Depraved: St. Cecilia Slayings Book Three

by Blanco, N. Isabelle

  Rushing to regain my composure, I make a big show of writing this detail down, even as dread spreads like dark sludge through my veins.

  They’re going to have this priest talk to the sketch artist.

  Soon, they’ll have a detailed picture of everything I hid. All of it. Sure, I can cover it up by saying the outfit is new, my chase was too hurried for me to catch certain details about her—but the reality is I’ll be lying.

  I should be ecstatic to get more information for us, to get us one step closer to catching this killer.

  Yet, now I’m united to her by a web of lies, many perpetuated by me. I want to catch her personally, as idiotic as that sounds, and the closer my squad gets to her, the more I run the risk of being taken down with her.

  As if she won’t confess to everyone what happened between the two of you once she’s caught.

  Maybe. But what proof will she really have? It’s not like she recorded me shouting my head off as I fucked her face.

  Right?

  “By ‘black devil,’ you’re referring to the supposed black suit, correct?” That’s Nathaniel, whose tone doesn’t seem to sit well with anyone.

  All of us turn our attention toward him, the priest included.

  Lieutenant Thayer eyes him the hardest, stare narrowed on the asshole’s profile. He holds it without falter until something else catches his eye, prompting him to lean toward Nathaniel for closer inspection. “What is that?” he asks, pointing at something on Blackstone’s neck.

  Nathaniel’s eyes widen in realization almost immediately. In his nervously aware state, he fiddles with his collar in attempt to cover up the subject in question. “Oh, um—my date got a little carried away tonight, sir. I was with her before you rang.”

  Golden Boy’s sporting a hickey.

  I almost choke out a laugh. Almost. Until flashes of the motel flicker through my mind and I’m left wondering if I have any, too. I know for sure Kiera has to have a couple adorning her body. The way I mauled her—

  “You’d be smart to do a better job at covering up your indiscretions, Blackstone. I don’t care what you do on your time off, but don’t bring remnants of your extracurricular activities with you while you’re on the clock,” the Lieutenant mutters. His eyes cut back my way, then he gives a little nod for me to continue.

  Clearing my throat, I will all thoughts of Kiera to the back of my mind and turn back to Father Wilson. “As Detective Blackstone asked, you mean she was dressed in all-black, yes?”

  Father Wilson agrees silently, shuddering at the reminder. “From head to toe, it seems. Shiny, almost wet. Like glistening black skin.”

  My blood runs cold. I have to restrain myself from sucking in a heap of air.

  Fuck.

  “Glistening?” Lee chimes in.

  Even Ruby seems intrigued by this morsel of information, leaning in closer to the priest.

  Just as he’s about to elaborate on what he means, I feel someone tug on the arm of my shirt. A quick snap of my head reveals Lieutenant Thayer tipping his head to the front of the church. His expression appears more confused than anything else, and yet, still, my stomach churns.

  Almost absentmindedly, I pass Ruby my notebook and follow behind him to the entrance.

  “You’re the only who’s gotten a good look at her thus far, Quinn. What does that man mean by ‘glistening?’”

  A skin-tight latex body suit that shows off every curve, dip, and swell of what looks to be one hell of a delicious body, that vile little voice in my head answers.

  But I don’t repeat it, of course.

  I shrug instead, appearing as nonplussed as everyone else. “I have no idea. The black from head to toe matches exactly what I saw, but I don’t recall any of it being remotely shiny,” I lie, right through my fucking teeth.

  Standing here.

  In this church.

  Jesus glaring at me from his perch on the cross atop the altar.

  Lieutenant Thayer eyes me keenly, enough to bob my throat through an uneasy swallow. I can tell he wants to press me further, but the medical examiner pulls up at that very moment, drawing his scrutiny on the man as he slips around us en route to the body.

  Rushing down the aisle, he makes it to the body as the crime scene photographers shoot off another few images.

  I don’t have to watch the M.E remove that blade in his neck to know what’ll be carved on one side of it.

  Still haven’t found the courage to take it off my neck. Kiera was all over it back at the hotel when cuddling up to my chest. And it’s yet another dose of panic straight to my bloodstream. Because, as I said, I know what’s going to be revealed when the weapon is removed from that neck.

  That blade will have a calling card for me again.

  “For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.” - Ephesians 6:12

  This is worse than the early Boston Slasher days. Much, much worse.

  Camera flashes, rowdy reporters, and inquisitive journalists make up the pandemonium outside of headquarters at 1 Schroeder Plaza. The bombardment of questions is almost as loud as a roar in the air. With civilians in a panic after another gruesome murder, an urgent press conference was called in an attempt to ease the public’s mind. Lieutenant Thayer, my colleagues, and I stand diligently behind Captain Porter as he delivers the news and answers questions, all of us suited up to the nines in our uniforms.

  “There’s no longer any doubt the murders are being committed by the same perpetrator, correct?” one reporter shouts over the hurried questions of the others.

  “These heinous crimes are without a doubt the work of a serial killer, one I can assure you will be brought to justice soon. We will not rest until our city is safe once more,” the Captain vows, arising a round of applause as thunderous as the sky above.

  “Captain!” a woman’s voice bellows above the ripple of praise. “Given the killing style, could this by any chance be the resurfacing of the Boston Slasher?”

  The media has already decided it is, but it’s no surprise that they want verbal confirmation of the fact. More fuel for the fire.

  Captain Porter shakes his head and raises his hands for silence. “That could very well be a probability—however, we’re not one-hundred percent certain at this time. Our detectives are working around the clock to find consistencies between the murders, both new and old.”

  “Are you sure it’s a serial killer?” another reporter asks. “If so, what are the connecting factors between these murders aside from the killing style and location of two of the bodies?”

  The DuBois Family, I blurt inwardly. However small that connection may be, they’re it nonetheless. Or may it’s not small. Maybe that’s just how I want to see it because of her.

  A connection I hate more each day when it keeps me from being with Kiera.

  My lack of objectivity—of professionalism—isn’t lost to me. What it could mean for this case isn’t, either.

  “Captain, over here!” Another reporter’s bark draws me away from thoughts of Kiera. “It seems the murders all trace back to Boston’s circle of wealth, unlike the Boston Slasher killings. Are you planning to implement higher security in those areas?”

  Ridiculous question. Even if we tried it, how are we supposed to assign a security detail to every one of Boston’s affluent citizens? Their social class might be much smaller than the average citizens, yet it’s an impossible task.

  Captain Porter goes on to explain how the targeting could be a coincidence, something I know he’s doing to keep the panic at bay for the time being. Unfortunately for him, it backfires. The reporter almost immediately counters in outrage, prompting a few others around her to agree. Just as Porter is about to respond, a quick flash of movement across the street grapples my attention. I lose track of everything around me as I cut my eyes to the source.

  One look is all it takes and I fe
el them widen.

  Hell, they nearly burst from their sockets as I take in the distant scene.

  It’s Kiera . . . and she’s not alone.

  It takes me longer than it should to rip my gaze away from her twisted expression to the person she’s with—her brother Elon.

  They’re arguing, and no, I’m not mistaken. It’s clear as day. The look on her face is nearly murderous. There’s a tinge of disgust there as well.

  And a desperation that twists my gut.

  She moves to turn away from him.

  From one moment to the next, he reaches out and captures her face in palms.

  Angrily.

  Possessively.

  My heart rate spikes at the sight of it.

  There’s a wildness to his stare—a yearning that flips my stomach. Kiera digs her nails into his wrists, trying to push him back. When Elon resists, hands tightening on her face, I choke on the impulse to push through this crowd.

  To make my way over there and rip him away from her.

  That question invades my mind again: who the hell does he think he is? Touching her like that. Forcing her like that.

  Cameras continue flashing, recording. The Captain is in the middle of answering another round of questions. Inside, I’m a fuckmess, a war between urges and responsibilities, common sense and insanity. I should tear my stare away from the couple across the street.

  God damn it, not the couple. Brother and sister, trapped in a heated debate.

  My head tilts slightly to the side, heart racing. My mind keeps going back to that word. To the fact that they do seem like a—

  Nope—can’t think it. Can’t go there.

  It isn’t lost on me that depending on where one of those cameras are aimed, I’m probably being photographed or recorded as I stand here losing my shit, staring across the street like a psychopath.

  As with everything else surrounding that woman, my concerns for my career take a back seat to this whirlwind inside me.

  Kiera jerks her head out of his grip, turning it in the direction of headquarters. I tense, waiting for the moment her stare meets mine—hoping for it actually . . .

  Elon brings her back in, saying something to her with a harsh expression. She rolls those bright eyes that, even from here appear silverish, and scoffs. The revulsion on her face is clear.

  And confusing.

  Slamming her hands into his chest, she pushes him back for a final time and then she’s storming down the block away from him.

  Away from me.

  Kiera doesn’t know I’m here, trapped by my duty to the force, my insides scrambled by this battle to remain where I am.

  To not ruin my career.

  The investigation.

  Her reputation and my own.

  Elon pivots to go after her, every line of his body tense with that wildness I read in his face.

  My hands clench tightly at my sides. I can’t fucking follow her although it’s all I want at this point, more than anything, and all because I’m in the middle of this press conference.

  In full uniform, with my colleagues all around, my bosses at the head.

  The Captain of the entire squad at the podium.

  Oh, and let’s not forget the media frenzy trying to make us go both blind and death as they aim their barrage of questions at Porter.

  However, I can’t stand Elon. The animosity runs too deep considering I don’t know him personally, don’t really know their familial history, or what that argument could’ve possibly been about. I want to say it’s my cop instincts that are inflamed by the mere existence of Elon Musk, but can I claim that as a fact?

  With the way my emotions are running lately, what do I really know?

  It’s the right thing to do, this staying here. I know it is. Yet I can’t get Kiera’s expression out of my head. Can’t forget the way that asshole—who just happens to be her brother—touched her. Stared at her. Made her look at him.

  The desire to check on her, see if she’s alright, is at the helm of this need to go after her. I want to console myself with the fact that I can check up on her later.

  Yeah, if I show up at her house again, like the unprofessional, poor excuse for a detective that I’ve become. I don’t even have her number to send her a text.

  Shit. I’ve been inside that woman how many times now? And I don’t even have her fucking number. Talk about another clue into how abnormal this all is.

  Get it from the file.

  That idea is like a slap to the face. The shock leaves me blinking rapidly in the flash of the cameras and the fact my brain latches onto the idea like it’s the best thing it’s ever come up with is a huge issue.

  Huge.

  Because getting the information I seek from that file is prohibited. Completely unethical, too.

  If you’re careful enough, you can do it, that insidious voice coaxes.

  No, I can’t. I just can’t. It doesn’t matter how careful I am. I’m risking enough as it is by even thinking about pursuing anything with Kiera, and yet, for the remainder of the press conference, that’s the forbidden realm in which my mind remains.

  About thirty minutes after everything wraps up, my squad and I head back inside command where Captain Porter gives us all an ass-ripping pep talk before sending us on our way. I leave Ruby at our desks to sort today’s plan while I run to the locker room to change out of my uniform.

  Just do it. Open the file and jot down the number.

  The thought plagues me again as I’m doing up the buttons of my navy blue dress shirt.

  Sonofabitch.

  I sigh profoundly, more at myself than anything else. This is ridiculous. I know better than this, shouldn’t even be thinking such things. But here I am, giving it serious thought despite it all.

  I can’t let it go—both getting that number and what I saw transpire between Kiera and her brother. There wasn’t anything remotely normal about that situation. Yes, siblings argue, some more than others, but that was far from just your typical sibling rumble.

  My mind instantly travels somewhere darker.

  I can’t help but wonder if this happens often. If this occurrence was somewhat contained given they were in public? If he’s more rough with her in the privacy of their home? Has he ever laid a hand on her?

  It would explain her off kilter vibe that night I bumped into them at the hotel event . . .

  The entire contents of my stomach roil.

  So many questions. I have so many damn questions, and I may never get the answers to them.

  You can if you get that number.

  Fuck!

  Tugging at my hair, I pace back and forth in front of a row of lockers like an obsessed lunatic. Flashes of Elon and Kiera play in a reel while that antagonizing mental voice continues tempting me to grab her number from that fucking file.

  My heart thunders.

  The room spins.

  I literally feel like I’m going insane.

  Sticking my hands to the cool metal before me, I bow my head and breathe through the chaos wreaking havoc within my body. It’s nothing more than a weak attempt to get a hold of myself, if you ask me, because the more I try to snuff the voice out, the louder it screams.

  That wasn’t normal! What if he’s hurting her behind closed doors? He could be hurting her right now! Get her number, you idiot!

  “AAARGH!” My fist meets the steel in frustration. “This is bullshit!” I growl, glaring up at the heavens.

  What the fuck is happening to me?

  Why am I like this?

  Why do I obsess and dwell and—

  Because you’re an addict. Alcohol, Kiera, the killer; they’re all connected. One and the same.

  “Prove all things; hold fast that which is good. Abstain from all appearance of evil.” - 1 Thessalonians 5:21-22

  Jared Lee is at the very top of my hit list.

  Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating, but what the fuck. He just had to request an admin day today of all days, leaving his partner s
olo. And because the Captain has picked up on my unusual hatred for the guy—I’m convinced he has—and wants to find new ways to mess with me, guess who Blackstone ended up partnered with for this shift?

  Yeah. That’s right. My usual, already annoying two-person team is now an even more annoying three-person disaster.

  For the next eight to nine hours, at least.

  This shift’s only begun and I’m already dying for it to end.

  We’re in my car on the way to Mr. Milford Digby’s home—the man dragged and dumped haphazardly in the aisle of St. Cecilia after the priest interrupted the killer. I’m at the wheel with Ruby in the passenger seat and Nathaniel in the back.

  Both are quiet.

  Hell, we all are.

  For Ruby, that’s uncharacteristic to the extreme. She wasn’t happy upon finding out Nathaniel would be riding with us and it shows. Not that Blackstone has noticed or that he cares. In fact, he hasn’t uttered a single word, which clearly isn’t sitting too well with her, either.

  She’s fidgety, knee bouncing a mile per minute. Every few moments or so her eyes will drift to the rear view mirror where she’s practically spearing a dazed Blackstone with her over-analytical stare.

  I try not to comment on it every time I catch her doing it, but goddamn she’s making it hard. And it’s not for Nathaniel’s sake. We all know I could give three fucks about him. Just proves she’s still dwelling on matters I told her to forget about. Wasting valuable energy while she’s at it, too.

  For someone who’s dying to hear me demand she drop to her knees and worship my cock, she sure as hell has a hard time following directions.

  Just saying.

  As I’m parking up outside of Digby’s home, I glance to my right and there she is, doing it yet again. Takes every ounce of professionalism I possess not to express my frustrations with her. I can’t, not while Golden Boy’s riding with us. Once we clock out for the day, though, she’s getting an earful.

  Despite my attempts, shit still manages to shine through clear as day. Throwing the shifter into park, I promptly drop my arm on her chair and point my glare right at her head. Nathaniel is out of the backseat in a flash, leaving Ruby to turn her attention to where I sit.