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“Arch?”
“Uh…” Shaking my head, I continue up the stairs. “I dunno. Call Aubree and see what she thinks, I guess. She’ll call Minka if she wants her. Secure the front door, then head up here with me.” I hit the first-floor landing and turn left. Repositioning the gun in my hand, I approach a bedroom door. “I’m alone up here, but I want you on my back anyway.”
“On my way.”
Sirens wail in the distance, and the creak of the heavy wooden door echoes up the stairs.
Nudging the bedroom door open just an inch, then another, a brand-new stench reaches my nose as I push through. Tables line the walls, plastic cloths draped over the top, then, like a fucking barbecue serving up kebabs, small animals lie side by side, from one end of the room to the other. I count ten, fifteen, maybe twenty or so; cats, small dogs, raccoons.
Some of the cats wear tags, and a couple of the dogs do too.
As I move closer, I peek at their faces, their dead bodies, and find the same bile-y blood as my first three homicide cases, matted in their fur.
Did he test his cocktail on animals first?
I walk the perimeter of the room and peek closer at a cardboard box filled with discarded needles. There are no antiseptic wipes here, like when Minka is infusing at home. There’s no tourniquet or cotton balls.
There’s no care when O’Dey injects people with his poison. There’s just murder. Cold and brutal and calculated.
“Arch?” Fletcher’s voice comes from the hall.
I peek over my shoulder and call back, “Yeah?”
“Patrol cars are arriving on scene. You, uh…” he trails off. “You probably need to see this.”
“What?”
Stepping away from the box of needles, I pass the shrine of dead animals and move back toward the door. But everywhere I go inside this house, I take care not to touch. Not to disturb the evidence we’ll come through soon and collect.
Stepping into the hall, I frown when I don’t find Fletch where I expected him. Instead, I turn left and move toward the next room. “Fletcher?”
“In here.” He steps out of the room and places his palm on my chest.
Instantly, I look down and scowl at his restraining hand.
“You need to take a breath before you come in here.”
“What?” I shove him off and charge into the room, only to stop in the center and turn a circle at all four walls covered with photographs.
Kiera Chase—in her uniform from The Stitch, which is also the place that provides the George Stanley scrubs and uniforms. Kiera inside the restaurant, a tray in hand and a smile eating her entire face. Another of Kiera, sitting in City Park and watching her son play on the swings. Another smile. Another candid memory photographed without her knowledge. Lana Blayney walking down the street. Lana, smiling in the park with a guy on what appears to be a date. Lana, with a little boy holding her hand in his, while in the other, he fists an ice cream cone. Kylie Bastion in her car. Kylie Bastion in a restaurant. Kylie Bastion in what appears to be an old school photo.
“What the fuck?”
I find more faces as I turn—O’Dey’s future targets, I guess. All young women, all different in their looks; different faces, different hair colors and styles, different eyes. Those placed furthest from the first three victims have no children in their pictures.
“He was punishing the young moms first.” I scour the room. “Starting with the unmarried or split-up.”
“Maybe he thought them to be less worthy or something.” Fletch steps up on my right and sets his hand on my shoulder. Not in comfort, but in restraint. “Maybe he was mad at the mothers of boys for not providing the perfect nuclear family or some shit.”
“What is…” I grunt when his hand attempts to stop my rotation.
Yanking my shoulder from his grasp and spinning to face the back wall, my lips peel back when I find pictures of Minka and Aubree—Minka knocking on Tim’s door. Minka walking the street with a coffee mug cupped between her hands. Minka working inside the George Stanley. Minka in her lab coat and those ugly plastic glasses.
“She’s not a mom,” Fletch murmurs. “She’s not on the same wall as the others. He was punishing them; he’s honoring her.”
“He’s fucking sick.”
Stepping closer to Minka’s wall until my nose damn near touches a photograph of her in her office, I let my gaze move fractionally to the left to stop on a certificate seemingly printed from a personal printer.
