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My forehead creases as I study him. What the hell angle is he working? “I was in love with her, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
His practiced features give nothing away. “Love can make us do some fucked up things.”
This guy has no idea.
“Your brother produced an alibi,” he continues. “For some odd reason, an alibi that was never mentioned during his initial interrogation. It was sent to my department via his lawyer once he was released.”
“His girlfriend had just died, detective. I’m sure he was distraught.” And Julian was giving me enough time to get away by keeping the law busy. He never owned to it—we never once discussed what happened back then—but I didn’t have to ask. The same way he never had to ask me. It was an understanding between us.
Carson shifts in his seat, moving the crime scene images aside to rest his elbows on the table. “Maybe. But you know, I just find it really odd. I also find it odd that a woman you loved so much—who you were willing to fight your own brother over—suddenly dies…and you just leave. Poof! I mean, you didn’t even attend her funeral. Or offer your brother comfort during his distraught time. Human behavior, it’s the damndest thing. If my profiler was here, she might be able to offer some insight into your actions—but I’m not really interested in her thoughts.” He pauses, waiting to see if that gets a reaction. I concentrate on my breathing, suppressing the impulse to ram m
y fist in his face. “You know what I like more? Facts. Evidence. The hard, tangible things I can get a hold of.”
I stand, knocking my chair back with an audible screech. “I think my cooperation just ran out, detective. I’ll see myself out.”
Before I can make a move for the door, he’s on his feet and heading around the table. He pulls out an evidence bag with a length of rope curled inside. “I never filed this detail in my report.” He shoves the bag against my chest. “And there’s no one on the other side of that mirror. It’s just you and me.”
I wait, breath held, for him to drive home the nail.
“There’s one thing that links the serial killings here to the killings down in Roanoke, Colton. And it’s not the motive. It’s not the victimology. It’s not even the geographic aspect. It’s the flaw.” He backs up a step. “One overlooked detail by both sides, that when placed side-by-side, there’s no denying the connection.”
I stuff my hands in my pockets, my annoyance mounting the longer he drags this out. “I’m guessing you’re going to tell me it’s the rope.”
“Bingo.” He holds up the bag. “Every killer has their preferred method. Their preferred tools. Preference is paramount. The Roanoke Roper always used cotton rope. Thick, strong, durable…not easy to get free of.” He eyes me hard. “Except for the last victim. Marni. She was bound and strangled with jute.”
The air vacates my lungs. The room becomes intolerably bright, the overhead lights buzzing in my ears.
“Why do you think a killer would suddenly change his preference?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for a response. “I don’t think he did. No. See, I think your brother still prefers cotton. Now you…you prefer jute for your Shibari rope work. Right? At least, that’s what I’ve come to learn.”
I squeeze the knot of jute rope in my pocket now, my heart thundering in my chest.
Carson doesn’t miss a beat. “And now, two years later, more crime scenes with rope as a major component, and guess what?” He picks up another file from the table. “I have a report that identifies all the rope present at the recent crime scenes has been cotton fiber. Except one. The first victim was bound with jute. It’s like the cases are reversing; working backward to close up the gap. What’s your take?”
“Fuck you.” It slips right out, leaving bitter venom on my tongue.
Carson shakes his head. His smile widens. “Human behavior. Everyone responds differently under pressure. But evidence never lies.”
“Have a seat, Colton,” he says, motioning to the chair. “We have a long night ahead of us. We’re going to relive that night over and over, until we get our facts straight.”
I could walk out of the room right now. I still haven’t been charged. But when will the running end? I’m tired—so fucking tired. And if this somehow gives him the information he needs to find the person stalking Sadie, then it’s what has to be done.
I pick up my chair and take a seat, giving the detective exactly what he wants from me.
“Now,” he says, propping himself onto the corner of the table. “What happened between you and Julian? What was the fallout?”
I stay quiet. He already has all the answers he needs—he’s just waiting out the charges to come through. I killed Marni. I panicked and used jute instead of cotton. It was my mistake, and it’s the nail in my coffin. A coffin that has been beckoning me home for two years. It’s time.
When I don’t respond, Carson releases a heavy breath. Then, “All right. Let’s try it this way. What made Julian decide to kill his girlfriend and try to pin the murder on you?”
And like that, my world shifts beneath my feet and spins right off its axis.
Truth
Sadie
I drag myself forward and reach for my phone on the edge of the bathtub. The screen shows no new messages. I let the phone drop to the rug, the warm bath water welcoming me back as I lie against the cool tile.
Despite the fact that it’s unwise to keep calling, leaving a trace linking me to his phone, I’ve left Colton two messages. It doesn’t matter; before long, Carson will make our connection. The detective is too damn persistent. Even if Colton disposes of my member file, there’s always evidence. We leave behind a part of ourselves everywhere we go, on everything we touch—our imprint remains.
