It wasn’t love; it wasn’t loyalty—it was a consequence. I cursed Hunter. I made him mine. And now I was the one who had to pay the price for that decision. Graham was just caught in the crossfire.
chapter 4
HOLLOW OF THE HEART
Graham
I thought seeing her—knowingshe was safe—would stitch me up. Instead, watching her with him ripped me clean open, stem to stern. I couldn’t stand there while another guy played house with the only woman I wanted.
Driving to the precinct, I mulled over tomorrow, turning Hunter’s card over in my hand. The Obsidian Curtain Awards, “The Oscars of Porn,” held at the Roman Forge Casino in Downtown Boston.
Jesus.
I caught myself smirking in the rearview—dark, humorless—the kind of smirk that saidyou’re really going to suit up for porn stars, Locke?
I got out, boots crunching against the icy lot, and entered the precinct. If I was going to help out on the case, Nettles needed to drag me out of the doghouse and give me back my toys so I could play wee-woo duty again.
He shoved my badge and gun across his desk. “You’d better not screw up again.”
“Nice vote of confidence, boss.” I squinted a tight-lipped smile at him and picked up my badge. I let it linger in my palm. It felt like a foreign piece of chromed brass—the permission slip that made it okay to take someone’s life. Dress it up in protocol, call it duty, or even justice, but in the end, the body’s still on the ground and the blood is still on your hands.
Deep down, the weight of the badge didn’t feel the same. Being back didn’t fix me. Just made me a puppet for the town again. But I took it anyway. Better to be a puppet with a gun than nothing.
“Hey, I put my neck on the line for you with the commissioner. He wanted you off the force completely.” He paced behind his desk. “I was able to convince him to let you come back under my direct supervision.”
“So… what does that look like?” I tucked my badge into my jeans pocket.
“It looks like you don’t piss without my permission for a few months, Locke.” The captain leaned into the desk, both hands flat on the wood, and didn’t blink. “I’m not going to babysit you… but I expect you to follow orders. If you can do that for a few months, I can recommend you for the detective’s exam.” He rolled the toothpick between his teeth with his tongue. “Fuck it up, and you’re done.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He pushed a blue folder toward me.
“Go back three months. Midwest murders. All dark-haired, blue-eyed, petite, feisty. Fast forward to about a month and a half after you left, and—boom—East Coast. Blonde hair, dark brown eyes, curves… basically a carbon copy of that train wreck you’re obsessed with.”
I wanted to put my fist through his desk. Instead, my fingers tightened on the folder. This had better be worth it.
“Open it. It’s crazy how much they look alike.”
I did, but wished I hadn’t. Each girl, a reflection of her, only… wrong. Nose too sharp, tits too big, hair platinum instead of honey, too tall, too thin.
Thank God none were Maggie. Still, my brain tripped over every little detail.
“Midwest girls still showing up?” I flipped through the photos. Each girl posed, hands neat, hair tidy. Ready for display.
“So far? No. They stopped once the murders hit here.”
I held up a small baggie. Black feather inside.
“Each girl held one of those—his calling card,” Nettles said and resumed pacing behind his desk.
“And the East Coast girls?”
“Red ribbon tied in the hair. Same setup. Arms to the sides, palms flat, ankles crossed. Staged.”
“You said his. How do we know?”
I stared at the photos, at the frozen, posed bodies, and my chest tightened like a vise. Every feather, every ribbon, every pose screamed her, twisted into someone else’s image. I could feel her there—somewhere in the blur—and it made my hands clench, my knuckles turning white.
