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I think about the murder board back at my Missouri home. Countless hours invested in the rebuilding of my case. Every player has at least one black line drawn in connection to the event. But it’s conjecture. Circumstantial. What’s important and relevant to me is not so much to the detectives.
Rhys has never seen my murder board.
When there appears to be no obvious motive, there’s the question of whether or not the murder could be serial in nature. A serial killer typically has no connection to his victims. Sometimes there’s a victimology, his victim selection process, where the offender is meticulous, systematic, and other times a victim is chosen at random. Possibly out of convenience.
This is the reason law enforcement becomes confounded when working serial killer cases. They depend on the victim’s link to the killer to find him, and when there is no link…
Well, I believe there is always a link. No matter how tenuous. The nexus may just be too minute for caseworkers to consider it significant.
A look. Bat of the lashes. A smile.
One single moment caught, suspended in time. And you’re in his web.
I’m not blaming the victim; the connection is misconstrued by the perpetrator. Serial killers rationalize, quite elaborately, their justifications. The actions taken are always in the killer’s control.
So how does a surviving victim take back that control?
I’m still searching for the answer.
Cam’s past betrayal has possibly implicated Drew. At least opened the door to question him further. That may lead to more information. I should feel relieved—one step closer.
I believed once that control was restored when the killer was caught.
Rhys’s declaration is a sobering truth. The never-ending quest for gratification is a dark, bottomless pit. Even darker than my underwater tomb.
Before I move forward, I have to decide if catching my attacker will restore the balance of control. Or send me spiraling down.
Coffee nestled in my lap, we pull up to the Brevard County Medical Examiner’s Office. The parking lot is near empty, and Rhys snags a spot in front of the brick building. We open the car doors to the humid morning air.
I take one last sip of coffee and then set it on the floorboard.
Even now, I need to know. Despite the warning, in spite of my own detriment, I’m more determined than ever to find my killer.
Before we left the hotel, Rhys picked up the message from Detective Vale. The detective is aware that we’re working the Delany case and wants us to come to the precinct. We’d eventually work our way to the detectives, to get their insight, but we try to save that interview for last. Not wanting to taint our own investigation at the start.
With the morning came a fresh perspective, last night safely and securely locked in its own secret compartment as part of the past. Rhys and I decided we’d postpone the interrogation (as nearly every meeting with major crimes and detectives results in them questioning us), and instead get the pertinent information on Joanna’s murder right from the source. That way we can start building the case backward.
Sounds confusing. Well, it is. Mystery writers often use this tactic to create a who-done-it storyline. Solve the crime first, then work backward planting clues for the reader.
I’m picturing Rhys and I as very clueless readers today. We need the end—Joanna’s end—so we can work backward toward her attack.
Rhys rings the doorbell, then inserts his hands in his pockets. “I have to send in a formal update to Quantico today,” he says. “At some point.”
“But you just got back from checking in,” I say. “Do we have anything to file yet?”
He blows out a terse breath. “No. But my superiors don’t care about individual cases. They just want to see progress from the team as a whole.”
My eyebrows draw together. I don’t envy Rhys this part of the job. He gets the bureaucratic bullshit, while I get to weave stories in my comfy glider.
“Shouldn’t take long to work up a report that shows the team’s involvement,” he says, rocking on his heels and tapping
the doorbell once more. “You want to call home? Check in on your cat and neighbor?”
A guilty twinge pangs my chest. I’ve been so consumed by the case, by my past, that I haven’t thought to do so on my own. And honestly, ever since I revealed Cam’s confession to Rhys last night, I’ve been agitated, impatient for us to question Drew. I’ve snapped the rubber band six times already this morning.
“Yes. I will,” I say.
“You could still fly back for a day,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “Check in on them properly while I handle the paperwork.”
