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I lean over Maddox and pull his collar to the side, getting a glimpse of contusions on his pale chest. Then I inch up his sleeve. Ligature marks wrap his wrist. He either had one last kinky romp, or he was tortured.
The Alpha is well aware of our discovery in Maddox’s office by now. So why not just make him disappear? Why leave any evidence at all?
I check his pockets for a similar card to the one found near the two perps. Nothing. Not even a wallet. Whatever the message here, I’m not getting it. Which means, whatever the message is, it wasn’t meant for me.
Thumb to Maddox’s chin, I pop his mouth open. “Fuck.” Maddox’s tongue has been cut out.
Rollins leans in and echos my sentiment. “Someone really didn’t want him talking.”
Against my better judgment, I let Rollins make the call to bring in their ME. The scene needs to be processed more thoroughly than I can provide. I send Avery a text to let her know. I’ll keep tabs on Paulson while she processes the two perps.
Conflict of interest, absolutely. And if they had died any other way, I wouldn’t have Avery anywhere near the bastards. It already pains me that she has to examine the men who abducted her, touching their corpses. But their deaths don’t require an autopsy. And with the way she voiced her anger at not being allowed on the scene…she’s not affected. Not the way a victim would be. She’s not a victim.
Besides, the Feds will tie this back to McGregor with or without McGregor’s lawyer getting any of Avery’s findings thrown out. As I take a last look at Maddox, I figure that’s fair. Maddox’s fingerprint wasn’t found on the drowned vic, just as McGregor didn’t have the two perps killed.
Karma is going to be a bitch.
As I head into the club, it doesn’t escape me that I’m right back to where we were weeks before, using The Lair as a means to track down an UNSUB. Only this time, I’m well acquainted with the players. I know right where to start.
13
Validation
Avery
I read Quinn’s text again as I await the transfer crew’s delivery.
I don’t know what I’m looking for. Insight, maybe. Comfort. Some underlying meaning in his words that tells me how to feel about examining my kidnappers. How to feel about them being dead, unable to stand trial.
I drop my phone in my lab coat pocket. At least I have the vague memory of Quinn punching one of them. I was drugged at the time, nearly out of it, but I can still recall how completely masculine and protective it was, how Quinn it was. How turned on it made me—drug or no drug.
My lips twist into a small smile as Sadie enters the lab. Her serious expression instantly wipes my smile away.
“It’s the witching hour and you’re smiling in a morgue,” she says. “You’re morbid.”
I laugh. “Guess that’s why we’re friends.”
She doesn’t deny it. Her green eyes, so vivid under the fluorescents, convey the truth: we’re more the same than ever. I experienced the torture Sadie suffered in her youth. We shared more than any two friends should. We’re connected by pain.
And now I’m taking my tormentor into my own hands, plotting his demise, to protect those I care for. If anyone can understand, it’s Sadie. But she has her limits when it comes to stupidity.
I did attempt to apologize for revealing the truth about Wells to Quinn—it wasn’t only my secret—but she confessed she knew I would. That there was nothing to apologize for. I still wonder…not about whether she saw it coming, but whether she sees me as reckless. Or worse, weak.
Sadie studies me intently. It comes so naturally to her; she’s a psychoanalyst, but she also knows me on a personal level. I almost feel like she’s cheating. For her, I’m an open book, my thoughts highlighted in bold, yellow marker.
“Late night darknet surfing,” she questions, nodding to my open laptop on the steel table.
Shit. As much as I want to, I can’t lie to her. If Quinn asked me outright, I wouldn’t lie to him, either. But he’s not here. By the time it’s organized, the plan in motion, Quinn will have no choice but to go along with it. The only reason he hasn’t resorted to contacting Alex King yet is me—because he wants to protect me more than capture his perpetrator.
Both go hand-in-hand.
A conundrum that I’m sure he’s raged against, determined to find another way.
There is no other way. It’s time.
I’m tired of being the prey.
Quinn is his own worst enemy on this one. If I learned anything during his self-defense lessons, it’s that the prey, when cornered, lashes out.
