by Trisha Wolfe
“I do have other cases, Sadie, and this UNSUB isn’t really giving us enough time between victims.” I hear the ruffling of papers on her end. “But I really like you. Don’t tell Quinn. He’s not my favorite.” I smirk at that. “All right. Give me twenty minutes and I’ll get you an update. Oh, and I just completed that work-up sketch on the murder weapon. I’ll snap a pic and shoot it over to you now.”
“You’re the best, Avery.”
“I know. I know. Just catch this guy and lighten my workload, would you?”
After the call ends, Avery’s sketch pops up on my screen. I tap it to enlarge the image, then send it to my email. “I need to grab my tablet so we can enlarge it…but, Quinn. I think we’re finally moving in the right direction.”
I hold up my phone so he can see the image.
“You’re fucking with me.” Driving a hand through his hair, he says, “A sword? Really? How the hell does a person walk around carrying a sword and not stand out in this city?”
Flipping the screen around, I study the sketch. “Not just any sword, a flamberg.”
“Which is significant how?”
“Its pique of popularity was during the middle ages. Around the same time of Bathory.” I shrug.
“Of course,” Quinn says.
“Only,” I say, squinting at the screen. “The proportions are off. I mean, I know Avery’s thorough in her work, but a flamberg is a huge sword. Heavy, tall…and like you said, would be exceedingly difficult to sneak around town and into a victim’s home without their notice. Unless he stashed it there. But Avery’s drawing depicts it as half the actual size. I’ve never seen this sword designed like this.”
Quinn walks my way, stopping a couple feet before me. “But you’ve seen it nonetheless.”
I look up. “Not in person. In drawings, and paintings. Internet images during research. It’s possible someone could’ve had one specially made—”
Quinn’s already ahead of me, though. He flips his phone out and is scrolling through webpages before I can finish my thought. “Three custom weaponry shops in downtown alone.” He glances at me. “We can start there.”
“All right.”
As I begin to pack up the supplies, I can’t shake the feeling that this new search will produce little, also. I know we have to follow each lead; that’s the job. But this is too simple for our UNSUB. Too…naïve. All this planning…all this meticulous staging…just to be caught by one thoughtless lapse?
I halt putting away the reagents, my hand clasping a bottle of luminol held aloft.
He wants us to find his message.
We didn’t discover it the first time, and that’s probably why he made the second one so obvious. So the inane detectives couldn’t miss it. Part of his demonstrated frustration at the second crime scene could’ve been his anger toward us not seeing his whole design.
But it’s the glaringly obvious omission that is bothering me the most. If this UNSUB is in fact copycatting Bathory, where’s the blood?
The infamous lady, the first documented woman serial killer, was made immortal by the blood she spilled. Countless legends have been created around her trail of gore; the vampire, for one. It’s her legacy. Her ultimate signature; stained in red.
While I’ve been lost in thought, my feet have tracked back to the master bedroom. I stand in the middle of the room, close my eyes. Unlike my first walkthrough, where I focused on the pool stain around the victim, I concentrate on what I can’t see.
The negative space.
I’m a creator. An artist. Every slice of my blade and singe of my flame purposeful in its placement. I leave nothing to fate; I control all elements. You see what I want you to see. And I’ve worked hard to design this stage for you.
Inhaling a deep, slow breath, I taste the air. The muted whoosh of sounds bleed into my ears. Feel the fibers of the dress…soft, tantalizing. It’s time.
I run my sword across her throat and hold her close as she gasps for air. I open my eyes to watch her fall to the floor and bleed out—but I’m far from through. Her silence is just one aspect; the kill.
The other game pieces need to be linked to complete the puzzle.
There is no other above me… I am her god, standing over her, judging her. This is my game board, and all others are my pawns as I stare down on them…
I look up.
There.
“Quinn!”
His footsteps echo from down the hallway. “What is it?” He peeks his head into the room. “We got to move if we’re going to hit all three shops before tonight.”
My face still tilted toward the ceiling, I say, “He knew what he was doing when he severed her carotid artery in this exact spot. He wanted the spray to dust the ceiling. Not splash it…just a hint in the right direction.”
“CSU covered it. It’s in the report.”
I circle the pool stain until I’m standing directly under the inlaid light. “Yeah, I read it. And I didn’t think anything of the lighting then, but we’re going to have to peel back the layers.” I look around. “Get me something to stand on.”
Quinn huffs a clipped laugh. “Like a ladder? Bonds, you’re too short.” I send him a glare. “Just a fact, not an insult.”
“Fine,” I say, looking around for tall furniture and finding nothing. I point at him. “Boost me on your shoulders.”
In retrospect, this wasn’t the best idea. “Hold me steady,” I say through gritted teeth as I try to keep balance. “For a big guy, you have some bony shoulders, you know that?”
He grunts. Holding a spray bottle of luminol in one hand, I push my other gloved palm against the plastic light fixture. It gives with a pop and falls open, just missing my head. “Okay. Move me closer.”
It looks clean. Too clean for a place which rarely gets attention. No creepy crawlies or dust. I mist the plastic with the reagent and drop my hand down. Quinn places the light in my hand. When I shine the UV light over the plastic, I curse.
“Is that a good shit or bad?”
But I don’t have time to answer as Quinn’s phone rings. He says, “stay still,” and grasps me at the waist to hoist me down. My gaze stays with the illuminated words as Quinn answers the call.
“On my way.” He releases a long exhale as he clicks the phone off.
“Another body?” I ask, my eyes tracing the glowing, bloody letters the UNSUB took great care to hide—maybe too well. But we were meant to find them. I was meant to find them. It’s what he wanted.
“Two,” Quinn finally says.
My head snaps around. Light angled on his face, as if it will help me read him better.
Looking up, Quinn echoes my sentiment as he reads the message. “Snap a pic of our new evidence for the task force, we need to go. Now.”
I do just that, my stomach knotted as I send the image to my tablet. I’m not sure what I’m feeling. Dread. Excitement. Anger…
I’m definitely feeling anger. And that’s wrong; this cannot become personal. But I have a sickening feeling this UNSUB wants it to be personal. Not the way some past serial killers toyed with police officials—inserting themselves into the investigation. Leaving special clues for detectives working their cases. No, this one has a very specific target.
Me.
Only I can’t confirm this…it’s just a message. To anyone else it wouldn’t mean anything. Just the random meaninglessness left behind from a disturbed mind.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Written in blood, and then wiped clean. Blood. It’s always blood.
14
The Heart
Colton
Twist and loop. Twist and loop. My fingers delicately twine the jute fibers, deftly working them to lock together. I caress the light strands, nurture them, putting myself into each tightly woven loop.
I have many ropes. All sizes, colors, widths. And I take great care of my collection. But none of them feel right for tonight. For Sadie…for this long-awaited moment…I have to create t
he perfect tool.
My chest stirs with warmth as I imagine the light brown rope against her pearly skin, the complexion, the contrast. Dark and bright. I almost feel drunk; the excitement coursing through me with a steady flow of adrenaline. I’m like a kid about to play with his favorite toy. A toy that’s been kept from him for too long.
Creating another painstaking loop, I twist the fibers slowly, relishing the imprint the bands will leave behind on her soft skin. Intoxicating.
“Making something special for tonight?”
Julian’s deep timbre pulls me out of my trance, and I glance up to find him leaning against the corner of the bar top, hands sunk into his black suit pockets.
Since he opened his own club, I haven’t seen him in a pair of jeans. He’s all business now. I guess I shouldn’t judge; I’ve buried myself in my work, too.
Unhooking the lead thread from the bar where I have my station set up, I begin to wind the rope. “Just needed some new material.”
He glances around the empty club before his gaze settles back on me. “They do have these things called stores. I know you’re all about the ritual”—his voice lowers—“but it wouldn’t hurt to take a shortcut every once in a while.”
“And see, that’s what you don’t get, Julian.” I stuff the newly braided rope into my pack along with the rest of my supplies. Then rising from the stool, I look Julian in his clear blue eyes and say, “The ritual is everything.”
His gaze turns hard, serious. He straightens, and the banter leaves his voice. “I do get some things.”
“And what’s that?” Apprehension dampers my mood. For months, ever since I took Julian up on his offer to work at his club, I’ve felt like I’ve been treading water. Edging the thin line drawn between us—the one that keeps us hospitable toward each other. It’s a very thin line.
“I get that this is the longest you’ve stayed in one place. At least since—”
“Don’t.” That single, deadly spoken word halts him.
His strained exhale is the only sound amid us.
Gaze still on mine, he says, “I thought that after all these years, I’d finally get my brother back. That if I just stayed quiet, let you deal with everything on your own terms, you’d eventually recover. But—” He shakes his head, breaks eye contact to stare at the floor. “She ruined you.”
Anger brims fire-hot in my chest. “I told you never to mention her again.”
“Colt, listen.”
But I’m already turning away and heading out of the rope room. A hand on my shoulder stops my steps, and I pivot, face contorted, beckoning all control.
Julian removes his hand and takes a step back. “I don’t want to push you away again.”
“Then don’t,” I snap.
He crosses his arms; defensive. Good. As long as I keep him rebounding, he’ll back off. “Fine. I won’t. We don’t ever have to have that conversation. Just do your Shibari. Entertain. Get your kicks…whatever it is that you get out of performing. But be careful.” He presses his lips together, features stern. “I’ve seen what happens when you get too…involved, Colt. The obsession takes you to a dark place. I don’t want you to get lost there again.”
I can’t help it—coming from him? This bullshit?—I laugh.
Then I walk away.
“Just know that I loved her, too.”
His words stop my retreat. But when I don’t react; all stoic control over my emotions, he says, “Just wanted to voice that. To finally have my say.”
Jesus. I really don’t need this shit right now. I drive a hand through my hair, attempting to wipe his admission from my head. Finally, I turn and face my brother.
“Love? Is that what you call it?” I ask, my voice thick with disdain. “You have the worst possible way of showing it, then.” As he opens his mouth to say something more, I hold up a hand. I’ve heard enough. “All right, Julian. What I get out of it—is that what you’re trying to figure out? Why I’m not like you. Sitting in an office, locked away, just on the edge of the scene.” I step closer, stare him in the eyes. “Control. I make sure that my world never spins out of control again. Say it’s obsession. Say whatever you want, but at least I was man enough to stay until the end. I had to face what you were too much of a coward to deal with. I looked it in the eyes…all that darkness…and I stayed. And hell, I’m sure it left an imprint. The price I now pay for having something so beautiful, however fleeting. So, I’ll do whatever the hell I want now. I’ve earned it.”
He shakes his head. “I won’t deny you that. I was a coward.”
Arms crossed, back and shoulders tense, I wait for the rest of his speech. Wait to see if he’s going to take this all the way. Damn, and we really were doing so well. Where the hell did this even come from?
“Look,” he says, and my defenses climb. Here it comes. “You’ve found a way to put everything in place. Nice and neat. You’re a pro at compartmentalizing. But I’ve been paying attention,” he says, gaze narrowing. “I don’t want Marni to shadow the rest of your life.”
I huff a soundless laugh. Asshole.
“I’m serious. You deserve something good. This scene is fun…it’s a lifestyle, yes, but it’s not meant to replace real relationships. I’m doing it because—”
“Because it now pays the bills,” I clip.
He shrugs, his expression neutral. “Yeah. And because she loved it. It got me through the worst of it, afterward, but I don’t use it to lose myself. Not anymore. I’m getting out.”
Tension thrums in the air between us, and I push back against its walls. So this is what spurred this conversation. He always has an agenda. “And the club?”
His shoulders lift again. “I wanted to hand the reins over to my little brother. But not if that means watching him degrade into himself.” He searches my face. “I like the idea of you sticking around the city. Being here…with me. But we have to come to an understanding.”
My lips stretch into a smile that verges on a sneer. “An ultimatum, you mean.”
“Call it what you want. The only thing I ask is that you keep your ‘personal’ life out of the club.”
And understanding flits through me, transparent. I uncross my arms and straighten my back. “You were watching me last night.”
Shame flushes his face. “My name will remain on the lease, Colt. Everything will still tie back to me…” He trails off. “If you want to have your personal ‘sessions’—” He makes air quotes again, and my chest flames with heat.
“Stop doing that. Just say what you mean, Julian.”
He releases a heavy breath. “I can’t have accusations flung at the club if you go off the rails again. Okay?”
Sonofabitch. “You know what? Fuck you.”
“Hell, real mature, Colt.” He shakes his head, looks down at the tiled floor.
“You had no right to eavesdrop on me. What I do on my own time—personal or otherwise; in the club or outside of it—is none of your business.” I glare at him, trying to catch his eyes. “Hand the club over to someone else.”
He looks up then. “There’s no one else I trust.”
“Bullshit.” I take a step back, thoroughly over this conversation. “This is just your way to keep tabs on me. Keep things running the way you want, without having to actually do the dirty work.” I bark a laugh. “But I’m not your bitch boy—and you don’t run me.”
“That’s not it at all. Listen, I always get a little harassment from the cops,” he says, finally meeting my gaze again. “I’m used to it, but I can’t let it get out of hand. I have to have someone running the show who knows how to keep things…neutral.”
I wonder what he’d say if I told him that the woman I took to the back room last night was not only a cop, but a profiler. That whatever he’s so worried about keeping concealed, she’s probably already uncovered.
Only I know that’s not true. I might be a lot of things—things that don’t get me any slack from my brother—but a liar isn’t one of them. Sa
die came here for herself, not her department. At least, that’s the truth I knew up until this moment. I never once questioned if she had an ulterior motive. Why would I, when she’s damn perfect for me.
Now Julian’s planted a seed of doubt, and I hate that. I can already feel it festering.
But—no. I refuse to let my brother infect my head. I’ve watched her long enough; I’ve tasted her. Her scent still clings to me. I’ve looked into those bottomless jewel-green eyes and I’ve seen the beauty among the abyss.
I find Julian’s gaze. “Why are you getting out?”
His fight to remain composed under my scrutiny is evident. “I’m marrying Bethany.”
Fucking hell.
“Congrats.” The word tastes bitter on my tongue. Then I tell him, “I’ll think about it,” before he can say anything further to disgust me.
Content with my answer for now, Julian nods a couple of times and says, “Thanks.” Then he leaves me alone with my spiraling thoughts.
Reaching into my pocket, I touch the rope I always keep there. My connection. My center. I need Sadie here, now. I can’t wait until tonight.
15
Echo
Sadie
There’s a moment right before a storm. When the sky blackens, ink-swollen clouds claw the sky, and electricity charges the air. You feel it building, an anxious clutching of your chest that you can’t quite comprehend, but you know lightning is about to strike.
You’re connected to the elements. Your bones, flesh, your blood. Your soul. It’s all linked and communicating with something greater than you…and if you could just reach out and grasp the fading wisps, you could finally make that connection.
You’d be a part of something more powerful than yourself, and you wouldn’t feel so alone or lost.
I’m standing on the edge of that storm now.
It takes all shapes and sizes, can strike at any moment. Most of the time, we’re not ready. I’m not ready now. But the eye of the storm is hovering, taunting. A false calm luring me into believing we’re close, and that once we connect this last, final piece, we’ll find our killer.