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Now I had money to keep me in shoes—for a while, at least—and no longer needed to give a giant fuck you to my parents. What I did need was a place to channel all the shit inside of me. Or it would eat me alive.
“I’m not proposing anything,” Colby continued rubbing. “I’m telling you what you already know. You have the power to help a lot of women. We’ve got a lot of resources here. Those are the ingredients. Do with them what you will.”
He didn’t push further. In fact, he didn’t mention it again. He didn’t need to. The seed had been sown.
I couldn’t stop thinking about it, the idea born from it. A totally scary and totally unrealistic idea but one that I couldn’t get out of my head as I made coffee.
Until a visit from Emily Ryan served to shift my focus.
“You really don’t get a hint do you, honey?” I asked the woman who I was sure I’d scared out of town weeks ago.
Her presence didn’t make my lungs seize, nor did it fill me with panic. It just pissed me off. With every pound of flesh I’d already given her, she was here, hungry for more.
Fucking reporters.
I figured the murder had drawn her back in. Even though I’d scared her, she was willing to risk her physical wellbeing to get the story.
She had balls.
“I’m a journalist. I don’t abandon my stories.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” I huffed, leaning on the counter. “You’re just a woman like the many who are fucking fascinated with murderers, yet somehow, you get a paycheck out of it. You should see a therapist.”
We both should.
“Have you heard about the murder just outside of town?” she asked, ignoring me.
I sighed. “Yes, I’ve heard about it.”
“What do you think about the news that there’s a potential copycat out there, targeting the same kind of young women Granger did?” She clutched her phone which I assumed was recording the conversation.
Sneaky bitch.
“I think that they’re sick, and they have the same kind of fascination that you do with a monster. Their methods for exorcizing the fantasy are just a little bloodier than yours,” I replied in a saccharine sweet tone.
A line formed between her eyebrows. I was pissing her off. Good.
“Are you concerned that you might be a target since you are the only surviving victim, and this current murderer might consider you a job to … finish?”
My skin tingled, and my casual façade threatened to fail me. She was good. She’d seen my exposed nerves, and here she was, poking them, without mercy.
“You know, you might be a good journalist if you took your focus away from all of this.” I waved my hand at her. “If you focused on uncovering billion-dollar companies spilling toxic chemicals into water sources or exposing all the politicians who have paid for their mistresses’ abortions while trying to strip women of their rights.”
The wrinkle deepened. Good. I hoped her Botox bill was huge this month.
“Is that why there is a man wearing a Sons of Templar patch sitting outside the café?” she asked, quickly recovering from my barb. “I know you’re affiliated with the local motorcycle club. Are they offering you protection?”
Fuck.
“If you don’t get out of this café, out of this town, preferably out of this state, you’ll be scrambling to find protection from the Sons of Templar. Though they won’t give it to you.” I smiled at her.
Finally, she blanched. Good.
I snatched her phone from her hand, successfully since she wasn’t expecting it.
“Hey!” she protested.
I stepped back when she tried to take it back from me, then I dropped it, stepping on it with my brand-new motorcycle boots. They were Givenchy.
The phone crunched underneath my heel.
“You cannot do that! That is my personal property. I can have you arrested.”
I laughed. “Go on to the police station, honey. See if they’re willing to help out a nosy reporter.”
She glared at me then looked around, as if to find someone to help her. Everyone averted their gaze. Except Julian who smiled happily at her, obviously amused by our little display.
She was smart enough to understand that there wasn’t a hero to be found.
It was better she learned that now. I hadn’t learned that until I was covered in my own blood.
I took a deep breath, shaking off the thought, then went back to making coffees, hoping that was that.
I should be so lucky.
ONE WEEK LATER
COLBY
We found out he had the reporter before the cops did. Wire said it was ridiculously easy once they got the DNA hit from the national database.
Craig Singer.
A record as long as a CVS receipt, wanted for violating parole.
I found this out too late, though. Hades was with me. We’d been at the café, picking up an order for Sariah before we went out hunting again. Although I hated it, Hades and Sariah had some kind of … connection. Born the day he unchained her. I had punished myself for a long time for not being the man who did that until Hades took me aside one day.
