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“It’s a federal offense taking those pictures. Deal with me now, or deal with the guys down at the jail who love preppy boys in palm tree shorts.”
I watch him thumb over his phone, deleting the photos of Natalie from the device. “And from the cloud,” I insist as he finishes. “Show me your ID.”
Reaching into his pocket, he hands me his wallet. I toss it to Jameson, who’s got my back. Jameson takes a photo of the voyeur’s ID before handing it over.
“Now, if I see pictures of this crime scene online.” I cram the wallet back into his pocket. “I’ll find you. Do you believe me?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I smash his lips against the bark, whispering in his ear, “And you’re gonna respect women and their privacy from now on, aren’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” His smushed mouth can barely reply.
“Because if you don’t”—I can taste the salt on his ear—“I’ll end you, and no one will ever know. It’ll be the secret highlight of my week.” I twist his wrist harder. “Am I bluffing?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Now leave.”
I shove him away.
Jameson lowers his voice. “It’s not a crime to take those pictures.”
“It’s not my fault he’s a dumbass.” I watch, making sure the guy leaves. “It’s only my job to protect the victims from him.”
“One day, Bryant,”—Jameson shakes his head—“you’re gonna snap.”
I wink at him. “Yep. I’ll save you a front-row seat for it.”
The rest of the day, I spend at the hospital with Natalie. There’s no other place I belong.
She consents to the rape kit. Tragically, there’s evidence of an assault. I grind my teeth because, yet again, there’s no evidence left of who did it.
I stay with her until she’s back safe with her family. They have to pack to leave, and after what happened to their daughter, they want off this island fast. I share my contact information and promise Natalie… I will get her justice.
That promise I’ll keep above all others.
“Wanna grab a beer?” Jameson hovers over my desk later. “You need one after today and a bag of ice on that ankle. It looks like shit.”
“You sure know how to charm a lady.” I’ve ignored the throbbing all day. Now, while staring at reports on my computer screen, I can feel the pulse in my foot.
“Did you ever notice this?” Fuck it, I’m on to something, pointing at the screen and then my notes. “Natalie was targeted the night before her family was scheduled to check out. And look,”—I point to three open files on my desk—“so were these victims. All targeted the night before they left.”
“This island is a revolving door,” Jameson replies. “That’s four out of nine victims. Not really a trend.”
“Are they combing the surveillance videos from The Pelican?”
“Yep. Standard protocol. There isn’t much.”
“That fucker.” I tap my pen. “Mr. Davis. He owns that fucking bar and won’t post cameras where we need them. He only cares about the bartenders at the registers, not the customers in the crowd. That makes two victims who last remember that bar.”
Jameson sits on the edge of my desk. “Yeah, but that place is iconic. I swear every tourist goes in. Good fucking luck finding a lead there.”
But it fries my nerves.
I know who owns a third of that bar.
My target number two. The man I’ll ruin.
