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“That Leanne is our mate,” Spencer says, standing up and piling the mostly empty containers into one of the bags they came out of.
I put my gaze on E.A. He still looks like a cold, calculating vampire with those clever eyes and that serious expression. He’s not quite pouting. He doesn’t have the lips for that.
“What do you think about that?” I ask him, not looking away.
“I think we should talk about it after we deal with Anchor West,” he says, showing where his priorities lie.
It doesn’t offend me when I think about it. He’s the kind of guy who needs everything to be organized down to the smallest detail. I’ve barely known him for an hour, and I know that already.
It would be weird if he was more interested in discussing claiming me as his mate than working on our plan to get the evidence he’s been chasing after for years.
“Don’t worry, we’ll definitely talk about it,” Echo assures me, lifting one of my hands and lowering his head to kiss my knuckles before he lets go.
That tiny little touch sends a spark of desire to my core.
It’s the gentlest way a guy has ever kissed me, and I’m left craving more.
I don’t even remember the last time I had a real kiss.
It would have been while I was still under the influence and hiding from myself.
Meaningless relationships were the order of the day. Mindless fucking with virtual strangers, desperate to feel something, anything. Those encounters were ultimately unsatisfying and empty.
I wasn’t really all the way present for any of them, just aware enough to insist on protection, because I wasn’t ever going to risk ending up with another kid I wasn’t smart enough to raise.
This is going to be so different. I’m not hiding from myself anymore, and I might even be ready to settle down with the right guy, or guys. It’s kind of a terrifying thought.
I nod at E.A., ready to get back to work.
“What’s next?” I ask.
Chapter Thirty-Five
E.A.
I wasn’t prepared for this enthusiastic, determined woman when I first heard the name Leanne Leto. My ears perked up the moment I heard it, even though the circumstances were extremely sobering. It was odd. Usually, I only notice a name like that if I’ve heard it before.
I’d never heard her name before that morning.
The night before, she’d been stabbed eighteen times by the world’s most prolific serial killer. Despite every police agency in the world being aware of his name and profile, Frank Palmer moved around so much and so unpredictably, that no one could ever pinpoint where he would strike next before he inevitably did.
I studied this man for a long time, wondering why.
He never stuck to a pattern. Never used the exact same methods twice.
He was always violent, and the victims were always women, but everything else was changeable.
He was labelled by forensic psychologists with so many different mental illnesses that it was impossible to keep up with their latest diagnoses.
The truth, I suspect was much simpler.
He was evil. A devil incarnate.
If he were sick, he would have slipped up sooner or later.
He didn’t slip up from anything related to an illness, mental or otherwise.
He slipped up because of basic, simple, human emotion.
