Thursday evening found me back at the Oak Room, once again transformed into Katherine Pierce. The blonde wig, the tailored dress, the carefully applied makeup that altered the very structure of my face—all elements of a disguise as thorough as any undercover operative would use.
Gregory Walsh arrived right on schedule, eyes scanning the bar until he spotted me. The smile that spread across his face was predatory, triumphant. He believed I had returned specifically for him.
Let him believe it.
"Katherine," he greeted, sliding onto the stool beside me. "I wasn't sure you'd be here."
"My meeting finished early," I replied with a practiced smile. "I thought I'd unwind before heading back to my hotel."
"Fortuitous timing." He signaled the bartender. "Another martini for the lady, and I'll have the same."
I allowed the conversation to flow naturally, feeding his ego with attentive questions about his work, his insights on the market. All the while, I was cataloging details—the third button of his shirt straining slightly against his midsection, the nearly imperceptible tremor in his right hand when he lifted his glass, the way his eyes constantly drifted to my neckline then guiltily back to my face.
"My colleagues canceled tonight," he mentioned casually after his second drink. "Perhaps you'd join me for dinner instead? There's an excellent restaurant upstairs."
"I shouldn't," I demurred, providing just enough resistance to make the pursuit enjoyable for him. "I have an early flight tomorrow."
"Just dinner," he insisted, his hand brushing mine. "I promise not to keep you too late."
I pretended to consider, then nodded. "Alright. Just dinner."
Over expensive steaks and a bottle of wine (which I barely touched), Walsh became increasingly personal. He mentioned his wife only once, minimizing their relationship as "complicated." He asked about my divorce—a fictional event I had crafted in detail, complete with a cheating ex-husband who left me for his younger assistant.
"Men can be such fools," Walsh sympathized, reaching across to touch my hand. "Trading substance for novelty."
The irony was thick enough to choke on, considering his own marital history. But I played my role, appearing wounded yet resilient.
"Enough about my past," I said, directing the conversation back to him. "Tell me more about what you're working on now. You mentioned a new investment fund?"
His eyes lit up at the opportunity to impress. "Yes, actually. Very exclusive. Minimum buy-in is substantial, but the returns..." He leaned closer. "I shouldn't discuss this with non-clients, but I sense you understand value when you see it."
Another predator, I thought. Not just hunting women, but financial prey as well. My research had uncovered concerning patterns in his investment history—clients who mysteriously lost funds while Walsh maintained his lavish lifestyle.
By the time dinner ended, I had allowed him to believe he was making progress. I accepted his offer to walk me to my car, permitted a kiss on the cheek that lingered a moment too long, and promised to meet him again the following week.
"Next Thursday?" he confirmed eagerly.
"Perhaps," I smiled. "Though I might be back in town sooner. I'll text you."
As I drove away, I dropped the Katherine Pierce persona like shedding a skin. The wig went into a specialized bag that contained the blonde hairs that inevitably shed. The makeup would be removed with clinical precision once I reached home. No trace of Katherine Pierce would remain on Detective Elise Blackwood.
My phone rang as I merged onto the highway—Alvarez.
"Blackwood," I answered in my normal voice, all traces of Katherine's higher, softer tones gone.
"Got something on our hospital angle," she said without preamble. "Found a former patient who filed a complaint against Freeman two years ago. Hospital buried it, but county records had a copy. She claimed she woke up during recovery with Freeman inappropriately touching her. Hospital investigation concluded she was experiencing anesthesia-induced hallucinations."
I gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Let me guess—no security footage from the recovery room?"
"Supposedly malfunctioning that day."
"Convenient," I replied. "Can we speak with her?"
"That's the problem," Alvarez sighed. "Melissa Winters, age thirty-four. Found dead in her apartment three months ago. Apparent suicide. Left a note saying she couldn't handle the nightmares anymore."
A chill ran through me. "Suicide. After the hospital discredited her claims."
"Exactly," Alvarez confirmed. "And here's where it gets interesting. I pulled the investigating detective's report. He noted some inconsistencies—prescription medication levels in her system higher than her regular dosage, no fingerprints on the pill bottle. But the case was quickly closed as suicide."
"Who was the detective?"
"Martinez. Remember him? Retired last month."
Martinez—known for taking the path of least resistance. If hospital administration and Freeman had connections, he wouldn't have pushed back.
"We need to reopen the Winters case," I said. "Quietly."
"Already requested the file," Alvarez replied. "But Blackwood... if Freeman is what we think he is, and if he's connected to Winters' death..."
"Then we're dealing with something bigger than we thought," I finished her sentence. "I'll come in early tomorrow. We need to map this out properly."
After ending the call, I drove home in silence, mind racing. Freeman was evolving from potential target to active investigation. If he had not only assaulted patients but progressed to silencing witnesses, he was even more dangerous than I'd initially assessed.
My justice system and the official one might be converging on the same target. The question was which would reach him first.