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“Oh no, Gavin! No! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you like that.” Sasha sounds genuinely concerned. Her FBI persona cracks for a second, letting me see the human side.
“Fuck. You just took a year off my life.” I run a hand through my hair and realize my forehead is slick with sweat.
“I’m sorry. No, that’s not why I’m calling.”
My poor heart thuds behind my ribcage, waiting for the axe to drop. “Then why?”
She sighs. “Mitch went to the crime scene.”
“What?” The ominous feeling from earlier today shrouds me, dropping down like a thick fog, suffocating, weighing down on my shoulders. I collapse to my knees, not caring that the hard wood slats of the deck bruise and splinter my flesh. It’s a preferable pain to the splintering of my heart.
“I told him not to, but he’s meeting Van Zandt and Halifax at the scene,” Sasha explains.
That selfish asshole! He gave no thought to how I would feel at his recklessness, that I would worry and lose my mind while he’s off getting cozy with a psycho.
My head spins and I have to thrust out a hand to stop from falling forward onto my face.
“I-I have to go,” I stammer, ending the call before Sasha can say another word.
Fuck him if he thinks he can do this without me. Fucking Mitch and his goddamn
irresponsible behavior! I shouldn’t let my emotions take charge. My rational side is begging me to stop, but I refuse to listen. Clambering to my feet, I head up to my bedroom, grab my laptop, and furiously start typing.
Fucking Johnny Utah. I’ll show him that I’m no damsel in distress.
Mitch
I accept the cup of burnt smelling coffee from the uniformed cop and take a sip of the bitter liquid. “Thanks.”
It’s awful, but beggars can’t be choosers, and at three in the morning at a gruesome crime scene, I’ll take what I can get.
“How did you get inside the tape,” he asks, frowning when he tastes his own cup of coffee.
“Professional courtesy.” When the cop continues staring, I elaborate. “Former Fed. Used to be on a serial killer task force. This homicide involves a client of mine.”
He nods. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
It takes a massive amount of concentration to keep from flinching back at the man’s question. No doubt he’s seen me in the tabloids or on T.V. with Gavin. “No,” I reply. “I doubt it.”
Naturally, that’s when the reporters huddled along the yellow crime scene tape spot me and go crazy, busting my lie.
“Mitch!”
“Mitch Hale! Where’s Gavin?”
“Is Gavin Walker the body you found?”
“Did the stalker kill someone?”
“Where’s Gavin?”
The cop smirks at me after listening to the inane questions, certainly able to place my name and face after that display.
Van Zandt emerges from the damp alley between a Chinese restaurant and a tiny grocery store in West Hollywood, snapping off his latex gloves. “Same guy,” he confirms, ignoring the continued shouts from the media. “Same victim type, same finger missing, same cause of death most likely, but we’ll have to wait for the M.E. to confirm.”
“What’s the cause of death?” I ask. I did hours of research on the serial killings and the suspect before receiving the call from Sasha that there was a body found. Not once did it mention how the victims died.
Van Zandt glances at the cop, glaring until the man walks away. “This is inside info, Hale. Only the bureau knows the COD on the vics.”
