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I flip through page after page of The Skinner’s file, reviewing the interview notes and pictures of the crime scenes. There was Ava Thompson, now Ava Monroe, on the day she was dropped off in the ER.
The girl who got away.
She was covered in blood, and her long dark hair was caked with dried blood on her skull. Her grey eyes were lifeless, and the brand on her thigh--an “S” was red and raw. He had branded her before she escaped. Judging by his timeline in the other murders, a brand meant he was almost done with her.
She was the lucky one.
But was she really?
I doubt that just because she survived with her life meant she was magically healed and moved on, with unbridled happiness ruling her life.
I had seen enough in Afghanistan to know that dark memories—especially the ones she carried, would haunt her for the rest of her life.
Death always leaves an imprint on your soul. Physical wounds may heal, but mental wounds taint the soul.
I have worked out of the New York office for four years. The FBI recruited me fresh out of the Navy, where I was part of a unit responsible for special operations counterterrorism work in Iraq and Afghanistan. During my time at the New York office, I have been involved in various high-profile cases collaborating closely with law enforcement agencies and intelligence organizations. The experience I had from my time in the Navy proved invaluable, giving me a strong foundation in strategic planning and critical thinking, which has greatly contributed to my success.
But it took a toll on my mental health. I chose to separate after twelve years of watching my friends die one by one--either in the field or by their own hands. The war was ugly and took so much from all of us. It felt like nothing was done to help the situation. We were devoured by corrupt government red tape and Geneva Convention laws that made retaliation options limited or nonexistent. I grew tired of being told there was nothing we could do each time someone I cared for was killed.
When the FBI approached me with an open position and promised less red tape, I eagerly leaped right in. There was slightly less red tape; however, I still had bosses to answer to, which was an annoyance, but I was given a lot of autonomy to handle investigations the way I wanted with little to no oversight.
In the cases I was assigned to, the victims were typically dead already. That made my job easy. I did more profiling and hunting for predators than dealing with the living, and I preferred it that way. I was adept at finding people who didn’t intend to be found--finding trails that had gone cold. And my drive and commitment to the FBI sent me shooting through the ranks to lead agent.
This case would be no different. I would either find a copycat killer or the real one. I sincerely hoped that these new murders were a copycat because the implication of the latter meant that the FBI had falsely accused and helped imprison an innocent man.
I had to make sure I didn’t fuck this case up.
This case was under intense scrutiny, so I know I will be operating under a microscope. The sooner I close it, the sooner I can get out of this small town and back to New York, where cell reception actually exists. I am eager to settle the score with this prick once and for all.
“Her lane is on the right here.”
“Should we go lights on?” Everett asked.
Everett had been my partner and best friend for over five years. He was a young go-getter that balanced me. Many newer agents tried to ride along on my coattails when I solved high-profile cases. They wanted to be brought along to further their careers and sit in the glow of the spotlight. Everett was happy being a part of the action, regardless of accolades and saved my ass more times than I could count. We kept each other breathing, and I trusted him with my life. He joined the agency to break away from his white trash roots and make something of himself.
Well, that, and fuck anything that walked.
Everett is a ladies' man through and through, and for some reason, women love a man in a suit. He was overweight most of his life, and as he got older, he spent every minute of his free time in the gym. The more fit he became, the more attention he garnered from women. And he didn’t waste his time making full use of the newfound attention. It wouldn’t be long before he had a girl or two infatuated with him during this assignment too.
Even though he is a man whore, he is a loyal friend and partner to me, and that’s what I appreciate the most about him. He has my back and trusts my calls, and supports me on every front, but he isn’t afraid to tell me when I am being a jackass.
I did not join the agency to get girls. Sure, I had been with my fair share of women in my life, but when the sun came up, I kicked them to the curb. I don’t really have the time for anything serious, and frankly, I don’t care for the baggageeasygirls bring with them. With their daddy issues and abandonment issues, blowing my phone up 24/7 when I am balls-deep in another assignment. It just gets messy, and I don’t do messy. I fuck, and I catch bad guys. My focus has always been on my job and the adrenaline rush that comes with it. I thrive in high-pressure situations and the thrill of taking down criminals. Relationships and emotionalentanglementsonly serve as distractions, and I prefer to keep my personal life separate from my work life.
Life issimplerthat way.
For this assignment, though, I am happy to have Everett by my side and look forward to finally closing the case and bringing justice to the piece of shit murdering women. It takes a twisted fuck not just to kill but torture and mutilate his victims to the point of being unrecognizable. I had no sympathy for someone like that. And I would do everything in my power to make sure that he never saw the light of day again.
“Let’s go lights off. I don’t want to alert the whole town if someoneiswatching her. I doubt Miss. Monroe will be pleased about us being here. If she doesn’t already know we are on our way, let’s keep our arrival as peaceful as possible.”
Everett turned on her road and drove up toward her house. Her lane is muddy because of all this fucking rain. There is a single set of tire tracks that run the length of the lane that Everett follows until her house looms ahead.
The lake house stands proudly on the shore of the dark blue water. A large dark gray-two-story structure with black hurricane shutters prepared to shield the windows from the elements. Colorful flower arrangements hang cheerfully from the deck roof, nestled between each thick pillar that supports the veranda running the length of the upper level. The flowers sway back and forth in the wind from the storm.
An immaculately cut lawn of lush green grass surrounds the house, stretching away to meet the edge of the dark forest that encircles the acres of ground. Towering pine and oak trees rise from the undergrowth, their thick trunks and gnarled branches creating a sense of privacy and seclusion for the lake house and its inhabitants.
The forest seems to swallow all sounds, leaving only the gentle lap of the waves against the shore and the whisper of wind through their leaves. The home stands like a bastion, secure and timeless, overlooking the stormy waters and wooded shore. It was a beautiful, secluded property.
But seclusion was not a good thing this time.
