When Kain looked over, the man turned around and walked away.
“Passersby often look into the windows to watch the people working out,” he said. “It motivates them.”
The windows offered a view of the fitness area too. Perhaps that man was looking at people in the gym or the other three people in the café and not me and Kain.
His phone buzzed with a message, and his expression tensed.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” he said.
But I knew he was lying.
Chapter Eighteen
Kain
After walking Eva home, I returned to my apartment and searched for Ozarrow Woods in Sturbridge. About fifty acres of it hadn’t been developed yet, still owned by Senator Falcone’s family. I was waiting to hear from him regarding my request to visit the property. I’d been to the campground and the public park but needed to examine the private areas. There could be clues about Hawthorne’s network. The underground complex that imprisoned me had been near Falcone’s property. Maybe Hawthorne’s men hid there after the explosion, waiting for things to settle.
The senator had texted me earlier when I was with Eva, notifying me of his niece’s murder that would be splashed all over the news. Twenty-five-year-old Shelly Clark’s body was discovered today in a church parking lot, wearing a floral dress with her hands clasping a bouquet of sunflowers. The news didn’t report her missing any organs. She’d been missing forseveral months in San Diego. Her friend, Malory Evans, had also gone missing, but her body hadn’t been found yet.
The more I investigated Hawthorne’s MO, the more perplexed I became. Sometimes his murders involved missing organs, while other times the bodies remained intact. How did he determine which bodies to harvest and which to leave? I knew he wanted healthy organs, but that would require his knowledge of the person’s health records. But then again, did he really care? Psychopaths weren’t always logical, so maybe he just chose whom and when to extract depending on his mood and bank accounts. I could spend days analyzing the fucker and still get nowhere productive.
I thought back to Senator Falcone. Why was his niece’s abduction kept from the news? The news didn’t always give missing people the coverage they deserved, but he was a senator. Why didn’t he use his power to push for more media attention?
I planned on asking him about his niece at Friday’s event and updating him on the Bleeding Hearts Killer. The country knew about the Black Rose serial killer, and he should be aware there was a copycat killer at large.
I walked over to my bookcase, retrievingChaos, a book I hadn’t read in a long time. I’d been obsessed with this book, wanting to get inside Hawthorne’s mind. But all it did was confuse me about the man. The book pointed out the many shadows within our society, not how tostrengthenthe darkness. A serial killer would read books to improve his skills, correct?
Nonetheless, the book was an eye-opener. All the things I once believed to be conspiracy theories were actually true because I tracked down some family members of those who were part of these secret CIA programs. What I discovered shifted my perspective on many things. I learned that theofficial narratives behind our wars weren’t legitimate. Mass shootings weren’t random either. There were hidden agendas that made a group of wealthy people wealthier. Chaos created fear and distraction for a darker business to flourish. The US government took part in psychological operations, torturing its citizens to study how it could control people’s minds.
Was this something Hawthorne wanted to do too? Or was he already part of something darker? Were these sick people part of his wide network?
The book portrayed Sigmund Freud as a fraud, not the revered psychiatrist people admired and studied. His theories were a deception to hide his own crimes of pedophilia, along with the elites who protected him. All the things I’d learned in school needed to be reevaluated.
Was Hawthorne trying to manipulate people’s behavior?
The book described unbelievable methods used by the military to manipulate people’s minds, making them commit crimes they had no memory of. I remembered walking in on Hawthorne working on a dead body. He was in a trance, listening to classical music while cutting out organs. Was Hawthorne studying various methods of behavioral manipulation?
The endless questions gave me a headache, so I returned the book to its place and walked back to my desk.The world is ruled by psychopaths—the elites.That was the message I’d gotten from reading the book four times. Blowing out a frustrated breath, I looked down at my arms. I didn’t have any tats prior to being kidnapped and branded. But when I left, the art on my body told a compelling story I’d tell my children one day. I didn’t want my kids or anyone’s kids to experience the same hell my friends and I endured. The world was ruled by psychopaths, and these evil people must be eliminated.
My computer chimed, signaling an incoming message tomy encrypted email. I clicked on Newton’s email, opening the shared file. My jaw dropped when I reviewed the data, a detailed spreadsheet that delivered more info than I expected. Why hadn’t anyone noticed this pattern?
In the past five years, hundreds of victims had died in cities scattered along the West Coast with the same MO: women or men holding bouquets of flowers with their hands tied with rope. Instead of roses or bleeding hearts, the flowers often varied. Most of the homicides didn’t make the news. The more information I analyzed, the more I knew the killer had connections to Hawthorne.
I opened the files I’d stolen from Hawthorne, printed them, and spent the rest of the evening sorting through them. Organization helped me stay focused, and I needed that to find this fucking copycat. I sorted the pictures, placing them on the investigation board on the wall, adding sticky notes with dates, locations, and brief details of the images.
I stared at the names J. Masterson and C. Loomer on the board. Those were the names on the coolers Andrew and Ben had dragged in to have us package their organs. Was Anastasia related to this J. Masterson? A quick search on my computer showed she had a brother named Jarrett Masterson, whose body was discovered with his organs removed about twenty years ago. At that time, Anastasia and her older brother were fighting over their father’s inheritance and his law firm. Her health was weak, and she was on the waiting list for a liver transplant. Miraculously, she got a matching donor a week after her brother’s body was found.
Thoughts swirled in my head as tiny pieces of the puzzle shifted and connected. Did Anastasia pay Hawthorne to kill her brother for his liver? Did she miss a payment? Was that why he sent his crew to target her at the hotel?
Noah Loomer was the second person who had received thethreat. His mother, Catherine Loomer, died twenty years ago as well. The reasoning was health complications, but I didn’t believe it. Was Catherine a random victim? My gut told me no, but I couldn’t find anything else about her. Hawthorne was a businessman, so I assumed he targeted healthy individuals to obtain their organs. Still, how did he get their names?
Before I knew it, fatigue tugged at my neck and shoulders. I leaned into the comfort of my chair and closed my eyes, resting . . .
“Twenty-five,” says eighteen-year-old Jay Gardner, who wants my Batman sketch for his younger brother’s birthday gift.
“Forty,” I counter, knowing he has the money. His dad is a hotshot lawyer, and they live in the posh neighborhoods of Brookline, whereas I live in Allston.
