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“Originally, it was believed that Cynthia Richards’s death was caused by a copycat, but recent evidence and the presence of a second body have led the detectives to believe that The Compass Killer is back.”
“John, why did they not originally think Cynthia was the work of The Compass Killer?”
“I believe, Hailey, her age threw off the detectives. Although the manner of Cynthia’s death and the evidence left on the body, the north arrow of a compass, was accurate, she was significantly older than the previous victims. This is why I believe they referenced a copycat.”
“Interesting observation, John. And you might be on to something. But why did he return? He’s been dormant for years, and why Cynthia? The age has to mean something.”
“She would have been the perfect age seventeen years ago.”
“A little bit younger, Cynthia would have been eighteen at the time. The Compass Killer tended to prefer to kill women between the ages of twenty to twenty-three.”
“Maybe it’s personal,” the woman says, and I think about what she just said. If Cynthia’s killing deviated, it could be a crime of passion . . .
Cain.
Bile crawls up my throat.
No.
I shake my head.
They said it was part of a serial killing. Cain is many things, but he isn’t a serial killer. I’m sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for how he knows her.
It feels like my heart is pumping too hard. Reaching across the side table, I grab the pen and paper I keep there to jot down notes.
Two new bodies and another woman missing. All from the Upstate New York area, but the bodies were discovered in New Jersey. This time, the woman went missing yesterday. The problem is, she fits The Compass Killer’s MO.
Two killings and maybe a third in only a matter of weeks.
He’s escalating.
But why?
Okay, what do I know?
Cynthia lived in New Castle, right outside the city, but she grew up somewhere else. This woman is more upstate. Where did they say Cynthia was originally from? A different town . . . Maybe Somerset, New Jersey.
This new woman fits the same age demographic of the serial killer. They all do, except Cynthia.
Same age.
Same build.
Same light complexion with blond hair and blue eyes.
There is a type.
I remember when the story first broke when I was a girl. They thought it was a coincidence.
Hell, I fit this. Even as a girl, I thought that.
I remember thinking at the time how lucky I was that I was so young because I had all the other characteristics, such as blond hair, blue eyes, and a petite build.
I continue to watch the news.
They have nothing else to go on. No other leads. The police don’t think it’s a copycat. It’s on the news that there is a connection, which means the evidence must be strong for the police not to assume.
I’m lost in the show when I hear footsteps approaching from behind.
Turning over my shoulder, I see Cain.
He’s standing by the wall, peering at the TV.
His eyes look vacant. Almost as if he’s sleepwalking, and his posture is stiff.
“Cain?” My voice trembles around his name, and I don’t like the sound of it anymore.
He doesn’t say anything. He just stares at the TV. They’re talking about the new missing woman.
He’s transfixed, barely blinking. The only way I know he’s alive is I can see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
Is he awake?
“Cain?” I try again, standing. I make my way over to him, but when I reach out to touch him, it’s like he suddenly comes alive, his hand darting out and capturing my wrist in his.
The grip is too tight.
“Cain.”
I remember reading once that you shouldn’t ever wake someone who is sleepwalking, and you certainly shouldn’t touch them.
“You’re hurting me,” I say, our eyes not meeting as he stares past me. The vacant look is still there, his pupils large yet unfocused, but from where I’m standing now, it doesn’t feel like he’s sleeping.
It feels like he’s in a trance.
Like he’s transfixed by what he’s watching and can’t pull his attention away.
“Cain.”
I can feel his body shake, and then his head does as well. As if he’s righting himself, and then his gaze meets mine.
The hollow look is now gone.
That was weird.
He drops my hand abruptly, and I move it around to make sure I’m not hurt.
“You okay?” he grits out through clenched teeth.
“Yes.”
“I’m—” He peers down at my wrist and then reaches out, but I step back from him. “Sorry. I wasn’t myself.”
“You could have hurt me.”
“I would never hurt you.” He steps closer to me, but I’m still rattled.
When I don’t say anything else, he glances over my shoulder. He’s watching the TV again, the news still on. The images now from a vigil being held for the missing girl.
“What are you doing?” All warmth is missing from his voice.
