by Trisha Wolfe
His slitted gaze cuts through me. “Our past.”
Pressing back against the chair, I lift my chin. “Well, there you go. Your fucking greed put us both on the line.”
“I didn’t bring them here today, though. You did.” He digs out an image from the documents and tosses it on the front of the desk facing me. I look down. The gruesome shot of a mutilated woman strung up by rope stares back at me. “Look familiar?”
And the sickness is back, worming its way through my brain and clutching my lungs. My silence is answer enough for my brother.
He sits back in his chair, mirroring my position. “Was there ever any news about catching that serial killer downstate?”
“No.” I look away from the morbid image and at the mounted monitors. “The killings just stopped.”
“After Marni,” he says, and my gaze swings to him. “They just suddenly stopped after Marni. And then now, nearly two years later, in this city, one of the crime scenes looks suspiciously like the Roanoke serial killings. Actually, this scene here”—he drops his hand down on the photo with a loud smack—“looks too damn close to Marni’s crime scene, don’t you think?”
My jaw locks tight. “I didn’t mutilate Marni,” I say through clenched teeth, the physical pain of stringing those specific words together constricting my chest.
His blue gaze stays locked on me. “Do you think that one detail is going to matter to them? To your profiler?” He studies me closely as he props his elbows on the desk. “Colt, the detectives downstate didn’t go near you. You know why? Because I was the boyfriend. Suspect number one on their list. They probed and accused me, drilled me, until my lawyer presented them with an alibi. By then, you were already gone. And I never mentioned your name.”
Anger stirs my blood. “You want a thank you?”
“Dammit. Listen to me!” He stands, knocking his chair back. The screech of the legs scraping the hardwood floor grabs my senses, grinding against my mounting nerves. “You’re not cutting out of town this time. The detectives already have your name on file after today—”
“One detective. Carson.”
Julian’s face contorts, hard lines twisting his smooth features. Without a word, he storms over to the corner of the office and throws back the rug. Removing a section of the flooring, he pulls out a small gray lockbox.
“You keep that shit here?” I say, getting to my feet. “He could’ve had a warrant.”
“Doesn’t matter. He’ll be back.” He riffles through the box until he finds what he’s seeking. Then with a measured breath, he tweaks out an image and holds it up. “This Detective Carson?”
A throb starts at my temples, radiating to the back of my head. I blink hard, turning away from Julian. “Yeah. That’s the one.”
He mutters a curse. “That’s the asshole who questioned me relentlessly.” Moving closer to me, he says, “What are the chances he just showed up here? Zero. He came here for me. He knew I owned the club.”
But Sadie didn’t. I press my fingers against my brow, trying to work away the growing headache. My diverging thoughts all attack me at once. Either that detective hasn’t made the connection to Julian yet, or he’s keeping her in the dark. But why?
“Colt, did you hear me?” Julian’s voice snaps my last bit of patience, and I reel on him.
“This is my mess, Julian. I’ll handle it.” I push past him on my way to the door. “Like I always do.”
He grabs my arm, hauling me to a stop. “That’s the last fucking thing you should do. Your way of handling things is exactly why we’re in this mess. And it’s about to get a whole lot messier. Just like Marni. You just couldn’t leave my girlfriend alone—”
My fist connects with his face. My already battered knuckles meet flesh and bone in a blinding second of rage. My hands are wrapped around his collar, jerking him upright in the next blink.
“She begged you!” My throat is raw as the words scrape loose. “And you left her. No, I won’t fucking leave it alone. I’m not a goddamn coward—” I stop short, the fear in Julian’s eyes crashing through the haze of fury.
I turn my head toward the monitors and see Sadie on the main level of the club. Her back is to the camera, her red wig glaringly obvious against her black dress. My fingers uncurl from his shirt, then I’m moving toward the doorway.
“You need to leave that one alone,” Julian says, halting me just outside the door. “She’s going to crucify you.”
“Maybe so,” I say over my shoulder. “But her punishment will be pure and quick. Unlike the months I’ve spent suffering your guilt, just because you weren’t man enough to give Marni what she needed.”
Then I leave my brother to fester in his own self-made hell.
If telling Sadie the truth is what I have to do, I’ll tell her. Right now. Before that detective can nail me. I wonder what tipped him off: the one murder that stood apart from the others, or Julian himself. If he had it out for my brother during Marni’s investigation, I doubt it’s a coincidence he just happened to show up here, in the same city as the recent killing spree where Julian now lives.
None of that matters now, though. Although Julian helped destroy Marni, he didn’t kill her. The truth will clear him of that—then this will all be over.
As I descend the stairs, the hard thump of music grows louder. Colored lights bounce along the walls in sync with the beat. My feet hit each step with purpose, freeing me. Every step toward Sadie and the truth snaps a link of chain from my binds.
I enter the main level with my gaze scanning the crowd. The dance floor is more crowded now, the night bringing in the curious. Only the upper levels are member exclusive. Sadie knows this; so why is she down here?
A flash of red catches my eye, and I take off in pursuit. I spot her in the middle of the floor, dancing with some guy. Pushing through the tightly-packed bodies, I weave my way toward her, my gaze sharpening on her gyrating hips pressed up against his. Her arms linked around his shoulders. His hands roaming her waist and back.
My neck aches as my muscles bunch. Liquid fire courses through my veins.
Only a few feet away now, the guy stops dancing. He takes notice of me barreling toward them. I can’t get a clear view of him—features obscured by the dim lighting and people.
He ushers her off the dance floor, getting lost in the crowd for a second as dancers move in around them. I stop and change direction. He’s leading her toward the side exit—why is he touching her? Why is she allowing him?
Picking up my pace, I advance, anger and fear fueling each determined step that gets me closer to her. I watch them dip through the door, and I’m right behind them the next second, pushing it open. The door smacks hard against the outside wall before swinging closed behind me.
I’m just feet away from the building when I stop. I look down the alley, then toward the street. Lampposts illuminate the hazy night as cars zip past. They couldn’t have gotten far. What the hell?
My surging adrenaline climbs higher, my rapid heartbeat pounding in my ears. Finally a moment of clarity breaks through and I pull out my phone. Tapping Sadie’s number, I hold it out to the side, waiting to hear hers ring. She has to be close.
Pain splinters the back of my head and I drop the phone. I hit the asphalt on my hands and knees. Another quick burst of pain attacks my head before the night blinks out.
Revelation
Sadie
I’ve been in this position before. Torn between what I know and what I feel. What is required of me, and what I require of myself. There’s a part of me that questions how far I’ll stray before karma catches up. But the other part—the determined girl fresh out of training with vindicated revenge in her blood—can’t stop.
This is the first time I’ve been at a crossroads. But, even if I knew the destination at the end of either path, I’m not sure that would sway my course. I’ve come too far.
I hit “Enter” on my keyboard and quickly look away from the screen filling with data. I have never turned a blind e
ye to evidence before—but I have handled that knowledge questionably at times. My heart is urging me to turn a blind eye now, for completely selfish reasons.
Outside the glass walls of my office, chaos has broken out in the department. Officers scurry, fielding calls from the tip line while trying to weed through the many reports coming in from the people flooding the station.
Even at this hour, the calls keep coming. People who believe they have information on the “Arlington Slasher” or “Blood Count” have been showing up since the press conference this morning. Only the most pertinent parts of the profile were released to the public, but that was enough to get a reaction.
I’m just not convinced this method will lead us to the UNSUB. He’s careful not to leave any evidence linking back to himself; he’ll be just as cautious in his social life. The profile even stated that. If someone happened to get close enough to him, they probably wouldn’t live long enough to give us a report. He knows the area well, but that could mean he’s done his research, not that he’s from here. The logic is as simple as the very crude saying: don’t shit where you eat.
The UNSUB wouldn’t hunt in his own backyard.
As the officers continue to try to get a handle on the overflow in house, I turn back to my screen, not ready, but as prepared as I can be to take this next step.
I click the results and begin scrolling down the page. Colton Reed doesn’t have a very lengthy history. At least not one that’s on file. The details of his life are simple, common. Even boring.
I release the breath I’ve been holding as I continue to read. Colton’s last known residence was Roanoke. Never married. No known children. No felonies or misdemeanors. Not even a speeding ticket.
He attended George Mason University in Fairfax where his parents lived, presumably where he grew up, and then went straight into his field of study after graduation.
He worked for a major civil engineering company in Roanoke for five years as a site project engineer. He was promoted to a top engineering position before he apparently quit and left the state. No known forwarding address. Nothing. For almost two years, no new information on Colton Reed has been reported.
I sit here, staring at the screen, rereading every word and trying to render an accurate profile of the man I know while compiling this new information. Everything he’s revealed to me aligns with this account and backs my own observations. Colton is detail oriented. Organized. Is efficient at analyzing people and situations. He doesn’t take commitment lightly; he lived in the same area for most of his life, worked there and appeared ready to make a life there until he removed himself from all radars.
What doesn’t fit is how he went from a straight-laced career to a bondage rigger at a BDSM club. So I apply what I know: his brother owns the club. Colton said he needed help. That resolves the how…but what about the missing time between? Where are the pages to fill that gap?
Theories are taking form; triggers that may have spurred a sudden departure from Colton’s norm. Something monumental had to set off this unexpected behavior. Up until two years ago, Colton was predictable. Dependable. Above average, but he also flew just far enough below the radar not to draw attention.
Apprehension needles my chest. I could very well be building the profile of a serial killer. All the traits in Colton’s past portray an ideal life one needs to lead in order to avoid suspicion. To lead a double life.
But without a trigger, there’s no plausible derailment.
I scroll down to the bottom of the page, my eyes flicking over the details of his life as I try to figure out what I missed. He’s never shown signs of antisocial behavior. But that doesn’t mean it’s not there, below a well-constructed guise that fooled even me.
There’s no traumatic incident in his history to denote he’s a sociopath. Nothing that stands out amid his life to set off a chain reaction to create a serial murderer. And I had completely disregarded the possibility of him being a psychopath before—because one born into psychopathy has never known differently. They have never truly experienced guilt, nor have they ever truly felt emotional attachment to another life. I want to believe that I can recognize this disorder above the rest; it’s the most difficult to hide from a trained professional.
And I want to believe that the connection I feel to Colton is real. That it’s felt and desired equally between us. I close my eyes and envision Colton’s blue eyes blazing with emotion as he looks at me. Feel his touch, tender and then maddeningly aggressive, as he takes me. My heart races, and my eyes fly open.
I don’t need a background check to tell me what I already know. Colton may have some darkness buried, something he’s trying to forget—but he’s not antisocial. He feels with a depth that I have craved to feel forever…and I’m furious that I’ve broken his trust.
One day, I will tell Colton about my abduction. And that might be the day he invests his full trust in me to reveal the missing pages of his life. Until then, I refuse to let my twisted brain turn him into the monster.
I know who the true monster is—I’ve known her for a long time.
Moving the pointer to click off his information, I notice a flashing arrow. It wasn’t there moments ago—it was just flagged. My heart knocks my chest hard as I drag the curser across the screen to hover over the arrow.
A field pops up with a name: Julian Reed.
Colton has been flagged as a person of interest. And it has nothing to do with his possible connection to the victims. It’s because of his relation to the owner of The Lair.
Before I allow my brain to start formulating possibilities, I click Julian’s name. A new page blinks on, the scrollbar becoming shorter and shorter as the data overwhelms the screen. As I read, a vise-like force clutches my throat. I can’t breathe.
The rabbit hole I’ve tumbled down becomes darker, deeper, pulling me farther into the hollowness. I can’t find purchase along the dirty walls as I reach and claw. There is only down.
My hand trembling, I click “Print” and then collect the pages as they’re spit from the machine. Snatching the last one from the tray, I have just enough mental capability to grab my shoulder holster and slip it on as I leave my office.
I weave a path through the crush of uniforms and people crowding the bullpen, my sight focused on the office straight ahead. Someone calls my name, but I don’t respond. Don’t turn around. There is only one person I want to confront right now.
When I reach his door, I don’t knock. I march into the office to find Carson behind his computer screen. His wide gaze captures mine as I fling the pages down onto his desk.
“You better start talking, and you better have a fucking good explanation as to why I shouldn’t go to Quinn right now and have you removed from this case.” The words rush out hot past my lips as my chest heaves. I ball my hands into fists to keep them from shaking.
After he looks over Julian’s file, Carson stands, hands raised. “All right. Just calm down, and I’ll fill you in.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down,” I snap. I close the office door and lower the blinds, blocking out the chaos. Then I move closer to Carson, my eyes taking in every facial tick, bead of sweat, his posture and movements. I’m tuned in to his body language as I wait to hear his justification.
“You flagged Colton Reed,” I accuse.
He nods. “Yeah, I did. Just now, but it’s warranted. I missed the connection the first time around…but that’s because I was so focused on the brother.” He runs a hand through his auburn hair. “I was a rookie detective. And I was cocky. I thought I could nail him all by myself.”
“You’re still a fucking rookie, Carson. This just proves it.” I shake my head. “You’re working an angle behind my back. Behind Quinn’s back. He’s going to lose his shit when he finds out you got transferred here to pursue an old case.”
Carson’s brow furrows. “Quinn knows.”
And the betrayal is complete. Quick and cutting. Gritting my teeth, I fall down into a chair.
/> Quinn knows.
I piece together everything then. The killings making headlines, the departments made aware. Carson contacting Quinn about a possible connection between the two cases. And Quinn bringing him in. All without including me in the know.
What’s worse? My own damn interference, which ultimately kept me from seeing clearly. I came across this victim during my initial ViCAP search and didn’t follow through. In fact, as soon as I realized the vic’s association to a serial killer case I had worked, I shut it down.
As far as I was concerned, that case was closed.
I was sure of that.
There was no way that the perpetrator from the Roanoke killings could be responsible for the Arlington murders.
Marni Holloway was a victim in a string of killings that took place over a stretch of three years. The murders happened far enough apart that no one connected they were serials until later, and then they suddenly stopped.
Marni Holloway was determined to be the last victim. She was also in a romantic relationship with Julian Reed according to his file. Also noted in his file: Detective Alec Carson worked her case. Carson pegged Julian as the main suspect in her murder, regardless of the fact that it was documented as an unsolved serial case.
But there’s more…a new entry made just today. An entry that only Carson could’ve made that incriminates Colton in a two-year old case.
A blinding pressure builds behind my eyes and my ears fill with a high whirring noise. I squeeze my eyes closed. Block out the sound. Cradle my head in my hands.
I hear Carson’s voice trying to break through the attack, but it’s just a distant plea.
“Agent Bonds,” he says, and I feel his touch on my shoulder.
I lift my head, and Carson’s concerned face comes into focus. The flooding whoosh in my ears dies down to a slow trickle. “I’m all right.”
“You probably haven’t eaten anything for a while,” he says, offering a helpful excuse. “I get like that on a case, too. We should take a break.”