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“Now, what’s interesting to me is that the killer has definitely gone through an evolution—that part is clear. I don’t think I’ve seen something quite like it before, at least not in this short period of time. The first killing was clearly them testing the waters, following in the path of the original Unicorn killer. There weren’t any wings drawn behind the victim, and the horn is a cheap replica of the original.” He clicked a button on the remote, and the picture on the board changed to the second victim. “Here, we see some more control being exerted in the way the body is posed. No sexual assault on any of these victims, but the Pegasus does seem to be taking more care. Like they’re learning.” He clicked again, and the picture shifted. “This was the first instance we saw the wings and no horn. Clearly, the killer wanted to leave their own mark.”
Phillip went through the rest of the crime scene photos before he moved on to the whiteboard. There, he split it into two columns and started to list out the ways in which the killer had changed and ways the killer hadn’t.
The “had not” column was conspicuously close to empty.
“It’s almost like there’s two different people,” I said, looking at the differences Phill had listed on the whiteboard. “How can the psychological profiles be that varied between the different attacks?”
“Well, I’ll tell you how.” Phill’s tone made it clear he was enjoying this. “Some serial killers undergo a change as their crimes progress. We saw it with Carl Watts, the Sunday Morning Slasher, who changed his MO quite frequently, even changing the way he killed his victims. Ted Bundy is another classic example of someone who changed as time passed. He started with breaking and entering, then switched to luring his victims before he went back to the B and E.”
Matt sat up a little straighter. His leg rested against mine under the table, now that the esteemed and renowned doctor wasn’t sitting between us and I had moved over for a better view of the whiteboard. ”So we’re looking for someone who’s had a big change in their lives recently?” Matt asked.
“Possibly, yes. Divorces, marriages, deaths in the family, big shocks to the system that might make the Pegasus shift the way they function.”
Matt’s hand came to rest on my leg. It was a casual touch and barely noticeable by anyone, but something that spoke volumes to me. My heart started to quicken, my back straightening. Maybe the scar tissue didn’t run that deep. Maybe I still had a chance to fix it all. Maybe…
Dr. Phillip Smith took up the rest of the day, running us through various case studies and helping us think more like the Pegasus. We came out of the meeting feeling much more knowledgeable but still were left without any solid answers. When it was all wrapped up and the only detectives left in the room were me and Matt, Phillip decided to make his move.
“So, Detective,” he said, ignoring me as he focused on Matt. “Where’s a good place to get a drink around here.”
“The Library is fantastic. Ask them for a Boozy Bookworm or the Slutty Librarian. Top two drinks in my opinion.”
“Want to come with me and have a couple, then?”
I braced myself. Here it was. My chance at fixing things between us slowly vanishing. If Matt said yes, it would prove to me that he was okay with letting what we had drift off into sea. And I wouldn’t be able to blame him in the slightest. The only person I could blame in this situation was myself.
“Actually,” Matt said, his mesmerizing light brown eyes locking me in place. “Jace and I had plans set for the rest of our night.”
My basement flooded, my ovaries exploded, my dick fell off and ran to the Bahamas. All I needed was for Matt to pick me up and carry me directly back to my place, where we could make sure the rest of our night remained booked.
18
MATTHEW HALE
The sky was dusted with bright white stars. The air around us was hot, stifling almost. No lights were on; no one else was around. It was just Jason and me, doing what we always did so well together, what we were made to do. Excitement crackled in the small space.
Jason leaned back, his gaze intent on our task at hand:
Staking out Colton Majors’s house.
There were two empty cups of iced coffee and a big plastic bag filled with chips and candy and other junk foods that were artificially designed to give a serotonin boost. The house remained pitch-dark with approximately zero signs of life through the last five hours we’d been sitting outside of it. Nothing shifted, nothing turned on, no one came in or out.
