymene nodded. ‘‘I understand. You might make sure the daughter is okay as well. She’s not safe either. Despite what my profiler thinks, I’m not a sociopath, but Eric Tully is.’’
Diane unfolded her arms and leaned forward. ‘‘How do you know he is?’’
Clymene shrugged and smiled slyly. ‘‘I read a book on sociopaths.’’
Diane knew that was true. Ross Kingsley’s report said that Clymene was well versed on sociopaths and murderers. And it wouldn’t surprise Diane that Kingsley wanted to write a book about her. He considered Clymene a more interesting form of black-widow killer—one entirely motivated by profit, not the usual type with a hyperbolic sense of romance addicted to finding the perfect Prince Charming.
Diane didn’t know what category Clymene fit into and didn’t really care. She did know—or rather strongly suspected—that Clymene had many more kills to her credit. Why she thought that was not easily explained. Perhaps it was the polished way she had killed her husband. She had come close to getting away with it.
As Clymene spoke, Diane listened to her speech patterns, trying to discover any clue to her origin. Not that Diane was any good whatsoever at linguistic analysis. But it was a mystery that Diane would like to have solved. Clymene told her husband that she had been on staff at the American University of Paris. But there was no record of her. She did speak fluent French, but her accent here and at her trial was southern United States, even though she said she was raised in various places in Europe. Rosewood detectives and the DA felt they had enough evidence against her without spending the money to track down her past. Clymene was an enigma.
Diane listened to the ways she pronounced her vowels and consonants, her syntax, the tonal quality of her pronunciations, hoping for a clue. Clymene did sound southern and Ross Kingsley said her French was flawless. He said he carried out one of his interviews with her entirely in French. He said he suspected she spoke other languages as well.
Language. It made her think of her daughter. Ariel had picked up languages with the same ease that she had learned how to swim. A bright light gone from the world—and Diane’s life. Her hate for murder swept over her like a wave. Her face must have changed, for Clymene looked puzzled. It was the first time Diane saw an expression that she believed was honest. Clymene had been good at reading Diane, but she couldn’t possibly follow the
thoughts translated into body
stream-of-consciousness language. Diane sensed that Clymene felt she had just lost her. ‘‘What’s your real name?’’ said Diane suddenly. ‘‘Clymene O’Riley,’’ Clymene responded.
Diane started to say they both knew that it was not, that truthfulness would go a long way toward generating some goodwill, but then wondered why she was even considering arguing with her. Diane’s role was over the minute she stepped down from the witness stand. She was wary about following through on the request regarding Grace Noel.
something, but Diane couldn’t
ever it was, Diane didn’t plan
Clymene was up to imagine what. Whatto get pulled into it. She wished she hadn’t gone so far as to ask for her real name. She’d known Clymene wouldn’t tell her.
They stared at each other for several moments before Diane spoke. ‘‘What makes you so sure about Tully?’’
Clymene had regained her composure—not that she had actually lost it; she was just momentarily puzzled. How she must have been concentrating on me and my body language , thought Diane.
‘‘His story is too tragic and he is too willing to tell it,’’ said Clymene. ‘‘He is overly charming. He patterns himself after a hero in a romance novel. His pursuit of outdoor activities provides the opportunity to get his victims in dangerous situations. His interest in poetry is designed to make people think he is sensitive. His interest in accounting is his excuse to handle the money in the relationship.’’
Clymene leaned forward again, supported by her forearms. The expression on her face was that of one imparting great knowledge.
‘‘He’s self-centered,’’ she continued. ‘‘Grace would tell me about their dates. He would start out asking her what restaurant she wanted to go to, or what movie she wanted to see. Even as she told me about them, she didn’t notice that one way or another they always ended up seeing