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“You need to see this.” Avery stands over the body. She tweaks open a plastic bag and digs out a new pair of tweezers.
“Tell me you found some trace evidence for us,” Quinn says.
I position myself closer as Avery lowers herself to kneel over the victim. “I haven’t found any yet,” she says, bracing her hand on the vic’s jaw. “But there’s always the hope that he made a mistake.” Forcing the vic’s mouth open, she inserts the tweezers and pulls out a brownish, blackish material.
I lean in closer. “What is that?”
Avery shrugs a shoulder. “Not sure. But whatever it is, the assailant put it there on purpose.” Her gaze lifts to meet mine. “A message, maybe.”
A quick shiver races up my back. “He left behind one of his tools, too,” I say, nodding toward the back bedroom. “How quickly can you get that to forensics?”
She drops the dark clue into an open evidence bag. “How about right now. Your wish is my command.”
“Thanks, Avery,” I say, getting to my feet. “Anything else of note? Her fingers?”
Her features pull together, conveying worry. “Not the fingers, no. They’re undamaged. Probably the only place on her body that wasn’t touched.”
Quinn speaks up. “His MO is all over the place.” He sighs. “Does this mean she was in fact sexually assaulted?”
Avery nods. “With this one, I can clearly discern sexual trauma. I’ll have a more thorough look and give you my full evaluation tomorrow. But”—she glances between me and Quinn—“I can tell you right now, if you’re wondering, that this is the same offender. The lacerations on her body were cut with an identical blade. The pattern matches.”
Quinn groans. “Fuck. One more body and we’ll have a serial killer on our hands.”
I stay quiet, allowing this revelation to sink in. I was already close to believing this was the same killer. Unlike Quinn, I don’t need the required number of bodies to claim this as a serial—I already know, whoever the killer is, isn’t going to stop.
It’s just a matter of time before the next body turns up.
“At the rate he’s escalating,” I say, pulling off my gloves and stuffing them in Quinn’s coat pocket, “that won’t take long.”
I need his profile. I need it now.
Which means I have to get my head clear, and stop obsessing over my own issues.
* * *
Twelve o’clock in the morning midnight, and I find myself parked in front of The Lair.
My hands grip the steering wheel as the engine idles, waiting for me to make a decision.
I tried to go home. I even circled my neighborhood—twice—talking myself into pulling into my complex, just to see how my nerves faired. But I’m too high-strung. Needing some kind of…release.
And the only thing I can envision, see clearly, is Colton and those ropes.
Not the killer I should be hunting. The sadist I should be compiling a profile of. The psychopath I should be relating to instead of fearing—who’s probably stalking the streets right now for his next victim.
All these thoughts swell into an overwhelming surge of anxiety, coating my chest with a prickly sensation that claws at me from the inside. A nagging cloud of doubt smothering me, tickling my ear, whispering that I’m too close to this to think logically.
Blinded by bias.
I push my car door open and slam it closed behind me, flinching at the loud bang that echoes mockingly in the still night air.
Low and steady thumps of bass bleed out of the three-story building. The heavy bass-filled music beckons each of my steps closer to The Lair. I don’t bother with my wig; Colton has already seen the real me. And the patrons here at this hour have as much to hide from me as I do from them.
I’m not even sure Colton is still here…but my body won’t let me rest until I’ve at least tried to see him. My brain won’t stop churning the past and present, over and over, grinding my two lives into an unrecognizable, distorted collage.
If I can just grasp one second of peace, where my mind stops—just shuts off—that’s all I need. One break from reality. One escape.
And then he’s there, offering me just that.
