Once the doctor shifted into my place and began examining the old woman, I returned to Stori, who hugged the startled woman. As a journalist, she was used to these kinds of urgent situations.
The terrified woman pointed to the alley beside the building. “There’s a body over there.”
“Holy shit,” said a guy wearing a Patriots coat.
Curious, I walked over and saw the dead body. My legs turned to jelly. I braced a hand on the brick wall, trying to compose myself. A young woman lay in the middle of the dirty alley in a red dress, her skin blue. She held a bouquet of red roses with both hands placed at the center of her bloody chest. Bile rose in my throat as my imagination conjured images of what could’ve happened to her. Panic surged, and I inhaled a breath, trying to calm my nerves. I stepped back and bumped into Stori. From the pallor of her face, I knew she’d seen it too.
“I’ve got to call the station,” she said.
After I gave my statement to the police, I sat in my car, attempting to calm down. Why did she have so much blood on her chest? The horrific memory from my childhood flashed before me. Panic rose again as I saw a bloody heart, lungs, liver, and other organs that a little girl shouldn’t see.
No, no, no.I closed my eyes and concentrated on my inhales and exhales. A car honked, drawing me back to the moment. I opened my eyes, seeing more police cars and news stations arriving. Trying to steer my mind away from the dead body, I concentrated on the woman I’d helped. The doctor said she probably had a stroke and alerted the EMTs.
What were the chances of two emergencies happening at once? I was glad I spotted her when I did. The doctor said she could’ve hit her head on the ground if I hadn’t caught her in time. Something like this could so easily happen to my grandfather . ..
I needed to schedule a spa day or something to take care of myself. After another round of deep breathing and trying to focus on my surroundings, I felt stable enough to drive. I headed out to buy groceries, stopped by the bank, and bought a new apron for my grandfather. Though he already had a collection of them, a new one always made him happy. All the running around kept my mind off the horrific image. How could anyone unsee something like that? And why was she holding a bouquet?
Chapter Three
Kain
Inside my office, I watched the news on my wall-mounted TV. My fingers curled as the news reporter described the dead body holding a bouquet of red roses. The authorities scoured the area trying to locate her missing heart but hadn’t found it.
As memories flooded my mind, a little voice whispered in my ear,“He’s back.”
That’s impossible.
“The Black Rose Killer, the criminal alias of Victor Hawthorne, died twenty years ago. The authorities are searching for a copycat.” The news flashed images of dead women gripping a bouquet of black roses in a prayer position.
I’d been deceived by Hawthorne’s men when they knocked me out and dragged me to the hellhole where I was kept captive for five long years.
The news anchor continued reporting, “If you have any information about this crime, please call the local authorities.”
My phone rang, and Godfrey’s name flashed on the screen.
“Hey,” I said. “Seen the news?”
“We all have. The boys are with me. You busy? Can we stop by?”
I looked at my schedule and shifted two meetings to next week. “Come over now.”
Twenty minutes later, Godfrey Markov, Hudson Gao, and Timber Slade strode into my office.
“Help yourself to these mochi donuts.” Timber placed a box on the round conference table by the large window, slipped off his brown coat, and draped it over the chair, revealing a Bruins sweatshirt over athletic pants. He probably went to my gym earlier. All of my friends had free lifetime memberships.
Timber shoved a hand through his dirty blond hair that desperately needed a trim. A few wild strands escaped his hand, falling over his head, looking like bangs on a woman. I would have made a joke about it, but today’s somber mood didn’t call for that.
“Do you think it’s him?” Godfrey shook off his gray felt coat, revealing a black sweater over dark slacks, matching his dark hair. Blue eyes watched mine, waiting for my response.
“It can’t be Hawthorne,” I said. “He’s dead.”
But the recent murders raised so many questions.
“It’s not a ghost killing people.” Hudson stood next to Godfrey and slapped a playful hand on his friend’s back.
“I know that.” Godfrey rolled his eyes, folding himself into the chair. “What I mean is, did he leave something behind for these copycats to find? The MO is close to Hawthorne’s.”
“Dead woman in a dress with her hands in a prayer position holding a bouquet of flowers.”
