Strings of Fate (Mistresses of Fate) by Deirdre Dore

discovered that each of the identities that he’s used to contact his victims was initially created by a computer at this address.”
    “What?”
    Chris had another one of those weird-out moments, focusing on the hard muscles of his forearms, which seemed amazingly defined, but in a way that looked effortless. He was like an oak tree, strong by inherent design rather than intense concentration. The reddish hair that covered his skin sparkled like copper stars.
    “I said, he’s using the personas that you’ve created.” His voice had gentled just a little, and he squatted down. He looked like someone who should be wearing construction worker boots or mountain climbing gear, not your standard FBI suit.
    “That’s impossible,” Chris protested, but her body certainly seemed to believe him—she felt her blood pressure drop and little black fuzzies gather at the corners of her eyes. She immediately bent over and put her head between her knees. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. She’d helped that motherfucker kill people. She felt like throwing up.
    Agent Helmer, Ryan, was touching her shoulder. “Ms. Pascal, are you okay? Or is this another yoga move?”
    “Fuck off,” she muttered through clenched teeth, and he stopped touching her.
    After a few calming breaths—which actually worked, yoga wasn’t just a bunch of bullshit—she straightened.
    “Okay, so why are you guys talking to me here? Shouldn’t I be in a small dark room with one of those mirrors?”
    The two agents looked at each other, but Agent Midaugh explained, “The investigator in charge of Cherokee County’s Criminal Investigation Division, Tyler Downs, mentioned that he knew you and gave us some insight into your reputation.”
    Chris nodded; Tyler had gone to high school with her. She was surprised he hadn’t volunteered to come along. Actually, on second thought, she wasn’t. Tyler was Tavey’s archnemesis—so he avoided all three of the women on principle. It was a pity, actually. Tyler was hot, too.
    “Okay. Fine. I’m telling you that I am not helping a serial killer, not on purpose, anyway, and if you need to take my computers or see what I’m doing, that’s fine. I’m perfectly okay with it.”
    The two agents looked taken aback. Chris supposed suspects weren’t generally that accommodating.
    Agent Midaugh nodded. “That would be helpful, Ms. Pascal.”
    “All right, then,” Chris agreed, and stood abruptly, nearly bumping heads with Agent Stick-Up-His-Ass—his new name—and he reached out and caught her arm, steadying her. She wished he hadn’t done that. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been touched by a man, and his strong hands made her skin tingle at the contact. He smelled good, too—like the woods in the summer or something.
    “Follow me, boys.” She marched through the living room, past the bathroom door, and down the hall into her bedroom.
    She opened the door and gestured them inside.
    “Damn.” Agent Helmer stopped abruptly on the way in.
    She knew what he was seeing: the wall in her bedroom dedicated to the missing. Heavy-duty plastic folding tables were lined up along one side and covered with monitors and stacks of papers. Corkboard tiles pinned with pictures of missing children papered the walls above, including the picture of Summer.
    Chris’s messy twin bed, her quilt trailing on the floor, was shoved against the adjacent wall, along with a dresser. More gauzy lace curtains framed a window above her bed, the sill lined with small rocks in various shapes and colors. To the right, just inside the door, a window looked out at the wrought-iron staircase that led down to the street.
    They were thinking that she was more than a little crazy, Chris supposed, and they’d be right.
    Chris moved past them and leaned over her desk to wiggle her mouse. The computer monitors came to life, each showing something different. On one, she was building an online profile of a man named Dylan Fennick; he was