“We have one that runs twenty-four-seven. We’d put out a call for information after Sawyer’s shop went up. Most of the calls we got were pointless. People reporting neighbors just to see them get into trouble, but this one was oddly specific.”
“Specific how?” Jack questions.
“Well, they described a man who fit the description of the surveillance photo you provided us. They got a glimpse of his living room through an open window while they were out on a walk, and that’s what prompted them to finally call.”
“What was in the living room?” Anastasia asks.
“We’re still sorting through it all.” He sighs. “Jack, if you’d like to question him with me, I could use you on this one. We don’t deal with many serial killers in Stormwatch Landing.”
“Of course. I’d be more than happy to get my hands on this guy,” he growls. “I just wish I’d actually seen his face. That way, I’d know where to bury my fist.”
“Might throw him off to see you alive. His name is Ryan Foster. Moved to town a few months ago and has been renting a place over on Mariners Way. According to his neighbors, he keeps to himself, and most of the time, the curtains are closed. It was just this morning that he had them open.”
“Why this morning?” I ask, unease trickling up my spine.
Leopold shrugs at my question. “It was good weather. Maybe he opened them briefly and forgot to close them. Either way, we’ve got enough evidence to put him away.”
Something’s not sitting right with me, but I set it aside—for now.
“You guys can go in, and we’ll get started. I have to warn you, what is going to be said will likely be hard to hear,” he adds to Weston and Anastasia. “Especially for the two of you.”
“We’ll be fine,” Weston says, tone sharp. He pulls open the door to the viewing room and guides Anastasia inside. I start to follow, but Leopold stops me and closes the door.
“What is it?”
“What was on the wall of his living room?” Leopold’s expression is grim as he offers me the folder he was holding. “I don’t want Weston to see it.”
My stomach sinks because if he doesn’t want Weston to see it? Then that means it likely has to do with Violet. I take a deep breath and open the file. Jack moves up beside me and looks down at the photographs on a photo wall.
Bile burns my throat.
A pretty brunette is sitting on a park bench beside a young Anastasia, mid-laugh. Another image of the two of them on the beach, both lying out in the sun.
Then another—the broken body of a girl who had her life stolen far too early.
A second of her. This one with a crying girl kneeling beside her, holding her friend. Anastasia. She’s screaming up toward the sky, clinging to Violet.
My throat constricts. Emotion burning straight through me. But as it does, it twists into a darkness so heavy that I can barely breathe.
Destroy.
That’s what I want to do.
I’m no murderer. I’ve taken lives before, and I know the weight of pulling a trigger better than I care to admit. But with every life I took, another was saved. Women and children who were trafficked, addicts unable to get their next hit because I helped cut off the supply.
Ryan Foster is not a threat at the present moment. Not when he’s currently in police custody.
But I still want to march into that room and slaughter him for what he’s done. Discard him the same way he did Violet.
The same way he wanted to do to Anastasia.
“Breathe, Sawyer,” Leopold warns. “We’re going to nail this guy.”
I can’t respond because I don’t trust what I’m about to say. So, I slide the top image away, revealing one final photograph beneath.
Anastasia and me.
Taken the night of the Shrimp and Grits Festival. She’s leaning into me, her hand on my chest, and I’m gripping the countertop behind her.
