by Abby, S. T.
She laughs as well, then sighs. “Coffee later?” I ask her.
“Muffin, remember?”
“Right. Sorry. Sleep deprived.”
“I’ll see you later, Agent Bennett.”
“Definitely,” I tell her around a yawn as I pull into my house.
She hangs up, and I immediately type in her name in a text to Hadley.
HADLEY: What am I looking for?
ME: A criminal record only.
HADLEY: Done and done. She’s clean.
ME: That was fast.
HADLEY: That’s what she said.
Chuckling, I put my phone away, and I walk inside. My mind is tired, but I’m still running facts of the case over in my head, thinking of anything we might be missing.
The unsub tortures his victims for days, but not for the same amount of days. Three days this last time. Two days apiece on the first two victims. Four days on the third and fourth victims. The lack of consistency doesn’t make sense, neither does the targeted skin that is removed. It’s always different, except for the damn dick removal. Sometimes all the fingers are cut off. Sometimes they’re not.
My house is empty, quiet, and somewhat eerie, considering the case I’m working on. All the victims are a reflection of myself. Single. Alone. Physically fit. Living in a secluded area. Workaholics.
My closest neighbor is a mile down the road.
No one notices the victims missing for days on end. They all call into work. It’s a taped recording of a man’s voice, from what we can surmise, considering the words are exactly the same. None of the businesses record those calls, obviously, so we’re having to trust the person who received the call.
The last body was only found because one of his work colleagues came to find out why he didn’t come to work on the fourth day and never called in for that day.
It’s depressing to know that no one outside of work notices them missing. The same would hold true for myself.
My eyes scan my house out of habit, looking for anything out of place. Once I feel confident nothing has been disturbed, I take off my gun, set my alarm, and then I drop to the bed.
My eyes close, and I expect to see the images of dead bodies like I always do.
Instead, I’m lost in a set of haunted green eyes I’ll be seeing later.
Chapter 3
When you are courting a nice girl, an hour seems like a second. When you sit on a red-hot cinder, a second seems like an hour. That’s relativity.
—Albert Einstein
LANA
It’s after five when I start looking at my watch, wondering if I really am being stood up this time. I’m not sure what compelled me to call him, flirt with him, then agree to a date. Maybe it’s because I need to feel less like a cold monster and more like a woman.
I lived. Others died.
I lived, yet I feel dead.
Maybe I want to feel alive, considering my time may be limited. I should treasure every moment…when I’m not collecting on an overdue debt. It’s not exactly romantic to think of a guy while you’re slicing another one to pieces, but Logan was definitely on my mind during the three days I spent reaping the debt from Ben.
Not in the dark recesses of my mind that are reserved for revenge either. No. Logan was in the good parts that I thought no longer existed. He awakened a long-gone light as though not all the good inside me had been destroyed.
Just as I’m about to text him and find out if he’s okay, there’s suddenly a body sliding into the seat in front of me, and my eyes pop up to meet a set of soft blues. I could stare at those eyes all day. The rest of him measures up to those perfect eyes too.
He’s sin and pleasure wrapped in a package I’m tempted to peek at.
“So sorry,” he groans, motioning a waitress over. “There was a traffic jam. I actually had to abuse my power and hit the lights just to get through.”
My smile surprises me every time he makes me use it. “It’s fine. I was just worried,” I lie, well, sort of. I was worried about him, and I was worried I’d been stood up.
His grin is genuine and instant when he sees I’m not pissed, and the waitress shows up, ending the moment of two idiots grinning at each other.
I honestly can’t remember a time when my stomach was fluttering around. I was just a teenager when my life was shattered and the illusion of normality forever stayed out of my grasp.
This is the most human I’ve felt in so long. And it’s just a coffee drive-by on his way to work.
We both order, and the waitress walks away after giving him a quick once over and winking at me as though she approves. Not that I need her approval.
“So, what made you agree to meet me?” he asks, apparently skipping small talk. I guess that’s wise, since our time will be limited. Not to mention he interrogates for a living, so it’s only natural to start a date out that way with him.
I decide against telling him that he makes me feel like a woman instead of the monster I’ve had to become, since he’d sort of lock me up and throw away the key.
“What made you want to ask me out?” I ask him instead.
His grin spreads wider. “You’re deflecting, but I’ll bite. You’ve been in my head. Your turn,” he says, leaning up on the table with his elbows.
“You’ve been in my head too.”
“Ah, see, that’s cheating. You can’t just parrot my words to keep from disclosing too much. That’s a commonly used tool in a detached personality.”
“Stop profiling me,” I say with a teasing smile, but secretly hoping he really does stop.
What if he sees too much? What the hell am I thinking? This is the stupidest date I could possibly go on.
I finally meet a guy I want to see, perhaps even date, and it has to be the one guy who could see right through me?
He’s studying me too intensely, but I keep my smile in place, hoping it doesn’t seem strained.
“Occupational hazard. I can’t turn it off. I wish I could, but I can’t.”
Great.
He continues to await my reaction, and I try to think of how to properly react. How do normal women react? Do they gush and goo over his badge and skills? Do they get offended by his admission of constant profiling, feeling like he won’t let them have that privacy? I have no idea.
“How much has that affected your dating life?” I ask, deciding not to react at all and keep my expressions masked.
He groans while shaking his head and leaning back. “More than I care to admit. Women prefer to tell me how they feel, as opposed to me pointing it out. I’ve tried to stop, but can’t. Consider it a weird personality quirk. I was hopeful with you; you seem to do the same thing.”
His eyes find mine, and he really does seem hopeful. He’s right. I do the same thing. But for completely different reasons.
He serves justice the best he can.
I serve revenge in the way it needs to be.
“What’s your dating life like?” he asks, probing once again.
Like a cobweb with a bunch of dead bugs in it… Again, not the most appropriate answer.
As the waitress comes and drops off our small order, I try to think of the best answer, waiting until she leaves to respond.
“A little dry at the moment.”
“Ouch,” he says, but he grins.
“Well, not at this exact moment,” I say, feeling that stupid, uncontrollable smile spread again.
“So tell me about you.” He gestures toward me with one hand while using his other to bring the coffee to his lips.
“Twenty-six. New to the area. Constantly moving. And I have an odd fixation with socks. You?”
He frowns, as though something doesn’t sit well with him.
“You move a lot?” he asks, not answering my question.
We do that to each other, I guess. Avoid answering questions to ask our own.
“Yeah. I’ve lived in almost thirty states. Growing up was sort of boring. We lived in one town. It was small, and everyone k
new everything about everyone. After my parents died, it just got worse. Anyway, I’ve moved all over, trying to find what feels like home.”
“Any luck here?” he asks, clearing his throat.
“Maybe,” I say with a shrug.
I barely know him, so telling him he’s the first thing that’s piqued my interest this much would definitely be coming on too strong.
“So your parents…” He lets the words trail off, seeming reluctant to fully ask what he wants to know.
“Car accident,” I partially lie, forcing a tight smile.
“Sorry,” he says, blowing out a breath.
“It was years ago. Now, about you?” I muse, desperately ready for a subject shift.
He flashes me a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Twenty-nine. I own a house on a quiet piece of land. It was my stepdad’s, but he left it to me before he died. My mother is living with her newest husband in Miami. So it’s just me.”
“What about your birth dad?” I realize too late that I shouldn’t be prying that deep, when I don’t want him prying too.
Neither of us gets the chance to pry.
His phone chirps, drawing his attention to it, and he sighs in a way that probably means our short and sweet talk is over.
“Fuck,” he says under his breath, causing my lips to twitch.
It’s just a word, but I was starting to worry that he was a total choir boy.
His eyes pop back up to meet mine. “I hate to leave this early, but—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt, ignoring the small pang of disappointment.
He tosses down a twenty, which is more than enough to cover the possible ten dollar bill.
“I really am sorry,” he says, cursing under his breath as he stands.
I stand and make things awkward, because I don’t know if I should hug him, touch him at all, or wave like an idiot.
I wave like an idiot.
Sheesh.
He smirks, arching an eyebrow at me. “I’ll call you later?” he asks, his smirk turning into a smile.
I’m busy feeling like an ass, so I just nod. I really don’t trust my mouth to be any less stupid than this incredibly awkward wave that I’m still doing. It’s like my hand has lost touch with my brain, and the damn thing is still waving.
His phone rings this time, and he turns and walks away before answering. I drop back down to my seat, wondering how planning out a brutal murder is easier than dating.
The world is entirely too fucked up.
Chapter 4
Force always attracts men of low morality.
—Albert Einstein
LANA
LOGAN: Steak. I’ll be taking you out for steak. Maybe even lobster too. You like red meat and shellfish?
I grin when I see the random text from Logan. Yesterday I was awkward, but then he called and made me forget how unversed I am with all this, because he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he seemed more intrigued.
ME: Yes and yes. I like wine too. Just FYI.
LOGAN: Wine, got it. What are you doing today? Any chance you’ll be in town for more coffee? Or a muffin, rather?
I finish concealing the final camera over the entry of the doorway. Getting inside wasn’t easy, considering Tyler or his wife locks the doors immediately when they get home or leave. But I finally managed to slip in and leave a window unlocked for later.
No security system. There’s only one of my targets planned who has a security system. That’ll be on Jake to handle. Jake is a true best friend. How many people do you walk up to, tell them you want revenge, tell them your plan, and then they start helping you keep from getting caught?
I grab my phone and text Logan back, finding it oddly calming to have a normal conversation while plotting.
Maybe I really am psychotic.
ME: Not today. I’m on a trade review. I won’t be back in until tomorrow.
That’s not entirely a lie. I did do a trade review… It just happened to be in the same town.
Tyler’s wife is out of town on a conference for work, which gives me plenty of time to check out his home.
The flooring is new, just like the rest of the home. No creaks is a damn good thing. My phone buzzes in my pocket as I make my way through the hallways, checking for anything and everything that might pose a problem.
LOGAN: Tomorrow I’ll be a few towns over. Juggling a few cases right now. People just can’t seem to stop killing other people.
Gotta love irony.
We’re so terribly mismatched that it’s not even funny.
If he’d seen the evil I’ve seen, he’d understand why some people deserve to die.
ME: Have you ever had to kill someone?
Pretty sure that’s not the best question to ask a guy you’ve only had one coffee house date with—if you can call that a date.
LOGAN: Many times. Not all cases end with the perp in jail, unfortunately.
Well, he’s killed numerous people the same way with the same methodology and reasoning…so technically he’s a serial killer too. It’s logically truthful. Other than wearing a badge to find it legally justifiable, we’re the same. Well, I torture my victims first, but that’s just nitpicking at facts.
LOGAN: Does that bother you?
I’m laughing before I can stop myself, and I groan while shaking my head, happy that there’s no one here to hear me. Morbid humor is probably not going to get me far in this relationship.
ME: Not at all. I’m sure you had to do it, or you wouldn’t have done it at all.
Sometimes people don’t find justice. Sometimes they have to take it.
“Want to play, Victoria? You know you do.” Ben’s breath feels like acid against my forehead, and I manage to slam a knee up, connecting with his side.
He curses and turns his head.
“Hold her down!” he yells at Tyler. “Or I’ll make sure she nails you a few times too.”
A scream pierces the night, but it’s not mine. I refuse to let them hear me scream.
“You scream pretty,” I hear Kyle saying, laughing from somewhere behind us, but I can’t see him or what he’s doing.
And I don’t want to see.
I don’t even want to see what they’re doing to me.
The memories used to leave me curled in a ball and crying for hours. Now they fuel me. Feed my mission. Drive me forward.
Make me a little murderous.
Shaking my head, I move through the house quicker, hiding the last camera in the stuffed bear on Tyler’s bed. Apparently his wife likes stuffed animals. Or at least I hope it’s his wife who likes stuffed animals. I’d hate to know I’ve trembled in fear over a guy who carries around a stuffed bear.
As I enter the last bedroom, I notice it’s soundproofed with large amounts of studio padding meant for musicians. This will be the perfect room, since he doesn’t have a basement. No windows are in here.
No cameras will be added in this room.
There are a few guitars lined up, all of them nice and shiny.
His whole life is nice and shiny. Just like all of them.
I can’t wait to paint it red.
Chapter 5
The only real valuable thing is intuition.
—Albert Einstein
LOGAN
“Who’s the girl?” Elise asks, clearing her throat as she sits down on the edge of my desk.
I’m grinning when I put my phone down, but I mask my expression.
“No clue what you’re talking about,” I lie, controlling all my micro-expressions.
“You can lie all you want to, but you give yourself away when you look at your phone. There are two reasons a guy smiles at his phone like that. Porn or a girl.”
Chuckling, I look away, studying some new evidence on the “Boogeyman” case. I hate it when the media gives the unsubs a name. It only feeds into their delusions and gives them the attention they crave. Fortunately they haven’t gotten wind of our mutilated, tortured victims’ case yet. I�
�d hate to know the name they’d conjure up for that one.
“We’re sending a team to Boston to follow up the new leads for the kills there. We’ve isolated the comfort zone and have narrowed down the suspect pool. You good with going? I’m staying current on the mutilate and kill case,” I say instead of responding to her other comment.
She blows out a long breath. “Sure. I’ll go to Boston. Stop staring at all those pictures though. They’re going to give you nightmares,” she says, motioning to the shots scattered across my desk. I always have board copies made for my desk. Seeing things from various angles helps you catch what you might otherwise overlook.
“I need to find the true motive behind these kills.” I motion to the latest dead and castrated victim.
“Sometimes there is no motive. We profiled the unsub to be sexually frustrated, most likely because he’s gay and can’t accept that. As a result, he’s on his way to becoming a sexual sadist once he does accept it. More than likely he was mocked, taunted, or rejected by these men. The local PD are being slow with getting back to us. I don’t think they’re taking this guy as seriously as they should. I talked to several townies, but they acted like no one there would ever be gay. As though it’s blasphemy to even consider. I wanted to flash pictures of my brother and his husband to them just for shock value at one point.”
My lips twitch.
“The smaller the town, the more resistant to outsiders they are. They don’t like us meddling in their town, and they sure as hell won’t want us there uncovering any dirt that might tarnish their reputation. But eventually we’ll have to set up there. The unsub will return for his endgame,” I say on a heavy breath.