Page 23 of The Wedding Party

“Of course you did,” I say, “because you already know three is the definition of a serial killer, and even then, it’s not always in the same context as a perp who stalks unlimited victims and kills them. You know that.”

“All right,” he concedes. “So not a serial killer.”

“I didn’t say that, though that’s not where my head is at on this, no,” I confirm.

“What about revenge killings?”

“Likely,” I agree, “but it could also be the killer hiding from something the victims could have exposed. Any leads?”

“Maybe. Why don’t you meet me at your father’s office to look at the file when you get back into the city?”

“I’m not—”

“Oh, come on. He’s your pops.”

“He’s trouble,” I remind him. “Don’t be trouble with him. Once you go down that path—”

“I thought I already did?” he challenges.

“You did,” I assure him. “And took me with you, and if you don’t see that, then maybe I’m pulling you in the wrong direction. Maybe you belong with my father.”

“Maybe I do.”

“All right,” I say. “I guess I know where we stand, then.”

“Whatever that means,” he grunts. “Are you going to look at the case or what?”

“I already did, and I told you what I found.”

“All right,” he says now. “We’ll be expecting you at the office next week.” He hangs up.

I grimace. “I’m not going to my father’s office. The end.”

I grab the TV remote, but the TV won’t come on. I consider calling for help, but instead, I end up looking at the case again. Because I’m bored, I tell myself. And yet, I keep writing notes and I begrudgingly admit being back at work, on any case, is exactly what I need.

Hours later, my eyes are weary when I flip off the light to try to rest, but for the first time since the Spider Man case closed, there is no part of my mind hung up with anything but sleep.

I drift into a heavy slumber that ends when pounding on my door jolts me into a sitting position. “Andi! Andi!” At Lana’s frantic voice, I throw away the covers and race toward the door, expecting a tipsy, heartbroken friend.

Caution be damned, I throw open the door to find her tear-streaked face. “We need you,” she sobs. “Oliver’s dead and Carrie is missing.”

Chapter Twenty-One

I’m stunned by this revelation. Oliver’s dead?

“Are you sure?” I ask urgently, already back in the room, expecting her to follow.

“Very. I saw . . . I saw him, Andi.” She sobs. “He’s dead. He’s in his room, covered in blood.”

“Did someone call emergency services?”

I’m at my bedside now, where the clock reads 7:00 a.m.

“Yes,” she says, now at the foot of my bed, hugging herself, still dressed from last night, mascara streaking her cheeks. “They’re on their way.”

I pull my holster on, since leggings don’t exactly have a place to shove my weapon. Once I’ve removed my gun from the safe and secured it, I slide my badge around my neck and slip on my sneakers. I don’t bother to pull a sweatshirt over my tank top. There’s no time.

“407, right?” I confirm.