Twisted by Laura Griffin

an energy company here. Also, she’s a marathoner. She was training for Boston when she was attacked near a jogging trail.”
    A woman glided up on skates and attached a tray to Mark’s door. The scent of fried potatoes wafted into the car, and he heard his stomach growl. The waitress dispensed the orders with a wink, and Mark watched her roll away.
    He handed Allison her food, and she was smiling slyly.
    “What?”
    “Nothing,” she said.
    “Jogging trail’s in Red Oak Canyon, correct?”
    The smile faded. “It’s a state park about thirty miles north of here.”
    “And does the sheriff up there know we’re interviewing her tomorrow?”
    “Not exactly.”
    “What about your lieutenant?”
    Her silence answered the question.
    “So you’re not on this case.”
    She picked at her tater tots.
    “Allison?”
    “Jordan Wheatley’s a sexual assault, far as everyone here is concerned.” She looked up at him. “Sheriff’s deputy I talked to said they’ve exhausted their leads on it. Unless I can prove there’s a connection between her and Stephanie Snow, her case is on ice. And if there is aconnection—like the one you’re describing—then we’re talking about a serial killer. No one wants me opening up that can of worms.”
    “He said that?”
    “That’s what he meant. He didn’t even want me talking to Jordan Wheatley, even though I can talk to whoever the hell I want. I only called him and told him out of professional courtesy.”
    “And to get a look at her case file, I hope.”
    “That, too.” She sucked on her straw.
    “And?”
    “He wouldn’t give me anything without talking to the sheriff first, so I said, ‘Fine, talk to him.’ Which he did. The sheriff said I’m outside my jurisdiction.”
    Mark shook his head. He was surprised and he wasn’t. Small town didn’t always mean small minded, but it usually meant territorial. And resentful of outside interference. They had their work cut out for them tomorrow.
    Still, if Allison had her facts straight, it meant he had something he’d never had before in this case: a witness who’d seen the killer up close and lived to tell about it. Mark was keenly interested to hear what she had to say.
    He was also keenly interested in getting someone on the local police force in his corner. Offering FBI assistance in a serial murder case was futile if the police department in charge didn’t even believe they were looking for a serial killer.
    And November 19 was looming.
    “Ah, hell,” Allison said.
    Mark followed her gaze and saw a very tall, very skinny guy walking down the street toward them. He was stark naked.
    Allison was already getting out of the car, and Mark grabbed her arm.
    “Whoa. He might be dangerous.”
    She shook him off. “He’s not. Can I borrow your jacket?”
    Mark looked at her.
    “Mine’s not long enough.”
    He unclipped his seat belt and took off his suit jacket. “Be careful. He’s probably mentally unstable.”
    She took the jacket and climbed out. Muttering a curse, Mark followed her. She sauntered up to the man without a trace of trepidation, which Mark didn’t like.
    On the other hand, the guy clearly wasn’t armed.
    “Evening,” she said, stepping into his path. The man scowled at Allison, then at Mark. “Your daughter know you’re out here, Mr. Pitkin?”
    He mumbled something. A horn blasted behind them as an SUV loaded with teens rolled by, kids whooping and hanging out the windows. Mark eased around, positioning himself between Allison and the man.
    “Pretty cold to be out here without your clothes.” She held out the jacket. “Let’s put this on, okay?”
    He stuck his chin out defiantly, but didn’t say anything.
    “Okay?” Allison held the jacket up by the shoulders. The guy scowled again and slipped his arms in.
    “How ’bout we give you a ride home now, Mr. Pitkin. Does Marcy know you’re out here?”
    The man looked at his feet and said something.
    “What’s that?” Allison put her