by Trisha Wolfe
“This was a hasty job,” Quinn says, echoing my thoughts as he applies pressure to the wound.
I point to her neck. “But he didn’t complete it. He doesn’t leave his victims alive, Quinn.”
Quinn shakes his head. “He could’ve been rushed. Something interrupted him. Or he knew he didn’t have enough time.”
I nod my agreement, but I’m not convinced. Why start if he knew he couldn’t finish? That’s not his MO. The UNSUB stalks his prey for days, even months beforehand. He has their schedules memorized, knows all the important details of their life to plan a methodical attack that will give him plenty of time to stage his scene.
For him, orchestrating the kill is just as important as the kill itself. It’s his signature—torture. If he can’t bring his victim to the brink, revel in his power, instilling her with fear…then there’s no admiration for his efforts.
And he needs the admiration.
The second crime scene stated a blitz attack, where the UNSUB was rushed and infuriated when the vic fought back…but he made sure to complete his kill, even if he couldn’t perform his ritual. If the case were similar here, Carmen would’ve suffered greatly. The torture would’ve been evident.
And the kill method… The UNSUB has enough training in forensics and medicine—either self taught or schooled—to know exactly how to sever an artery to perfectly direct the spray to lead us to a clue, but he misses on accident this time?
There’s no logical reason as to why he’d leave a victim—a witness—alive.
Quinn picks up on my line of thought. “She might’ve seen his face, or some other defining characteristic. We have a witness.”
“There’s a reason why he wanted her silenced,” I say, looking at Quinn. “She’s more than a witness. She’s a clue.”
As the EMTs load Carmen onto a gurney and hurry her into the ambulance, I can’t stop going over it in my head. No forced entry—just like with the other vics. The attack is similar enough; the MO seems to be the same, excluding the torture. With the amount of blood, it was difficult to tell, but I could determine a waved pattern to the laceration.
God, Avery… She would be able to deduce so much with just one look, where I’m only guessing. I’m trying hard to trust my instincts, but I’m not Quinn, either. I don’t operate purely on my gut. I need more facts.
My thoughts halt as I feel a hand on my shoulder. “We should follow them in,” Quinn says. “Soon as she comes around, we need to be there to take her statement.”
I move out of his touch, glancing around the house, needing something…else. Something more as to why the UNSUB chose her. What did he leave behind? Where’s the damn connection to Bathory?
“Sadie?”
I find Quinn’s gaze. “Okay. Let’s hope she recovers soon.”
His gaze narrows as he studies me a moment longer. I pull my wall into place. Quinn’s not getting past it this time. There’s too much unknown…and I have more than myself to keep protected.
While Quinn secures the crime scene, I take another look around Carmen’s living room. My gaze is drawn to the rich blood pool. So thick it’s the darkest shade of crimson. Did he hold her in place while she bled out? How long did he watch the red flow? Was he so mesmerized by the life fading away slowly in her eyes that he couldn’t bring himself to end her quickly?
I know what it’s like. The first time you see real, violent blood. The life-force of it, the power. I understand how intoxicating the draw to analyze it is—to try to comprehend it’s meaning when you first feel it…
I walk over and inspect the pool. There it is. One shade lighter than the rest. A clear impression. A slight touch of the hand to sample the kill.
Only someone taking a life for the first time would be this riveted, this careless.
And he’s not the UNSUB.
7
Me
UNSUB
If one is to understand himself, one must consider the nature, that is, the essence of humankind in general. It’s an undertaking into the study of philosophical anthropology. Granted, I’ve earned a degree in order to work among peers in my field, to earn a living—but it was merely a requirement, a burden placed upon me by society.
I pride myself in the fact that I’m an autodidact, and have amassed most of my knowledge and mastery in the human condition through years of arduous study and research.
I’ve analyzed myself as much as I’ve placed others under the microscope.
And what I’ve discovered is that people—as a whole—are easily manipulated.
We yearn so desperately to make a connection, to know that we are not alone, that there is another in this world who feels what we feel. Who thinks how we think. Who accepts us wholly, unconditionally, and whom we can build companionship with so that we do not suffer this lonely existence in solitude, that we will do almost anything—anything—to avoid it.
When you understand that fundamental necessity, then it’s only a matter of pulling the right strings—the heartstrings.
The most difficult moment of my study was in realizing that I’m not above this human condition, this affliction. However, there is liberation in stripping ones self of all misconceptions and lies to find true self discovery. It’s a painful process, but then pain, as I’ve come to realize, is the purest method.
Most seek to ignore this yearning. They don’t want to admit they are weak, would rather live in denial and leach off others to feed their needs. It’s a selfish way to exist. And ultimately, we are a selfish species.
Why is it so difficult to admit our limitations, and in turn, strive to fulfill our desires? At any cost? Is there ever too high a price for absolute ecstasy?
After all, by doing so, we gain strength. He who controls his world commands the weak souls around him.
And every fucking one of them is weak.
I run the cane across Avery’s back, reveling in the tremble of her racked body. She’s hardly a weakling; so full of vibrant rebellion when she first arrived. But the beauty in understanding the human condition is in knowing how to break that character.
It’s all just a matter of time and pressure. Much like with a rock. Water cascades over the rock, weathering away the stone, sending tiny fragments downstream as they break further apart. Just like that process, people can be eroded.
Leaning in close, I whisper, “Let’s give our Sadie a show, shall we?”
She flinches, making the chains above rattle. Even now, after hours of weathering her stone surface away, she still believes in the lie. That she is strong enough on her own to overcome any hardship.
She’s fighting against the current, her own nature, but she can only withstand so much force before she breaks. It’s just a matter of time and pressure.
I wrap my arms around her tenderly as I twirl her to face the camera. Giving her what she so stubbornly denies she needs: connection.
“We must keep the world updated,” I say, sliding the tip of the cane up her thigh. “Their utterly boring lives are invested in us. We should always please our audience. And Sadie needs this, even more than you do.”
Oh, Sadie needs it terribly. She’s like a diamond—hardest substance in the world. Chipping away Sadie’s stone surface will take far less time with the help of breaking Avery.
It will send my love to her knees…then right into my arms.
Where she belongs.
A smile pulls at my mouth as I raise the cane, and I can’t help but look directly into the camera lens. As if Sadie is watching me right now. Me. Her inevitability.
Avery’s feet kick, trying to find purchase to push her away. Her cries swell into a forlorn tune, reaching only my ears. I brace my arm, but her sweet screams fade into the background as I pick up on the newscast. Annoyed, I turn toward the overhead screen.
A reporter stands before the hospital, giving viewers an update on the Arlington Slasher case, as a woman is wheeled in through the front doors on a gurney. Unable to reveal the victim’s identity, the r
eporter does say the victim is a survivor of what’s believed to be a related attack connected to the spree of serial killings.
Red covers my vision. Pulsing, blinding. A pure bolt of anger fires through my veins, and white-hot fury scorches my blood. In a moment of uncontrollable rage, I release a roar, choking the room of sound. A crackle fills my ears, then a deafening ringing.
I feel something warm trickle over my knuckles. I look down, see the cane splintered and my blood dripping to the plastic-covered floor. Little dots of bright red, mocking me.
I crick my neck, turning to face my pet. Avery’s eyes—those orbs of chocolate brown—have become as pale as her ashen skin. Her fear tickles my senses, and I inhale the scent of urine. It streams down her leg.
That almost makes up for that amateur’s fuck-up. Almost.
As always, I think as I slink toward my shivering pet, if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. Time’s run out. The tick tock of the clock just stopped for that one weak soul.
“Brace yourself, pet,” I whisper into her ear. “It’s time for your transformation into a Monarch.”
I smile into the camera as Avery’s screams drown my disappointment.
8
Shadow
Colton
When we were kids, Julian had a hiding spot in the woods. Whenever he’d get caught cheating on a test, or brought home a failing grade, or raised some other discontent he didn’t want to deal with, he’d hide out in his fort until our parents were out of their minds with worry. Then he’d stumble in, dehydrated and filthy, and they were just so happy he was home that all was forgotten.
My brother is the quintessential Machiavellian. His manipulative behavior hasn’t changed any over the years. Whenever he runs into an uncomfortable situation that he doesn’t want to confront, he finds refuge in his hiding place until it’s safe to show his face again.
Only now, instead of a child’s hand-built fort, Julian boasts a two-story log cabin along the Potomac River.
“How do you know he’s here?” Carson asks, shutting the door to his Crown Vic.
I enter in a code on the gate, and the wrought iron bars grind and screech open. “Because,” I say, walking through to the pebbled driveway, “he’s not answering my calls. He’s off the grid.”
“If he doesn’t want to be found, wouldn’t he go somewhere that you don’t know about?”
I shrug. “I don’t come here.” In other words, I don’t chase after my brother.
Julian and I have an understanding on that. Just like I knew to leave him alone during his funks when we were kids, he knows not to push my buttons. We’re good at giving each other a wide berth, and plenty of space when we need it.
Except for now. I’m breaking that unspoken rule between us. All bets are off when it comes to Sadie.
“This place wasn’t listed on any of Julian’s financial reports.” Carson’s expression darkens as he takes in the sweeping terrace overlooking the river. “Can’t see how I could’ve missed this.”
“Not all detectives are cut out for the job.” I cut a sharp glance his way, and he returns my glare. Truth is, this place wouldn’t be on any financial statement. This is what a whole lot of bribery and cash under the table gets you.
Carson smirks. “Looks like the perfect place to conduct sordid affairs…of the kidnapping and torture kind.”
My smile drops. I march up the stairs toward the entrance, wanting to get this part over with. My brother might be a lot of questionable things, but a serial killer isn’t one of them.
The sooner I prove that to Carson, the sooner I get back to Sadie. Her last update has me on edge. I can feel her panic and desperation in every message, and even though she’s strong, I know everyone has a breaking point. I never want to see hers.
I don’t knock. I go right through the front door, tripping the alarm. To the right, a panel flashes red. Carson radios in some report about the alarm, while I stare at the panel, trying to get inside my brother’s degenerate head.
A painful ache twinges beneath my rib cage as it comes to me. Steadying my hand, I enter in Marni’s birthday on the keypad. The alarm shuts off.
“I thought you never came here,” Carson says.
He doesn’t get a response on this one. When he had me in that interrogation room, dredging up painful memories of Marni, reminding me of choices I can never take back—I was there. At my breaking point. I won’t give him any more ammunition.
“You’d think a loud-ass alarm system would alert the dead,” he says, glancing around. “Your brother is either a heavy sleeper, piss drunk, or not here.” He stops at the end of the foyer, turns around. “Unless he’s somewhere else on the property. Like a basement…or a torture chamber. A nice, isolated spot where he can muffle the screams of tortured women.”
I reach into my pocket and grip my rope. Needing just one measure of restraint to ground me. I close my eyes, breathe, open them. More in control.
Julian’s seen my calls coming through. He knows I’m on the hunt for him, and I’m sure he knows it was me who tripped the alarm. I’m the only one who could’ve guessed that code. Where the fuck is he?
I take off up the stairs with Carson close on my heels. If Julian isn’t here, then that means he’s in deeper trouble than I thought. Our conversation about him wanting me to take over the club comes back to me. I honestly believed him—that he was giving up the lifestyle to get married.
I should’ve known better. Julian’s too selfish to give anything up for another person.
He’s hiding. But I don’t know from whom or what. Who has he pissed off? Which one of his cash cows got tired of being blackmailed?
Even all these years later, after learning his tricks, he’s still able to play me.
The second story of the cabin is one large, open loft. Equipped with just about every electronic, a gaming section with a pool table, and a playroom in the far corner, it’s the ultimate man cave. That is, if your ideal haven includes bondage. I doubt his fiancé has ever been here—this is Julian’s secret. Even—or especially—from her.
As Carson checks out the wall of bondage gear, I head toward Julian’s computer area. “I’m calling in a sweep,” he says. “All of this shit needs to be tested. You can’t tell me your sick brother didn’t bring Avery here. Or other vics. I’ll bet my left nut that we’ll find Avery’s DNA…” He trails off. “Holy shit.”
He’s putting in a call before I can process what I’m seeing.
I stand frozen, every muscle corded tight, looking down at my brother’s mutilated body. The word corpse hits me hard and fast, knocking the breath from my lungs.
His black suit is shredded, dried blood staining the expensive material from slashes across his chest. Throat sliced so deeply, his head is nearly severed from his body. As I take in the carnage, the only thought circling my mind is how he would hate to be seen like this. His face bruised. That perfect suit, ruined.
“Don’t touch anything,” Carson instructs. And it’s like his order finally gives me permission to move.
I drop down and feel for a pulse. His skin is cold. Not ice-cold, the way you’d assume death would feel. But rather a chilly, air-conditioned temperature. As if he’s become just another inanimate object in the room. His glassy blue eyes stare wide and vacant right into mine.
“I said, not to touch anything.” Carson says something else into his phone, then steps beside me. “Mother fucker. Julian was just a slimy piece of business shit, after all. I guess this proves he’s not the perp.”
In two moves, I’m off the floor and have Carson jacked up by his shirt collar. I back him against the wall where my fist drives into his face. “This proves it?” I shout, sending another punch into his stomach. He tries to double over, but I keep him held upright. “All this time, you could’ve been investigating the real killer, but you had it in for my brother. Satisfied now?”
He sucks in a breath and manages to knock my arm away. He takes a swing and lands
a strong right hook to my jaw. My vision explodes with white. His arms reach around my middle and he drives me backward.
My feet fail to push back against his momentum, and I fall, leaving a huffing Carson looking down at me. “Yeah. He’s cleared. But what about you?” he grates. “There’s still a matter of the evidence. Rope—just like yours—being used at a damn crime scene.”
Pushing to my knees, I deliver a punch to his gut. Then land another to his face when he buckles. I look straight into his eyes as I get up and grab his neck. “You think I killed my own brother? You twisted fuck.” I punch him in the stomach. “I was with Sadie last night. Then I was with your ass all day. What about you? What’s your alibi?”
He coughs, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand. A slow smile curls his mouth. “If I was going to get rid of him, I wouldn’t do it now. Not when I was so close to nailing him.”
I shake my head, anger ripping through every muscle. My knuckles throb, my hand fisted so tight…just looking for the next place to stick Carson. Shoving him back, I say, “You’re not worth it. Get out.”
“Not happening. This is a closed crime scene now.” He motions around the room. “Don’t you think it’s just a little too convenient that the owner of The Lair winds up dead? What about the missing footage from last night and this morning? Why would the UNSUB need to knock off Julian? What’s your brother’s part in all this?” His gaze sharpens on me. “Just because he’s not the perp, doesn’t mean he’s not connected.”
“His death could have nothing to do with this case at all.” Given the number of enemies my brother’s made over the years, that’s not a complete stretch.
His eyes widen. “Really? I admit he doesn’t fit the victimology. Unless he’s hiding a vag beneath those slacks, he’s not really the UNSUB’s type. But he’s linked to this, Colton. You know it. Give up what you’re hiding.”