by Tess Diamond
“Thanks,” Gavin said. “We’re gonna need to get some people in here to brush for fingerprints, okay? And then hopefully we can let you get on with your day.”
“We should go check in with Paul,” Grace said. “Thank you for your help,” she told the manager.
She could hear Gavin following behind her, but until he reached out to open the door for her, she didn’t look at him.
“You did good in there,” she said as they walked out into the cooling air.
“I’m not just a pretty face either,” he said, winking.
A smile tugged at the edges of her lips. “You joke about everything,” she said.
He shrugged. “Defense mechanism. Maybe you make me nervous.”
“You? Nervous?” she scoffed.
“I’ve got butterflies right now,” he deadpanned.
Why was he so charming? It wasn’t the smooth, suave sort of charm she was used to. She’d been romanced by all types of men—PhDs, neurosurgeons, politicians, even a few elite military types. But there was something about Gavin Walker’s awareness, his humor, and the comforting ease he had not just with himself but with her that drew her in, even though she kept fighting it.
“You look tired, Grace,” he said, the light in his eyes turning somber.
“Now, that’s what every woman wants to hear,” she said. Now she was the one using humor as a defense mechanism. “And you were the one who kept me up.”
He smiled ruefully, but then his mouth flattened, going serious. “This is wearing on you.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted, but she could see in his face he didn’t believe her.
“No, you’re not,” he said. And for some reason, that soft, simple declaration made everything she’d been pushing down rise to the surface—the fear and regret and guilt about the hopeless puzzle that was closing in on her with each breath. It was staggering, the emotion that swamped her, enough to bring her to her knees, but she stood tall. There was no other choice.
“No, I’m not,” she said, hushed and honest. She was so worried that she was already too late—that their killer had already found a woman to “give” the final pair of earrings to. Maybe this was the end of the road—maybe all paths led to Raymond and they’d bring him in and it would be neat and tidy.
But life—and death—rarely was neat or tidy.
“I can help,” Gavin said, his eyes earnest. He meant every word, and she believed him.
But she wasn’t sure if she could open herself up to that. Not again.
She took a deep breath.
Maybe it was time to try.
Chapter 19
My pretty girl,
It’s getting so easy to do this.
I thought it would be hard. But my God, it sings through me, this rush of adrenaline and dopamine. Killing is the greatest drug imaginable. Addictive, heady, a thrill impossible to deny.
Who would want to?
Who was the first person you killed, pretty girl? Does it haunt you? Did you cry?
Or maybe, just maybe, a part of you liked it.
Because once you have the power of looking into a person’s eyes the moment they realize it’s over, as they understand all they’ll never be able to accomplish, just because of you . . .
Well, there’s nothing else like it.
When they surrender to my power it’s a beautiful thing. Everything reaches this crystalline point, sharp as a knifepoint, clear as glass.
And then she’s gone. Now merely a husk of a pitiful slut no one will really miss.
I’m doing the world a favor. Just like I did with the others. Ridding the earth of its detritus.
I’m practicing, pretty girl. Perfecting.
For you.
Soon, I’ll be close to you again.
Just the thought of you fills me. Flitting across my skin like a cool breeze. Soon, you will have no choice but to see . . . see what I’ve become. See what you’ve made me do.
This is all just a means to an end, after all.
I’ve pulled you into my game. Clever girl, you’ve figured some of it out. But you’re not even close to solving the puzzle. I’m too quick for you, miles ahead when you’re just getting started in the labyrinth of death I’ve chosen to play in.
I’ll show you, outsmart you, and then I’ll look into those pretty eyes—and finally hurt you the way you’ve hurt me.
I can’t wait for you to make the next step. You’ve always been too confident for your own good, even back at school. And now I’m exploiting that.
I’ll always be five steps ahead because I know you. I know you better than anyone.
I love you more than anyone.
Not that you deserve it, you bitch. Leaving me behind. Writing those fucking books. Swanning around like you got those promotions on your own merit instead of on your back, like the slut you are.
You tried to run from me. You thought you succeeded, but you’ll soon learn you didn’t. That you’ll never.
You’re mine. You’ll never stop being mine.
I just need to remind you of that. Starting with your next present.
I still have so much work to do. But it will be worth it.
Soon, it’ll just be you and me. The two of us, and those wide, wide eyes of yours, full of tears and terror the moment you realize that you’ve lost.
And I’ve won.
Chapter 20
It took forensics thirty minutes to run the prints pulled from the locker. Grace paced in tight circles around the parking lot as they waited for the team to come back with the results. Gavin herded everyone away from her, keeping his distance as well, which was good because she didn’t want to talk to anyone. She wanted to think.
But even that was hard. The heat of the day was starting to get to her, the humidity making her shirt stick to her back uncomfortably.
A voice in the back of her head was whispering that the car wash was too menial of a job for the unsub. She stopped pacing, looking up at the car wash, contemplating it.
Maybe the menial job played into it, she thought. If he felt denied the proper education he deserved, two things could happen: a lot of resentment could build through the years. And a lot of ego. If he felt like he was the smartest person in the room and was stuck for years in a dead-end job because he never had the opportunities education provided, that could feed into his narcissism.
And Grace knew for sure she was dealing with the worst kind of narcissist here. He’d taken his feelings of superiority to a deadly level, no longer content with whatever power he’d managed to wrest from “inferior” hands.
She wiped a trickle of sweat off her forehead, plucking at the front of her shirt, trying to get some air between the fabric and her skin. She thought fondly of the Swiss chalet where she’d spent last Christmas. The mounds of fluffy white snow, so crisp and cool.
“Grace, I’ve got Zooey on the line.”
Grace turned to see Gavin holding a phone out to her, already switched to speaker.
“I’m here, Zooey,” Grace said, stepping close enough to Gavin so the phone would pick her up. “It’s hot as hell. You’re lucky you’re in an air-conditioned office.”
“I am a lucky girl,” Zooey chirped through the line. “Okay, so like I was telling Gavin, the prints on the locker belong to Raymond Nugent. He’s white, thirty years old, originally from Virginia, but he’s lived in Maryland for a decade.”
“What about priors?” Paul asked.
“He’s got some,” Zooey confirmed. “But it’s petty juvenile stuff that got sealed. Disorderly conduct, shoplifting, public indecency. Other than a few traffic tickets, this guy’s been living clean since he turned eighteen.”
“Is he married?” Grace asked.
“No, never been married.”
“Single mother?”
“Um . . . let me see. Just a sec,” Zooey said. Grace could hear the faint clicking of her keyboard.
“Because of his problems with women?” Gavin asked, seamlessly clueing i
nto her line of thinking.
Grace nodded.
“And give a prize to the lady,” Zooey said. “Raymond Nugent’s father’s parental rights were taken away from him before Raymond was even born. He was abusive. He threw Raymond’s mother down the stairs when she was four months pregnant with him.”
“Jesus,” Gavin swore, his face twisting in disgust.
Grace bit her lip, piecing together the facts in her head. “Zooey, is his mother still alive?”
“Checking now,” Zooey said.
“You think that her death might be the inciting incident that set this all off?” Gavin asked.
“Could be,” Grace said.
“Sheila Nugent is alive,” Zooey said. “But . . . oh . . . she was put in a nursing home last year. She has dementia.”
And there it was: an inciting incident, a trigger that could break a psychopath on the brink.
“Okay,” Grace said. “Zooey, send Raymond’s address to Gavin’s GPS. We’re going to head out there and have a talk with him.”
“All of his juvenile records were sealed on his eighteenth birthday,” Grace said as she scrolled through the file Zooey had sent to her tablet. “He’s had one speeding ticket in the last ten years. If this is our guy, his escalation from shoplifting as a teen to serial killing is pretty speedy.”
“Did Zooey dig up anything else?” Gavin asked as they drove down the freeway, heading toward southeast DC.
“According to Web records, he runs an amateur porn site on the side,” Grace said. “Oh, gross,” she said, making a face. “It’s for ‘hot housewives who want a one-night stand.’”
“Well, that could definitely fit into the hating-women facet,” Gavin said. He signaled a lane change and merged behind a station wagon. “And at his most recent kill, he left photographs. Another form of visual documentation.”
“True,” Grace said.
“We still going with the impotent theory?” Gavin asked. “But if this is about sex, why no sign of sexual assault? Even with Nancy Bantam, who he spent the most time with. Who he bathed and touched and ritualized.”
“If he is, I’d expect stabbing to show up in the killing methodology by now,” Grace said. “It’s a way of penetrating without actually . . .” She trailed off, catching sight of Gavin’s disgusted expression out of the corner of her eye. “I know it’s horrible.”
“It is,” he said. “But it’s our job. I just . . . I haven’t ever had a serial case like this. I gotta admit, I kind of hope it’s my last.”
“It won’t be,” Grace said softly.
Gavin turned onto Fifth Street and drove for a few miles. The houses and buildings grew progressively shabbier until they reached a busted neon sign for the Sleepy Rest Trailer Park.
“Let’s go see if Raymond’s our guy,” Grace said, intensely aware of the troubled expression on his face.
They pulled up to a rickety fifth wheel that had seen better days and brighter paint jobs. It was painted black, with paint that was clearly not meant for steel, since it was peeling off in big chunks around the windows.
Grace drew her gun, taking Gavin’s six without his having to ask as they approached the trailer. Gavin rapped hard and swift on the trailer door. “Raymond Nugent? FBI! Open the door!”
It was a tense moment because it was always a tense moment. A moment when you wonder if it’s going to go south. If the unsub is going to come out shooting. It didn’t matter how long she did this: Every time, for that infinitely short and impossibly long moment, she wondered. She tensed. And she prepared.
She would be ready for anything.
But this time, silence greeted them instead of the haze of gunfire. Gavin knocked again and then nodded, signaling her to go around back.
She moved in a half crouch, her pistol raised, making her way swift and smooth down the shaky trailer stairs and around the yard, then back to the windows. She peered inside, but she couldn’t see any movement.
“Clear,” she called, quickly coming back to the front of the trailer.
“Let’s go in,” Gavin said.
The door was unlocked—always a bad sign. No one who lived in a trailer park left their door open—it was an invitation to get your stuff jacked. Gavin went in first, Grace close behind him. But as soon as she was inside the trailer, which stank of mold and cigarettes, she lowered her gun.
“Shit,” Gavin said, staring down at the floor in front of them.
A man with a necklace of black-and-blue bruises—cause of death: strangulation, her mind supplied numbly—was lying on his back in the middle of the small living room space. Stripped of all his clothes, he had a giant velvet Christmas bow wrapped around his waist. His blank eyes stared up at the trailer ceiling, his arms spread in a crucifixion pose.
Grace’s stomach sank. It had been another red herring. The unsub had cherry-picked Raymond, letting his past lead her down the rabbit hole of what if. Once again, she’d been played for a fool.
Once again, whoever was doing this was steps ahead of her.
Grace moved forward, careful to not contaminate any evidence. She bent down, pulling a flashlight out of her pocket, and pointed it at the ribbon.
In the center of the bow, a pair of diamond earrings shone.
A half hour later, the trailer park was abuzz with FBI. Grace had stepped outside when the medical examiner arrived—it was getting crowded inside the trailer. She tried to distract herself—check her phone, go through the facts of the case—but it was hard not to let the creepy sensation of being watched and the crushing guilt crawl under her skin.
All around her, agents were canvassing, asking the neighbors questions, but Grace knew that they’d get nowhere.
He was too careful to leave any witnesses.
“Hey, you doing okay?”
Grace looked over her shoulder up at a blue blur that she recognized as Zooey’s hair, realizing she’d folded her arms tight around herself as if she needed comfort. She relaxed, stretching, and smiled at Zooey. “Just thinking,” she said.
“I cleared out so the ME could do her thing,” Zooey explained, veering around a stack of rotting wooden lawn chairs to stand next to Grace.
“You find anything?” Grace asked.
Zooey’s mouth pursed in frustration as she let out a gusty sigh. “No prints. No hair. No blood spatter. No footprints. No DNA at all. He’s good.”
“Yes, he is,” Grace said. And he wanted her to know it. He wanted to rub it in her face.
“So, can I ask you something?”
Grace nodded.
“At the last crime scene, you said you thought this was all about the killer’s hatred of women and their success. But this one . . . this one’s a dude.”
“I know,” Grace replied, unable to keep the worry out of her voice. It’d been bothering her ever since they’d discovered the body. Mr. Anderson’s murder could be considered collateral damage—but this? The unsub had chosen Raymond for a reason.
What was she missing? Was there something else the victims had in common that she hadn’t noticed?
Was the initial misogyny in his previous kills just another red herring? A ruse to distract her?
Could she trust anything when it came to this guy? He was cycling through victims and killing scenarios like he had ADD. Was it all part of the game?
Was it less about the victims and the way he killed them and more about the game?
Grace straightened, her shoulders tensing up.
Was it all about the game? Was this even about an urge to kill? Or was he killing people just because the surefire way to get her attention, to get her to play, was to go on a murder spree?
Was that his sole motivation? It was a chilling thought. Only a true psychopath could achieve such detachment and viciousness. It spoke to a level of obsession that terrified her. How long had he been watching her, planning this? Months?
Years?
Her first book came out when she was twenty-four. If her novels were what put her on his
radar, that gave a four-year window for his obsession to grow, for his plan to deepen into something real and complex.
“Grace?”
She jerked, realizing with embarrassment that she had totally spaced out on Zooey as she thought. “Sorry,” she said. “Long day.”
“Grace.” Gavin ducked his head out of the trailer door, looking somber. “They found something you’ll want to see.”
Grace snapped on a fresh pair of gloves and climbed the rickety trailer stairs. The forensic team had been hard at work inside the trailer as Gavin observed, but the body was still uncovered. Grace tried to not let it affect her, but her stomach churned as if she were on a boat. This man—all of the victims—had very likely died because of her.
No, don’t think like that, she ordered herself.
That was just what he wanted.
“What is it?” she asked Rebecca, the ME, who was crouched next to Raymond’s body.
“I untied the ribbon to get him ready for transport,” Rebecca explained. “And I found this. It’s addressed to you.” With a pair of long tweezers, she held out a creased piece of paper. Grace took it from her, bringing it closer, and read the letter out in a halting voice.
My pretty girl,
I know how much you like gifts. Almost as much as I enjoy puzzles.
Have you figured it out yet? Or is your delicate brain still trying to process what I’ve done? What I plan on doing?
Don’t worry. I’ll explain everything.
Soon.
The trailer was horribly, suffocatingly silent with the weight of the words. Grace had to tense the muscles in her arm to keep her hand from shaking. Her throat went dry; she was afraid to speak, afraid she’d sputter and cough, showing her fear.
She breathed in and out slowly, trying to gain some control. She needed . . .
God, she had no idea what she needed. The walls of the trailer seemed impossibly small all of the sudden. She wanted to get out of there. She wanted fresh air.
But then he’d be getting just what he wanted—to destroy her. She couldn’t let him. Wouldn’t let him.