Rule of Thirds (A Mirror Novel Book 1)

by Stephanie Tyler

  He closed it. Locked it behind Jacoby and firmly told himself to ignore everything Jacoby had told him if he wanted to earn all the zeros on the paycheck, then promptly called Ward for backup.

  Chapter Two

  Bren had called him the second Jacoby pulled away, as if Ward didn’t have the outside of the author’s house under complete surveillance. He wasn’t allowed to put any of it on Bren’s property without permission (which he didn’t have at all) but he didn’t need permission to wire from the street looking in.

  Ward had caught sight of the old Harley zooming up Bren’s driveway fifteen minutes earlier. Now, he watched Jacoby walking back out to his bike, until he stopped dead and trained his gaze upward, squinting. And then smirked, because he’d found what he’d been looking for. He raised his chin defiantly as he stared into Ward’s eyes through the camera. A challenge. A dare. A threat…and all of it coming Ward’s way.

  Ward was screwed.

  There was no way to prepare for seeing Jacoby again—Ward had known that from the start. He’d tracked him, knew where and what Jacoby was working on. He could never have cut Jacoby out completely—didn’t want to, and although he’d understood why Jacoby cut him out, it hadn’t stopped Ward from being angry with him. From worrying that he’d run—again.

  But now, Jacoby was back.

  Jacoby.

  His witness.

  His lover.

  A man who’d brought danger to his door. A man he almost died for. A man he couldn’t live without. Six feet of pure hot-blooded, ruggedly handsome man, with sensual lips that got fuller after Ward kissed him fiercely.

  For the past couple of years, anytime he heard a bike as loud as the roar of Jacoby’s Harley, Ward’s gut tightened even though he’d know the distinctive sound of Jacoby’s anywhere—and he’d be hearing it again in the next fifteen minutes. Jacoby had worked on the old Harley for the six years when he and Ward were together—working together, sleeping together as Jacoby trained as an FBI agent and helped Ward with Jessica’s case.

  Jacoby got into the Farm on his merits—of course, he was on the FBI’s radar; Cullers’s radar, specifically—but he didn’t require any special favors to get through the training. He was tops in his class. Maybe because he had a criminal background (with no convictions) and because he’d lived with psychopath, but the psychology and the weapons play came easily to him. He was a natural leader, and even if the others in his class resented his ease, they still couldn’t help admire him.

  Ward hadn’t wanted this life for him at all. Then again, he wasn’t sure what else Jacoby would’ve been satisfied doing. He was good at this and whether it was nature or nurture, it wasn’t Ward’s place to question.

  Not that he didn’t have others, the most important of which was, would it have worked out between them if Ward hadn’t gotten kidnapped by Jessica? If Jacoby hadn’t wanted off the Jessica case completely, which he and Ward talked about beforehand?

  Ward tried not to believe in what ifs, but inevitably his mind pulled him back to the man who entered his life like an explosion and left giant, gaping holes in his wake. Nothing had been the same since, nor would it be.

  And now the live grenade had arrived—no doubt having ridden a hundred miles an hour to make it here in record time—and was halfway up the walk. All the danger signals were chiming in Ward’s brain and maybe he could stop this now, set off an alarm, pull a gun, order Jacoby off the property.

  But which one of them would he be doing that for?

  You’re a sin eater, Ward. Never forget.

  “I haven’t,” he said resignedly as he got up and went to the door to greet his past.

  *

  There was no goddamned way Bren’s source could be Jessica’s brother, Jasper—because Jacoby was the real Jasper, and he sure as hell wasn’t the one making phone calls to Bren.

  Which left Jacoby’s mind spinning with all the heart-stopping possibilities of who was pretending to be Jasper—and why—and how much of this was his sister’s idea of a power play.

  The faster he discovered who was impersonating him, the better. Especially because the fact that Bren was planning on exposing Jacoby’s entire goddamned past hit him between the eyes as soon as he stopped the bike in Ward’s driveway. The whole thing would be so fucking public—and while some might think his sister had gotten sloppy, that was so far from the truth. No, Jessica got better as she got older—more precise. Deadlier. Jacoby attributed more deaths to her than the FBI would find normally, because he knew what to look for. It was what helped him catch another female serial killer last year.

  From the research he’d done, Jacoby couldn’t find a single connection his family—especially his serial killer sister—might’ve had to Bren Booth. Granted, who knew if Booth’s father or mother or someone was impacted by a scam run by Jacoby’s mother…

  Still, no one outside of the small circle of FBI agents who knew his story had ever connected Jessica to his mother. That information was kept under wraps. By the time Jessica hit the public’s radar—and gained national attention for being, in some women’s eyes, able to provide the kind of vigilante justice against rapists that they couldn’t—Jacoby’s presence had been hidden and everything else about her early life wiped clean.

  And now this asshole author planned on dredging it all up—he and his “source.”

  Motherfucker, it was going to be a long descent back into hell, even though he hadn’t climbed very far out of it in the first place.

  His chest burned where the scars trailed to his belly as he started up the front walk, and the flashback hit him faster than he’d expected—harder too…

  He’s barely breathing on the way up the driveway because it hurts too damned badly. He wants to get on his hands and knees and crawl, wants to lie down on the expensive stone and die there…but he’s not injured enough to die. She’s left him like this, on purpose, and she’d love nothing better than to have him crawling…

  To her. But he won’t. Her threats don’t matter because he’s not close enough to anyone. She won’t kill him—she’s told him as much. But she’ll make him suffer, over and over, until he relents and comes back.

  He’s covered up the still-bleeding wounds as best he can—he’s hoping it won’t show through the black shirt and the black leather jacket before he can talk to Ward Thayer, the FBI profiler he’d reached out to four days ago.

  Four days. His sister held him hostage for four long days, cutting him, letting him bleed. Scar. Pouring salt in the wounds, literally and figuratively.

  He’d left her and his mom behind five days ago in London and flown to the States. Jessica had ended up in his hotel room before he’d arrived, which meant she’d known about his reservation…his escape plans.

  He wouldn’t know how or why for a very long time, if ever. It didn’t matter. All that did was pulling himself together, walking into Ward’s house like he didn’t have a care in the world…and he’d made it too. Until the blood ran down his arm onto Ward’s front stoop, causing Ward to pull him inside the house, into his life, his bed, his heart…

  Snap out of it, he told himself. You know full well Ward’s watching you, waiting for the first signs of weakness.

  Jacoby refused to show him any—not this time. So he continued walking toward Ward’s house, a big, expensive-looking Tudor mansion. The guy was rich—old family money. The kind of man that Jacoby spent the early part of his life stealing from, scamming on and living off of.

  These days, Jacoby had more than enough money to not live like the fucking Amish, but he couldn’t bring himself to. Ward’s excess, no matter how refined or reserved, had made him wildly uncomfortable at one point. Now it was a minor annoyance, one Jacoby hadn’t dealt with in years, since his sister’s attack on Ward.

  After that, it had been two years of Jacoby burying himself in work, of pretending to be a marshal, two years of watching his sister’s killings go dormant.

  At least that’s what the FBI believed. Jac
oby knew much better. So should Ward.

  When the door swung open, Jacoby was only halfway up the back walk. Jacoby wasn’t surprised—Ward always had an arsenal of security.

  Now, he framed the doorway, more lanky than broad, several inches taller than Jacoby’s six feet, and nine years older. Wiser was a toss-up, depending on the moment. And they’d had a hell of a lot of moments.

  “Really?” was all Ward said. He crossed his arms, stared Jacoby up and down, with an expression settling into his aristocratically handsome features that definitely wasn’t all displeasure.

  “Really,” Jacoby echoed, not stopping walking. Ward moved aside the barest amount, just enough to let Jacoby slide past him while still being made aware—once again—of what being in proximity to Ward’s body did to him.

  Jacoby walked straight into the sitting room, as Ward called it, and poured himself a whiskey from the familiar tumbler. Two fingers would take the edge off while still allowing him to ride back to the hotel safely. He wasn’t spending the night here.

  “Why, exactly, are you here, Jacoby? Or are you planning to confirm that you’re done threatening private citizens for the evening?”

  Even though the familiar anger Jacoby had been waiting for rose inside him like a crescendo, he managed to keep his voice steady, even before taking a sip of the perfectly aged amber liquid. “How’ve you been, Ward?”

  “Alive.”

  Jacoby had done Ward a favor by disappearing, but Ward was the one who actually initiated the split, so there’s no way he could place blame on Jacoby for not calling or seeing him before this. Hell, he wasn’t supposed to be here now, for more reasons than Ward knew about, but Jacoby wasn’t going to stand on ceremony. Not after what he’d learned. “You know I always browse the new WITSEC lists.”

  He had to, just in case his sister tried to sneak in under the guise of being a witness. Just because she’d already done it once—and successfully—didn’t mean she wasn’t cocky enough to try it again. Jacoby would’ve done the same if need be, albeit for different reasons, since he wasn’t a goddamned psychopathic killer.

  Ward frowned at him, his steel blue-gray eyes cutting into Jacoby’s. “He’s not on the WITSEC lists—so where did you find all the information you threatened him with?”

  “His agent’s files gave a good amount of detail.”

  “How did you—” Ward started, then sighed and said, “No, don’t tell me. Besides that, it was a logline in Publishers Weekly.”

  “Right.” And that was all Jacoby needed to go fishing. A search of his sister’s name pulled up the mini-blurb. The publisher didn’t matter—neither did the money. But that single line had grabbed Jacoby by the throat and yanked him in.

  Jessica: From Grifter to Serial Killer—a look inside the family life that created a psychopath.

  Ward looked at him steadily, no doubt trying to zero in on Jacoby’s motives, like he was so damned good at doing. His hair was a little longer than it had been, dark and thick but more tamed than Jacoby’s ever was. Jacoby wondered what his wounds had healed like. Last Jacoby had seen, they were stitched and bloody.

  No doubt Ward had plastic surgery since then. Jacoby couldn’t blame him…not for that. For other things, yes. Things like Bren. “Why’d you agree to take Bren on?

  “Because it would be irresponsible not to.”

  “Didn’t realize it was the bureau’s job to stop people from committing suicide.”

  “I can always tell what kind of headspace you’re in when you talk about the bureau like you’re not a part of it.”

  “What the fuck is headspace?”

  Instead of answering, Ward pushed past him and poured his own glass, then held it out to Jacoby like a toast. “Granted, that was the first commonsense question you’ve asked. But trying to scare Bren is out of line.”

  “I’m not interested in being nice,” Jacoby reasoned.

  “You were always such a prick.”

  Jacoby shrugged. “Then why the histrionics?”

  “Don’t talk to Bren again,” Ward warned.

  “Is that code for ‘don’t fuck him’? Because we both know that’s what you’re really worried about.”

  “Are you having problems keeping it in your pants around witnesses?”

  “You seem to know everything, so why don’t you tell me? And if I did fuck Bren, what would be your issue? You want me to fuck you first, for old times’ sake?” Jacoby asked. Seconds later, Ward lunged at him, but Jacoby was ready—primed and looking forward to the fight. The men locked together powerfully, then shoved away from each other just as fast. The touch was too much for Jacoby, too much for both of them. “Why the fuck didn’t I hear about any of this from you?”

  “You know exactly why not.” Ward pointed to him. “She needs to be stopped.”

  “And you think working with this author will do it?” Jacoby took another sip of his drink, then downed it and hissed a little as the contents burned a hole down his gullet. As his belly heated, then threw the glass at Ward’s head.

  The bastard evaded just in time. Still, the glass hit the wall with a satisfying explosion of shards.

  Ward just shook his head. “I see your time away did you well.”

  “Go fuck yourself, Agent Thayer.”

  “J—”

  “No.” Jacoby held a hand up. “None of that shit. I’m only here until we catch her.”

  “And that’s the only reason you came back.” Ward’s voice had a faraway quality to it, like he was confirming something he already suspected. “Got it.”

  “You didn’t want me here before this,” Jacoby pointed out.

  “You’re right. I didn’t ask for your help now either, but you’re here.”

  “Go fuck yourself.” The unreasonable anger flooded through him too fast for comfort. “I’m not doing this for you.”

  Ward’s lips twisted into a grimace. It was an answer he’d pushed for, and now that he had it, Jacoby hoped it made him as miserable as he felt. “I’m out.”

  Ward issued his, “Leave Bren alone,” warning again.

  “Has that ever worked?”

  “I mean it.”

  “Sure you do. Thing is, I don’t give a flying fuck. And I never did.” Jacoby left with a slam, because he’d gotten the last words in…and he’d said them before Ward could. That was something.

  Chapter Three

  Ward sat on the couch holding his half-full glass for at least an hour after Jacoby left. Then he drained the whiskey, poured another full one and downed it too, and continued the process until he couldn’t tell if he was dreaming or reminiscing…

  Jacoby, showing up out of nowhere at his door eight years earlier. Ward had been aware of the man on the motorcycle in his driveway—it was the middle of the day and the man hadn’t been trying to surprise him. Still, Ward had his weapon when he opened the door.

  Jacoby—who’d gone by Jasper then—hadn’t seemed surprised by that. He’d simply said, “I’m Jessica’s brother. And those killings…you’re looking at the wrong people.”

  Ward stared at the handsome, young, dark-haired man and found himself responding to the statement instead of asking how the hell Jasper found him in the first place. “How do you know who we’re looking at?” Because Ward’s involvement in those early stages of Jessica’s case was all over the papers. The public loved a good serial killer story, and a female vigilante garnered a great deal of interest.

  “I know who you’re not looking at. In this case, that’s what counts. And I know about the shit carved into the victims.” The roughly handsome dark-haired man had looked cocky but haunted. Hunted. Tired. Ward knew that look. It was the one agents wore after years of dealing with this shit. It wasn’t the look a killer would have, or one an almost eighteen-year-old should.

  Ward’s training refused to let him take any chances. “How do you know the vics were carved?” he’d demanded. “Unless you did the carving.”

  Jasper winced, held up his hands and
said, “I’m not going for weapons,” before shrugging his leather jacket off. As it landed with a hard clank on the ground, Ward saw the blood running down the guy’s arms. He told Ward, “You should use gloves,” and then he turned and lifted his T-shirt so Ward could see that the carvings, which he’d later discover were on Jasper’s chest as well, were on his back…carvings he couldn’t possibly have done himself.

  Who the hell would do that to himself?

  Ward had kept his weapon drawn until Jasper’s T-shirt lifted. From that moment on, neither man’s life was ever the same.

  Ward hadn’t known if Jasper knew the extent of the damage but it took his goddamned breath away. After what seemed like hours, Jasper let his shirt fall, and Ward called the bureau’s doctor. At home. “I need you here, Leo. On the QT.”

  He repeated the call to his direct superior, Agent Brian Cullers.

  “Hey, you got something to drink?” Jasper asked when Ward hung up.

  Ward reached into his pocket for his ever-present gloves, slid them on and helped Jasper into the house. Slowly. Painfully. “Soda?”

  Jasper turned and rolled his eyes. “How about a shot?”

  Against his better judgment, but focused on how bad Jasper’s wounds looked, no matter how superficial they might be, he poured Jasper a couple of fingers of good whiskey. Jasper downed it.

  When Leo got there ahead of Cullers, he took Jasper into Ward’s large guest bathroom and had him take off his clothes carefully—onto a secured surface, so Ward could bag the evidence. Jasper wasn’t self-conscious about stripping down, but it was a slow, painful process. Leo, who’d seen it all, paled, more at the nature of the wounds than the wounds themselves, and Ward had to force the bile down once he realized that Jasper had letters cut into his skin.

  It was then he’d brought Jasper five fingers of the whiskey and left the glass on the vanity. Jasper looked up at him from where he’d been seated, on the edge of the tub. Leo had already photographed him and was now taking DNA evidence. Only then could he begin to treat the cuts and abrasions.