by David Banner
“You can get something from me now,” Taylor answered. “Information. And for a guy like you, that might hold more value than any dollar amount you could pull from me.”
“What kind of information?” Patrick looked up from his computer screen.
“I was there. Right beside her along the way. I know everything she knows about the investigation, everything they haven’t told you.”
“I have all the information I need,” Patrick replied. “And what I don’t yet have, I’m sure my legal team will uncover soon.”
“I know their next target,” Taylor said. “I’ve been putting these pieces together, and I know where they’re headed. And believe me when I tell you, it won’t look good for you.”
A still silence followed his words. It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t really the truth, either. Taylor Clarke had suspicions without facts. He had hunches without proof, but if journalism had taught him anything, it was to trust to gut feelings and to follow them, no matter where they led.
“And what is it you want from me?” Patrick asked.
“Just to talk.”
“To talk?” The businessman scoffed. “Talk is never just talk. Don’t waste my time, Kentucky. Tell me why you’re here.”
“I want to undo the wrong I did, and you can help me. We can help each other.”
“How are you going to help me, exactly?”
“I’m going to give you the information you need to stay alive and to stop another murder.”
Patrick stood from his chair and began to make slow, calculated circles around the young man. Taylor swallowed hard, his throat once again dry from the stress of his situation. He kept his body still, his eyes focused on the man who for all he knew could give the order to have him taken out right then and there.
“All right,” Patrick answered, closing his office door. “Talk.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
SUNDAY, 2 PM
CONNIE
Connie sat quietly in the still Savannah air, trying not stare at her husband. All married couples had issues, but it seemed like each day brought a whole new level of trouble. She twisted her wedding ring on her finger as she waited for their next target to step outside. As far as the woman knew, this was the last name on the list, and today would bring an end to their reign of murder and revenge.
She flipped through the news feed of her phone, her eyes stopping on an article labeled New Killers, Old ways. It was a fluffed-up piece about the mysteries of who she and her husband were and why they’d hatched this plot. Aside from the details gleaned from the Taylor Clarke article, it’s a crock of shit, Connie thought.
She lowered the car window, allowing a swift breeze to glide through the car. For as long as she knew him, Michael Miller had smelled exactly the same. It was a deep, dark scent, one of musk and spice. In the beginning, she loved it, finding herself lying in bed and breathing him in over and over to find comfort and safety. Now, however, that fragrance reminded her of something else. It reminded her of the choices she’d made and the mistakes they’d led to.
“What are you thinking about?” Michael asked, his eyes focused on the door of the large glass-covered office building.
It was a simple question with a complicated answer. It didn’t matter, though. They both knew he didn’t really care. There may have been a time when he had, but that time was gone.
“Nothing,” she answered, still twirling her wedding ring around her finger.
The ring was one of the only things she’d managed to keep from her previous life, and it had once meant something to her. Now, though, it felt more like a weight than anything else, more like an anchor holding her down and keeping her tied to a man she wasn’t sure she loved.
“You’re lying.” He finally looked at her. “I can always tell when you’re lying. You know that.”
“I’m not lying,” she lied.
The truth was too complicated. What could she say? Could she tell him she was beginning to feel like this whole thing was a mistake? Could she tell him the once intoxicating aroma of his skin now threatened to make her sick? No . . . she couldn’t.
It wasn’t because she loved him. It wasn’t because she respected him. It was because she feared him. She’d seen what happened when her husband went off the rails, and the last thing she wanted was to be one of her own victims.
“There he is,” Michael said.
The once-housewife turned her gaze toward the building. Out stepped a young man with sandy brown hair and olive skin. He was short and thin. Not much of a man, she thought. Perhaps it was her upbringing or perhaps it was because she’d always been one of the tallest people in any room, but whatever the reason, Connie had never liked the idea of short men.
She thought back on the day she’d first met her husband. They’d been at Stone Hill Lake, a small place on the edge of Chatham County, when she spotted him stepping out of the water. His thick chest and wide arms had immediately caught her eye. The young woman hopped up from her towel and introduced herself before her girlfriends had the chance to. They spoke for a while in that way that young people do. They laughed. She playfully ran her fingers down his back as she pretended to brush away some stray debris. It didn’t take long for the handsome two to become a couple.
“I recognize him . . .” she muttered.
“Of course you do. There are no strangers on our list. You know that,” Michael answered. “He won’t make it past lunch.”
The two watched as the young man made his way out the door and down the street. They had only been watching him a few minutes when Michael noticed their opportunity. He turned to his wife and asked her to follow.
“Okay . . .” Connie replied, taking one final look around the street.
The coast was clear with only a few stray cars scattered along the roadway and nearly no foot traffic at all. Slamming the car door behind her, she stopped, caught up in the image of her husband wrapped in glowing sunlight.
She thought about the water again, about how he’d once looked in that same light and how different he looked now. It wasn’t anything physical. Michael Miller had been blessed with the kind of looks that never seemed to fade. This was something else, something deeper. This was love and the way it changes over time.
“What are you waiting for?” he whispered, turning back to his wife.
“I’m coming,” she replied, taking a steadying breath and crossing the street.
If everything went to plan, a young man would be dead in less than three minutes, taking with him the last feelings of safety and security Connie Miller would ever pull from her husband.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
SUNDAY, 2:30 PM
VIRGINIA
Despite herself, Virginia stepped out of the car and made her way toward Taylor. She’d promised herself over and over that the two were done, that his article was more than enough to prove the kind of untrustworthy person he really was. Still, she found herself having a soft spot for the man. Maybe it was his dashing good looks or the way his Kentucky accent carried across the hot Georgia air, or maybe it was those damn dimples that only seemed to come out when she wasn’t looking. Either way, she had trouble keeping him from her mind.
“What?” she said flatly.
Virginia had agreed to meet him outside the police station upon his insistence that he had information that could break the case wide open. She didn’t trust him, not for a second, but she wasn’t stupid enough to turn away any leads, even if she was no longer involved with the case.
“I have something you’re gonna want to hear.” He smiled, soft dimples coming out to play.
Damn, she thought. Look at those things.
“Then talk,” she said finally. “You’re not supposed to be here, and I’d rather not be seen talking to you.”
Her eyes focused on his perfectly shaped lips. She remembered how sweet they’d tasted and how good it felt to have another body against hers again, even if only for a second. Virginia folded her arms across her
chest, doing her best not to get too close.
A thunderous cloud of anger with Taylor and disappointment in herself swirled through her body. How easy it must be, she thought. How freeing not to be beholden to anything other than your own selfish desires. To not have to worry about things like the law, to just present your opinions as fact behind the veil of an article. She hated admitting it to herself, but she was a little jealous.
“I visited Maynor,” he said, a slow smirk melting across his face.
The words fell hard on her ears, and for a moment, she thought maybe she’d misheard the man.
“You did what?” she asked, trying to hide the shock in her voice.
“I talked with him. It took a little bit, but he gave me a story. One I think you’re going to want to hear.”
A flash of anger struck through her body as she stepped closer to the young journalist. She hadn’t told him to stay away from Patrick Maynor specifically, but still, the thought that he’d kept the case going after everything just rubbed her wrong.
“I know who the murderers are. Connie and Clyde are actually Connie and Michael Miller.” He folded his arms across his chest.
“What did you say?” she asked. “How . . . start at the beginning.”
“Go out with me,” he chirped.
“Go out—what? No. Tell me what Patrick Maynor said to you.”
“Agree to go out with me, then I’ll tell you.”
Virginia could barely believe her ears. Was the man really bartering information for a date even after she caught a half-naked woman in his bedroom as he kissed her? She leaned back, her eyes scanning his body.
Even though she tried to fight it, Virginia was attracted to the man. She had been since the moment they met. But physical attraction wasn’t the only thing she needed. To the detective, trust mattered more than anything, and Taylor Clarke had already proven himself as unreliable.
“No,” she answered.
“Fine.” He shrugged. “Then I’ll give the information over to the FBI myself. Or . . . I won’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what I have is good stuff. The kind of stuff that could lead you to the killers’ front door. But in order to get it, I had to promise Patrick Maynor that I’d keep it to myself.”
“What does that have to do with—”
“I reminded him that everyone needs a safety net. That having a journalist know the real story might not be such a bad idea if anything were to happen to him. Which, based on what I know now, is a very real possibility. I’m willing to share it with you, Vee. But only you. I shouldn’t have published the article without you, and I’m trying to make up for that now. I’m not a bad guy, and I want you to see that.”
“Then just tell me.”
“No.” Taylor shook his head. “I want more. I want to know that if I tell you this, it won’t be the last time I see you. Agree to the date. Then I’ll tell you.”
Was it blackmail? Maybe. Still, Virginia both needed and wanted that information, and if this was the only way to get it, then so be it. She swallowed hard, trying not to think about where this date might lead. Would she find herself waking up early in bed next to a naked Kentucky boy as she tried to silently creep out the door, just as she had so many times before? Or would Taylor Clarke want more than something physical?
“Fine,” she reluctantly agreed. “I’ll go out with you. One date.”
“Two.” He smiled playfully, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes. “Sometimes, I don’t make it into bed on the first date. But the second one always catches me.”
“There’s a tradition I’m willing to break,” she answered. “Two dates. Now talk.”
“Miller, Maynor, and Mont . . .” he began after a short pause. “As the world believes it, Patrick Maynor is the only surviving member of the founding three, right?”
“Okay . . .”
“As it turns out, that’s not exactly true. Michael Miller, husband to Connie Miller and Patrick’s former business partner, is also alive. And more than that, he’s very likely the one behind this whole thing.”
“Why would a businessman from a financial firm suddenly become a serial killer?” she asked.
“Because . . .” Taylor’s eyes narrowed. “Losing everything can change a man.”
“More facts, less drama.”
“In case you hadn’t realized it, Patrick Maynor isn’t the greatest guy. Turns out he was more than willing to ruin his once-best friend in order to secure sole right to his company, thereby making himself very, very rich.”
“Ruin him how?” Vee asked.
“By taking the things that mattered to him most. His reputation, his business, and his home. It seems Michael Miller never had much in the way of legal knowledge. A fact that his best friend exploited after a series of bad investments on his part. Because of Patrick Maynor’s missteps, the company was on the verge of bankruptcy when Maynor found a loophole. He screwed Michael Miller out of his shares in the company. He took everything the man had to secure his own future. He even took Connie Miller’s childhood home of Mimwood Plantation, selling it off to the highest bidder.”
“I still don’t get why he would tell you this,” Virginia replied.
“He didn’t tell me,” Taylor clarified. “He gave me little bits and pieces. I’ve been putting it together all day. Just look at the clues. Michael and Connie Miller have been systematically taking out everyone involved with their downfall. Every person who signed a false document, every lying accomplice of Patrick Maynor who helped ruin them has been killed. Patrick knows he’s next, and he’s afraid.”
Virginia suddenly found herself in an unfamiliar place. Was she really beginning to feel sorry for two serial killers? Was she actually sympathizing with their plight? She’d never been wronged to such a level, but she couldn’t help but wonder how she would react if she were in Connie Miller’s shoes. Is there someone else hiding inside all of us? she thought. How far will anger truly take a person?
“Where is Michael Miller now?” the detective asked.
“No one knows,” Taylor replied. “Patrick says he vanished after everything and that it was only after the murders started that he thought of him again.”
“I have to do something,” Virginia snapped.
“No, don’t bring this to anyone else. I swore I’d keep it to myself until he told me otherwise.”
“Since when are you one to keep promises?” she asked.
“I told you I was sorry for that. Do you really plan to keep throwing it in my face?”
The proud Southern woman had never been comfortable admitting she was anything other than strong and collected. Letting a man know he’d hurt her was an idea that just didn’t sit well. Still, the truth has a habit of digging its way to the surface.
“I don’t know . . .” she answered. “Maybe.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“Fine . . .” she said eventually, not sure if she was really telling the truth. “But I won’t sit on this. I have an idea.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
SUNDAY, 4 PM
VIRGINIA
Virginia sat in the empty meeting room, waiting to do the one thing she’d promised the young journalist she wouldn’t. She would tell the FBI everything she knew in the hopes of being let back into the investigation. Sure, in a city like Savannah, there were always plenty of cases to work, but those weren’t her cases. They weren’t the ones she’d started with. They weren’t the ones that would answer her burning questions.
She thought about Taylor, picturing his good looks and hearing his sweet voice echo through the air as she sat in the stillness of the empty office. She had been trained not to trust the media, to walk a fine line when it came to working with them or involving them in cases of any kind, which is why she would keep her source a secret. If Chief Hindle were to find out where she’d gotten her information, she would never make it back into his good graces.
“You have three minutes.”
A no-nonsense FBI agent stepped into the room.
He was tall and thin with a suit that didn’t really fit the way a suit should. Virginia had seen this kind before. The kind of guy who spent his time behind a computer screen, never once having set foot in the field. His bright blue eyes focused on her as he took a seat across the table. He brought no laptop, no notebook or pen, not even a Post-It.
It was clear from the look on his face and the tone in his voice that Martin Grey had little interest in anything Virginia had to say. Virginia leaned in, licked her lips, and smiled. Oh, how she would enjoy telling him she’d found information he had yet to uncover, information she’d gotten from a private source.
“I know who is behind the murders,” she said softly. “The real Connie and Clyde.”
Even though it shouldn’t have, Martin’s reaction surprised the detective. There was something almost insulting about the way he pursed his lips and turned his eyes. It were as if he were mocking her.
“All right . . .” he said finally. “Tell me.”
“Put me back on the case,” she replied.
“There it is.” He began rocking in his oversized leather chair. “If this is just a ploy to get you back on the case, then just come clean with it now, Detective. I don’t have time for games.”
“I assure you, this isn’t a game.”
“And how did you acquire this information, might I ask?” He locked eyes with her, waiting for her to name a source.
“I won’t say,” she replied. “Private source. But I assure you that this—”
“I don’t trust your assurances, Ms. Nixon. What I trust are facts, names, places. I trust reality.”
“Then walk out the door,” she answered. “If you think for one second that you’re going to strongarm me into saying something I don’t want—”