by Trisha Wolfe
Carson flips open a file and spreads the contents across the table. The grisly images reach right into my chest and stop my heart.
He sits there, watching, waiting to see my reaction. Or lack of one. I wonder if Quinn called in Sadie, after all. If she’s on the other side of the mirror right now, analyzing me. Providing insight for the others as she deciphers my every word and action. A disgusted expression marring her beautiful face.
I don’t have to look at the pictures; I know what they reveal. I haven’t forgotten. I see them in my nightmares. Marni’s naked body tied and bound. Strung up against her headboard. A rope noosed around her neck. She was strangled so hard her eyes bulged and bled red.
But I reach across the table and pick up a photo, anyway. I know it’s what he wants me to do. He wants me to need to relive her murder so badly that I can’t help but touch them. Marvel over them. Be back in that bedroom with her and recreate that moment.
I don’t need crime scene photos to remind me, though; I have never stopped reliving it.
“Take a look, Colton. Can you tell me who this is?”
“Don’t play that fucking game,” I grind out, forcing my gaze away from the image to meet his eyes. “I’m here on my own accord. So far, I haven’t been charged, so I know you don’t have anything solid or else I’d be cuffed and my rights already read. I’m being…what’s that word you like? Cooperative. So I’d appreciate it if you’d just cut the shit and make your point.”
A knowing smile curves his mouth. “Fair enough. That strangled victim in the photo—”
“Marni,” I correct him. I hate that word—she was never a victim.
“Marni,” he says, the smile leaving his face. “She was more to you than just your brother’s girlfriend, wasn’t she?”
“She was.”
“In fact, you and your brother once got into a heated argument over her at a club where he worked down in Roanoke. Witnesses said that the argument escalated quickly and became physical.”
My forehead creases as I study him. What the hell angle is he working? “I was in love with her, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
His practiced features give nothing away. “Love can make us do some fucked up things.”
This guy has no idea.
“Your brother produced an alibi,” he continues. “For some odd reason, an alibi that was never mentioned during his initial interrogation. It was sent to my department via his lawyer once he was released.”
“His girlfriend had just died, detective. I’m sure he was distraught.” And Julian was giving me enough time to get away by keeping the law busy. He never owned to it—we never once discussed what happened back then—but I didn’t have to ask. The same way he never had to ask me. It was an understanding between us.
Carson shifts in his seat, moving the crime scene images aside to rest his elbows on the table. “Maybe. But you know, I just find it really odd. I also find it odd that a woman you loved so much—who you were willing to fight your own brother over—suddenly dies…and you just leave. Poof! I mean, you didn’t even attend her funeral. Or offer your brother comfort during his distraught time. Human behavior, it’s the damndest thing. If my profiler was here, she might be able to offer some insight into your actions—but I’m not really interested in her thoughts.” He pauses, waiting to see if that gets a reaction. I concentrate on my breathing, suppressing the impulse to ram my fist in his face. “You know what I like more? Facts. Evidence. The hard, tangible things I can get a hold of.”
I stand, knocking my chair back with an audible screech. “I think my cooperation just ran out, detective. I’ll see myself out.”
Before I can make a move for the door, he’s on his feet and heading around the table. He pulls out an evidence bag with a length of rope curled inside. “I never filed this detail in my report.” He shoves the bag against my chest. “And there’s no one on the other side of that mirror. It’s just you and me.”
I wait, breath held, for him to drive home the nail.
“There’s one thing that links the serial killings here to the killings down in Roanoke, Colton. And it’s not the motive. It’s not the victimology. It’s not even the geographic aspect. It’s the flaw.” He backs up a step. “One overlooked detail by both sides, that when placed side-by-side, there’s no denying the connection.”
I stuff my hands in my pockets, my annoyance mounting the longer he drags this out. “I’m guessing you’re going to tell me it’s the rope.”
“Bingo.” He holds up the bag. “Every killer has their preferred method. Their preferred tools. Preference is paramount. The Roanoke Roper always used cotton rope. Thick, strong, durable…not easy to get free of.” He eyes me hard. “Except for the last victim. Marni. She was bound and strangled with jute.”
The air vacates my lungs. The room becomes intolerably bright, the overhead lights buzzing in my ears.
“Why do you think a killer would suddenly change his preference?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for a response. “I don’t think he did. No. See, I think your brother still prefers cotton. Now you…you prefer jute for your Shibari rope work. Right? At least, that’s what I’ve come to learn.”
I squeeze the knot of jute rope in my pocket now, my heart thundering in my chest.
Carson doesn’t miss a beat. “And now, two years later, more crime scenes with rope as a major component, and guess what?” He picks up another file from the table. “I have a report that identifies all the rope present at the recent crime scenes has been cotton fiber. Except one. The first victim was bound with jute. It’s like the cases are reversing; working backward to close up the gap. What’s your take?”
“Fuck you.” It slips right out, leaving bitter venom on my tongue.
Carson shakes his head. His smile widens. “Human behavior. Everyone responds differently under pressure. But evidence never lies.”
“Have a seat, Colton,” he says, motioning to the chair. “We have a long night ahead of us. We’re going to relive that night over and over, until we get our facts straight.”
I could walk out of the room right now. I still haven’t been charged. But when will the running end? I’m tired—so fucking tired. And if this somehow gives him the information he needs to find the person stalking Sadie, then it’s what has to be done.
I pick up my chair and take a seat, giving the detective exactly what he wants from me.
“Now,” he says, propping himself onto the corner of the table. “What happened between you and Julian? What was the fallout?”
I stay quiet. He already has all the answers he needs—he’s just waiting out the charges to come through. I killed Marni. I panicked and used jute instead of cotton. It was my mistake, and it’s the nail in my coffin. A coffin that has been beckoning me home for two years. It’s time.
When I don’t respond, Carson releases a heavy breath. Then, “All right. Let’s try it this way. What made Julian decide to kill his girlfriend and try to pin the murder on you?”
And like that, my world shifts beneath my feet and spins right off its axis.
12
Truth
Sadie
I drag myself forward and reach for my phone on the edge of the bathtub. The screen shows no new messages. I let the phone drop to the rug, the warm bath water welcoming me back as I lie against the cool tile.
Despite the fact that it’s unwise to keep calling, leaving a trace linking me to his phone, I’ve left Colton two messages. It doesn’t matter; before long, Carson will make our connection. The detective is too damn persistent. Even if Colton disposes of my member file, there’s always evidence. We leave behind a part of ourselves everywhere we go, on everything we touch—our imprint remains.
Beads of water roll down my forearm as I lift my wrist and trace the wet band of rope. For some reason, sitting here in the hollow quiet of my bathroom, my need for Colton is magnified. Its painful solitude reaches beyond my trepidation and fear of discovery, and demands that I go to hi
m. With the task force watching The Lair, I want him away from there. I want him here so I can protect him from career-making detectives. I want him. Period.
My eyes are heavy with sleep, but I battle the urge to close them. Colton said that he’d wait all night…and so that’s what I’ll do. I’ll wait until he feels it’s safe to come here. I’ll wait until he works out that I have nothing to do with Carson’s witch hunt.
The echo of dripping water from the faucet lulls me into a false calm, and against my will, I shut my eyes. A blaring beep disrupts the tranquility of the bathroom, and I spring forward, reaching over the tub to grab my phone.
If deja vu is a real thing, it’s terrifying. The text message on my burner phone aims to make me feel every bit of that terror.
Unknown: Hello, Sadie. It’s so impersonal, this cold technology, don’t you think? But for lack of being able to talk in person, I suppose this method will do. Let’s have a conversation, shall we?
Moving slowly but deliberately, I hold the phone before me as I rise out of the tub. Last time the UNSUB sent me a message, he was close enough to see me. My senses are on high alert, my ears picking up on every noise in my apartment. I grab the towel off the rack and wrap it around my body, trying to make as little sound as possible.
I ease into to my bedroom and slide my gun from its holster. I cock the hammer and place my back against the corner of the room. The window, blinds closed, is to my left, and I can see into the living room through the open door of my bedroom.
Another beep. I inhale a shaky breath and look at my phone.
Unknown: Don’t bother wasting our precious time with trying to find me—I’m not there, Sadie.
But he does know where I am.
Keeping my gun raised, I text one-handed. I ask the most important question.
Me: What do you want?
Unknown: You.
Me: You can’t have me.
Unknown: All in good time. But I think you’re asking the wrong question. It’s not so much the what but the why. Though you must have some idea by now.
Me: Okay then. Why?
Unknown: You took something away from me—now you must replace it.
Me: That’s not possible.
Unknown: It’s not impossible.
I lower my gun and press the back of my head against the wall. He’s talking in riddles. He likes to plant clues, but this feels too vague for him. There’s a reason, a purpose, for everything he does. What is his reason for contacting me now?
Unknown: I admire you, Sadie. You’re a very powerful woman. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to impress you, but I hope my efforts have afforded me some of your regard. It’s the reason why I chose something you’re passionate about—a woman who you respect. Respect is so important.
Me: Nothing you have done has impressed me. You’ve borrowed—no stolen—from another. Unoriginality in unoriginal times. Want to impress me? Show yourself. Stop playing games.
If Quinn were aware of this conversation, he’d chastise me for antagonizing him. For basically inviting the UNSUB to lash out against me. I know this—I know that in any other situation, I would do the exact opposite. But I also know the UNSUB is intelligent enough to anticipate law enforcement tactics. If I want to keep his focus on me—in a way where I might be able to sway his actions—then I can’t play those games.
Unknown: Again, all in good time. For now, I just want you to consider what we have to offer each other. You owe me something, and I can give you the understanding, the conviction, you’ve been searching for. I promise, you won’t get what you need from him. He’s merely a distraction. One that will soon be removed.
My heart batters my chest. Attempting to quell the anxiety crippling my lungs, I take slow breaths. In. Out. In and out.
I set my phone down on the bed and dress hurriedly. The UNSUB knows about Colton—nothing I’ve done has prevented that. And even though the threat against him was in the present tense, Colton still hasn’t contacted me. I don’t know where he is. That fear strips me down to my barest vulnerability.
My thumbs hover over the screen as I consider my next move. I just need one clue—just one slip-up on the UNSUB’s part that can lead me to where he is.
But my time runs out at the next beep.
Unknown: Those who have something to lose, have something to fear. You understand this, Sadie. You taught me this. I aim to relieve you of those who you fear losing the most. I believe that will make us even. My gift to you.
…those who you fear losing the most…
My mother.
The realization knocks my feet out from underneath me and I hit the floor. Hand to chest, I drag in a fiery breath past my constricted lungs. I was such a fool to think I could outwit him—that I could engage him. There is one vital difference between this killer and the others: he sees me coming. There is no element of surprise. I never had the upper hand.
And the sadistic fuck is making me choose. A choice that—either way—will end with my suffering. This much I know; he’s a true sadist, resolute in reveling in my agony.
With what rational mind I possess, I throw my holster over one shoulder and grab my bag as I race through the living room. Despite knowing that this is the very thing the UNSUB wants of me, I’m spurred into motion. On a predestined path that starts with one choice.
The choices we make define us. They demand action; whether we are ready or not. And for however long we weather the storm, our choices never stop haunting us. Who will I be when I’ve finally answered for all the decisions that have led me here. Who will remain when the final fissure completes its destructive journey.
I don’t have the answer. But in this moment, where I now face an impossible choice, the outcome belongs to me.
Search for Colton, or protect my mother.
My phone vibrates with another message. Unknown: Run, Sadie. Run.
The UNSUB knows the choice I have to make. He’s counting on it.
13
Twist
UNSUB
Her muffled cry echoes throughout the room, bouncing off the stone and filling the chilly air with a beautiful sound. It’s haunting and exquisite, like a single violin breaking away from the orchestra. A solo just for me.
I decide to join in—I enjoy duets even more. It’s simply too tempting not to become a part of her debut. She’s irresistible; wrists bound, mouth gagged, slender body contorted, slim legs parted wide and already stained with my favorite color.
I slide the sharp metal up the creamy flesh of her thigh, releasing another bead of red, and she frees a shiver-inducing scream around the gag. I feel it in my bones, rattling me to the core. Stirring my blood. We’re like lovers caressing for the first time, anticipating each touch that sets the skin aflame.
Ah, can’t forget about the flame.
My pet wilts as I set my blade aside. Her body—strung so tightly with tension—visibly deflates with relief. It makes the striking of the match all the more enjoyable as fear lights her glistening eyes.
One solitary tear slips down her cheek, and I reach up with my gloved hand to wipe it away. I leave my hand resting against her face, run my thumb under her eye. I have a thing for eyes—the windows to which the soul peeks out. I need to look into them.
You can hear the terror in a scream. Glimpse the fright as the body quivers. But there is no mistaking fear when it comes from the eyes. That’s why I don’t mind the gag when it’s necessary—but I’ll never cover the eyes.
You will always see me.
As I lower the match to her flesh, her stomach muscles trembling as she struggles to back away from the flame, I pry her eyes open and stare into the depths of her. My wilting flower, so much pain. So much pain.
I don’t know if the Countess reveled in torture in the same way. I don’t know her reasons—the why, the foundation. I assume some of it was madness. Maybe a dash of inbreeding to boot. Coupled with a childhood where she suffered at the hands of someone she should’ve been able to trust, an
d you have the recipe for a dedicated psychopath.
My imagination runs away with me at times. Since the history books have been wiped as if the infamous lady never existed, I have to settle for my creation. I’m an artist, after all. And then there are Sadie’s theories, of course. I’ve spent the past year finding ways to apply her theories to my art—she’s as much a part of this as I am.
With my art and her skill, we’ll be an unstoppable team.
Since there’s no room for a third wheel in a magnificent duet, that means it’s nearly time for my accomplice to take a bow.
Permanently.
The match douses right as I’m getting to the good part, and I drop the burnt stick. My pet, soaking wet with sweat and tears, spasms against the bindings until she blacks out. Her body goes limp.
That won’t do. I grab the smelling salts from my work table and wave it under her nose. She jolts back to life. Like kick-starting an engine, my little pet revs up, unleashing a new wave of cries. It sends a thrill right to my cock, and I’m suddenly straining against my pants.
Again, my imagination takes flight. All the possibilities that lay ahead for my love. I’ll paint the scene, and she’ll be the star. When my blade draws blood, she’ll be my guiding hand. And when I throb, I’ll bury myself in her…until she breaks.
I release a groan, unable to deny myself any longer. The build up is always the best. The tension rising, rising—cresting to new heights. At the sound of my zipper dropping, my pet cries. She knows this is the best part, too. I can see it in her eyes.
Tension thrums all around us. At last, a beauty who got the answer right—she’s smarter than the others. Build the tension. Build it until you ache, until you beg for release. Sweet, sweet tension.
Then again, a great story also needs a twist.
Once all your characters are in place, that’s when it’s time to flip the switch.
