“Me…what?”
“You’re the event.”
“Ah…”
He stalked closer to her. “He knew who you were, Sloane. He carved your initials into the tree.”
Yes, about those initials…“We need to see if he did the same thing with Bridget. And if he did attack someone else before you, maybe he marked a tree near the person’s burial site the same way. Might help with any searches that we conduct in the woods. We should be looking for a sign—carvings in a tree—like the one he did for us.”
“It’s you.”
Sloane bristled. “Okay, stop saying that because you’re freaking me out, and I don’t like it!”
“Who did you tell about Mitchell Donahue’s remains?”
“What?”
“Gage Emerick knew?—”
“Because I reached out to the FBI!” But not to Gage, specifically. Definitely not to Gage.
“How did you find the remains? How did you know where to look for Mitchell?”
“I had a general area that was my search zone.” A deep exhale. Then the full truth, “Mary Jean helped me. She…she actually reached out to me. Remember when I said that I found her? Technically, she found me.”
His face hardened. “Why did she find you?”
“Because she’d heard a story about me and Lily.” Dammit. This was going to hurt. “She was in a psychiatric facility.”
His face turned to stone.
She kept talking, fast. “And the story she heard—she overheard some of the psychiatrists talking about our research. The offspring of serial killers. She heard the doctors discussing how Lily and I were looking to examine what made those children different from their parents. Mary Jean reached out to me. She told me about Mitchell. She told me about you. She told me about Mitchell’s favorite camping spot, a secluded place not too far from the Eldorado National Forest, and I went there.”
“A…psychiatric hospital? That’s where she was?” He backed up a step. “How long was she there?”
Sloane swallowed. “Preston, we should?—”
“How long was she there?”
“Years. Off and on. She, um, she battled addiction. She didn’t have an easy life.”
Pain flashed in his eyes, and Sloane wanted to stop talking. She wanted to yank the words back, but she couldn’t. Because there were some things he deserved to know. “She was on drugs when she left you at the fire station. Mary Jean told me that she’d been clean while she had you, but as soon as you were there, she went back to the drugs. She—she knew she changed when she was on the drugs. It made life easier for her. Mary Jean said that life was just too hard for her and that her drugs dulled the sharp edges.”
His eyes closed. “Fuck. Fuck.”
“Preston—” She reached out to him.
He backed away even as his eyes flew open. “My dad was a serial killer. My mom was a drug addict. One who spent years in a psych ward. How the hell can you want to be near me?”
“Easy. You are not them. You are strong. You are determined. You are probably one of the most resilient people that I have ever met, and I’m pretty sure I was in love with you before we ever even spoke a single word to each other.” Wait, no…dammit.
He gaped at her.
She gaped right back at him.
So much for holding that back. “I did not mean to announce it quite in that manner.” Too late now, Sloane. “It would be great if you could perhaps just forget about that part?”
Slowly, he shook his head. “I will never forget.” Another step back.
