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She left the vehicle alone, strode towards Mia Ripley and ushered her into the motel. The brunette stayed outside, and for a moment he was sure she locked a deep, unwavering stare on him. It lasted just a second longer than uncomfortable, and now he realized what he was looking at.
The brunette and Mia Ripley were part of the same taskforce. The man sitting in the back of the car was the fake Monster.
This was a trap to lure him in, but they’d only caught one-half of their culprit.
Breathing suddenly became a struggle. He wasn’t averse to speeding off into the night, disappearing for good, claiming this one as an act of God. If someone else was about to inherit his guilt, he could ride off into the night as a free man. They wouldn’t come looking for him; they’d assume that the weak, failure of a man in the back of the car was responsible for all four murders.
But therein was the problem, he reasoned. He would have to abort his mission early, favoring fortune over devotion. And what if the urge to continue cropped up again in a few years instead?
No, he had to continue. Besides, what if the fake Monster denied two of the murders? The police would still be on his tail, so better to face them head on, finish the mission, and then flee into the night.
Little Miss Brunette headed back to the car with an undeserved confidence in her stride. She got in, fired up the engine and rolled out into the street. A few seconds later, a second car began to follow her.
It had all been a trap.
And he’d almost fallen for it.
The motel was off-limits, because who knew how many officers other than Mia Ripley were waiting in there?
Things had to change. He had to deviate from the plan.
But it wasn’t an issue, because he already had another woman in mind who’d make a perfect target.
He turned his lights on, swung back onto the road and followed the two cars into the night.
Now the real monster had full reign, and he was going to show everyone exactly what he was capable of.
CHAPTER THIRTY TWO
“I want answers and I want them now,” Ella said. She was in the holding cells, and in the cage in front of her was one of the Davenport Monster’s severed heads. He was a nondescript man in his thirties, nimble, wide ears, facial skin dried from nicotine abuse, short black mop on his skull crowned with a noticeable widow’s peak. His entire body twitched about every thirty seconds, and occasionally his eyes would expand and compress like an accordion.
“Not until I get a lawyer,” the nameless man said. He sat on the solitary chair and clasped his hands in prayer. If not for professional courtesy, Ella would have leaped forward and clocked the man in the jaw. He’d killed two innocent women, came for her partner, and worst of all, wouldn’t even admit it.
“We can’t get you a lawyer. We don’t know your name.”
“Lies.”
“We will soon enough, but until then, you’re stuck in here.” Ella needed to be in and out of here quickly, because Ripley was back at the motel in case of a second intrusion. Ella had no doubt that the man in the cell was the Rose Killer. His guilt was written on his face, and innocent people rarely demanded a lawyer right away. It was only a matter of time before they traced his car or his fingerprints and got a name, but she still needed something to put her mind at ease.
“Fine.”
“Why’d you do it?” she asked.
“Do what?”
“Kill two women.”
There was no sign of a change in his demeanor, no subtle microsignals that suggested Ella’s comment didn’t correlate with his understanding of the situation. The man had been prepared to hear these words from the moment she shoulder-barged him into a wall. He was guilty, and he knew the game was up.
“I don’t know.”
Serial killers were a little like the Grand Canyon, she suddenly thought. Interesting, until you actually got there and saw it was just a gaping hole.
“Vanessa May and Abigail Cartwright. Did you know they were both divorced? Well, I think Abigail was still in the process. Can you believe that, huh? Adult women making their own decisions?”
“I’m not talking.”
“Sure. You didn’t like the fact that these so-called traditional women were doing something you didn’t agree with. Did they remind you of someone?” Ella filled in a few blanks, making a few stretches to slot them in place. “Maybe someone who left you?”
