Rule of Thirds (A Mirror Novel Book 1)

by Stephanie Tyler

  “That have been proven correct time and time again,” Jacoby inserted.

  Bren’s only concession to that was a quick nod and another question. “But what about those who’ve been branded with the serial term but don’t fit the profile?”

  “Jessica fits the profile,” Jacoby said flatly.

  “She’s more of a Bernie Goetz vigilante of circumstance—”

  “No, she’s not. Christ, now you think you’re a profiler because you wrote a couple of books on fictional killers?”

  “I don’t expect the FBI to disagree with their own theories. It’s not easy to think outside the box during life and death situations.”

  “You did not just use the term ‘think outside the box’ when referring to serial killers.”

  “This conversation isn’t going to get us anywhere. It’s why writers are better off writing rather than talking about what we’re going to write about.” Bren looked frustrated.

  Jacoby wanted to throw him into his computer headfirst. “Maybe you should rethink your whole plan of justifying a serial killer’s actions before you end up inside a box, not breathing.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Giving her—and the general public—cause to question her motives and think she might be doing this for a good reason could spawn a generation of copycats.”

  “I thought she’d already done that all on her own.”

  Bren wasn’t being sarcastic, but Jacoby decided right then and there that he’d do anything in his power to stop this damn book from ever seeing the light of day.

  “I’m not explaining it correctly. Look, before…even though I know it could happen, everything I wrote wasn’t real. Even though I pictured it in my mind, and to me it was real as I wrote it…it didn’t happen to anyone. And now, everything I’m writing…it became something. I’m learning about how a serial killer was made.”

  Jacoby turned to stare at him, unable to keep the hardness out of his voice. “You believe that?”

  Bren shifted uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

  “That serials are made and not born?”

  Bren tapped a finger on the notebook in front of him thoughtfully. “I always thought they were born, but now, I’m honestly not so sure.”

  “Why? Is yours blaming someone else?”

  Bren gave him the side eye. “You know I’m not giving you details.”

  “You know I’m not giving you details,” Jacoby corrected. “Do you honestly think I can learn anything from you about this shit? I’ve lived it, and you’re right—writing it down on paper is easy as hell.”

  Bren put his hands up in silent surrender. “Didn’t mean to imply otherwise. And yes, to answer your original question, it’s not so much blame as…speculation. From someone who’s been there, who saw it happening, slowly but surely.”

  Thunder smashed the silence that had drawn out between them after Bren had spoken, stopped Jacoby from growling out “Bullshit.”

  It’d been raining the night he’d discovered his sister was a full-fledged killer. It’d been storming during the four days she’d held him hostage. And there was so much more Jacoby wanted to say to Bren, about serial killers, about everything, but instead he left to go outside and stand in the rain.

  Chapter Ten

  “Really, Jacoby?” was all Ward said after Jacoby predictably pulled his Harley up the driveway and stomped into Ward’s house, wet boots and all.

  “What? I didn’t bug the phone.” He’d bugged the room instead. He knew his sister would expect nothing less, whatever message she was trying to send.

  Unless Jasper was using Bren to lure Jessica. To what end, though?

  It was good to see that it hadn’t only been Jacoby whose mind had been working overtime since Ward had left the hotel earlier that morning. The coffee table by the couches had files covering it.

  Ward motioned for Jacoby to join him and Jacoby did, whiskey in hand as he began pushing the folders around to see they were labeled with Jessica’s latest known kills.

  There’d been three since the start of January and they were rapidly approaching June.

  Only three. That didn’t count the men she’d hurt who were too scared or humiliated to come forward. The men she’d scammed or robbed because grifting was in her blood. Jacoby’s too. It was why Ward had been suspicious of him and his story, because he’d had to discuss things he’d done, admit to being wanted in several countries, among other things.

  Especially in the beginning, Ward would watch him like he was truly expecting Jacoby to run, disappear with a new name, a new accent.

  He used his American accent for the most part, but when he was in bed with Ward, especially in bed—his British accent always came out.

  The first time, Ward had been understandably surprised. Although… “You knew I wasn’t born here.”

  “I know. It’s just…” Ward shook his head. “I met you with an American accent.”

  “Then I’ll stick with that,” he said, reverting to his cover accent.

  “No. Don’t. Unless—”

  “It won’t blow my cover,” he assured Ward in his birth accent. From that point on, Jacoby would revert in bed only, unless they talked and he could be assured they were truly alone.

  Like now. And since the accent hadn’t come out last night, Ward had to assume that Jacoby was letting down the walls with Ward. “You think we’re missing something?” Ward asked.

  “I don’t…” Jacoby shook his head. “Maybe.” He’d gotten tired of seeing the shit she’d left in her wake. Although tired wasn’t the right world—it was fear, because from the moment she’d attacked Ward, he’d been freaked out looking at a list of her victims. “You know, our dad was a vic,” he said suddenly.

  Ward had been running his fingertips lightly over the edge of one of the folders. “I’d wondered about that.”

  “Why didn’t you ask?”

  “Because you’ve been through hell. Because that information wasn’t going to help us catch your sister. We knew he was dead so none of it mattered.”

  Jacoby nodded. “He and my mom were together for six years. She picked him purposely—for his breeding. His money, she used to say. We were like the three musketeers. At least that’s what mom would sell us on. Even when dad was around, she said he just didn’t…’fit’ with us.”

  “Did you think you were a psychopath?”

  “Oh fuck, Ward—I didn’t know what that was until I started working with you guys. I knew I was good at stealing and scamming and I didn’t feel badly about doing it to rich people. But the killing…I ignored it. Suspected it but didn’t want to deal with the reality.” He paused. Sighed. “She knew me…better than I knew myself.”

  It was a theme, a fear in his life with Ward…and judging by the look in Ward’s eyes, it might be the first time he truly understood that. “You’re afraid I know you better than you know yourself too.”

  “Yes,” Jacoby ground out.

  “And that makes you—”

  “A fucking vulnerable idiot,” Jacoby snapped. “So drop it. How long’s Bren been talking to the informant?”

  Ward frowned. “He won’t tell us, but it has to have been long enough to convince a publisher there’s a story there. There’s a lot of buzz around this one.”

  “Don’t tell me—film rights have been optioned.” When Ward didn’t say no, Jacoby winced internally and pushed on. “He must really not believe Jessica’s behind this.”

  “Not everyone knows the case the way we do,” Ward reminded him gently.

  Jacoby often forgot that. It was true. So much about Jessica was redacted, even from the majority of the agents. They’d started doing so to stop the press from interfering—and to stop other agents from discovering Jacoby’s true identity. At one point, Jessica disappeared from the public’s mind, except for the odd website or two that were mysteriously hacked with their information deleted and their owners threatened or fined.

  All of which Ward and Jacoby
would deny doing, of course. Ah hell, Jacoby had been climbing the walls for the past years he’d been separated from Ward. He’d distanced himself from the investigation, but really, how could he ever fully separate himself from his life?

  “You almost went back to her,” Ward said now.

  “Almost.” He’d been on the plane. He’d gotten off on the layover, rented a car in California and took a week to drive back to where he’d called home at that time. Because he hadn’t known what else to do. “She’s going to hurt everyone and anyone I’m close to. I’ll never escape that.”

  He left off, “As long as she’s alive,” let it hang between them, unsaid.

  “She’s looking for attention.”

  They both knew Ward was targeted because of his relationship with Jacoby, because Jessica had no real way of knowing that Jacoby was in the FBI. But by going after Ward—and now being involved in this book—she was trying to lure Jacoby out in the open.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next day, Bren woke up late…probably because he’d only slept maybe an hour, all told, between tossing and turning restlessly after hanging up with Jasper and his latest story. Bren had listened to it in silence, and he’d thrown up as soon as he and Jasper had said their goodnights.

  In that single hour of sleep, the nightmares had been horrific. So he was still half asleep when he dragged himself into his office. He should’ve been surprised to see Jacoby, sitting at his desk, his heavily black-booted feet propped on the desk, like he didn’t have a care in the world. But he wasn’t.

  Instead, he demanded, “Were you a delinquent?”

  “Something like that,” Jacoby agreed. “No one told you that being in the FBI makes you a better criminal?”

  “I guess that’s not part of the WITSEC handbook,” Bren said dryly.

  Jacoby pointed at him. “Great comeback.”

  “Thanks. Now, can you get the fuck out of my chair?” The prescription sleeping aids did shit for his nightmares, and Bren was feeling the lack of sleep. He knew he looked like hell, knew Jacoby would zero in on that immediately.

  Jacoby made no move to vacate his position. “Last I checked, you’re not in WITSEC. And you really need to share what you’re learning if you’re going to be.”

  “I didn’t want to be—I was offered and I opted out.”

  “Right. Hard to make appearances on all the talk shows and go on tour when you’re a protected witness. Well hell, at least you’re a moving target, although I’m sure she’ll catch up with you eventually. Sooner than later, although I’m sure she’ll play with you first, like a bear tosses its prey around.”

  Bren didn’t say anything, but he paled slightly.

  “Do you think she’s a hero?” Jacoby continued.

  “I’m not endorsing my opinion—”

  “Bullshit. Even if you want to believe that, you will slant the book.”

  “I guess I don’t know yet,” Bren answered honestly.

  “Well, then I need to remind you that you have a huge responsibility to society.”

  “No pressure,” Bren said darkly.

  Jacoby stood, the wheeled office chair slamming the wall behind him. Bren jumped and they faced off over the desk. “There are girls—women—who see her as a cult hero.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “You want to make her sympathetic so more of her followers murder whoever they feel hurt them.”

  “Of course that’s not my intent. But people worship a lot of killers, with or without an author’s help.”

  “True,” Jacoby conceded. “Suppose she decides you’ve done her wrong by talking to her brother?”

  Bren hadn’t thought about that, probably hadn’t wanted to even consider it. But Jacoby was a force of nature and he would make Bren face the consequences. “I guess it’s a fair question. And I guess by agreeing to this, I’m acknowledging that it could happen.”

  Jacoby nodded. That seemed to satisfy him momentarily. “You sure it’s her brother?”

  “No. I didn’t think she had any siblings. Unless the FBI knew more than they let on. No, I’m not asking for information when I won’t give anything in return. I’m telling someone’s story. Adding to a dialogue. Shedding light on what—who—makes a psychopath kill—and when—and why that line gets crossed.”

  Jacoby stared at him. “You’re in way over your head.”

  “Sometimes I think that, but that’s how I’ll grow as an author. I can’t expect you to understand.”

  “I’ve never understood people who put themselves willingly in danger for something—someone—that doesn’t directly affect them.”

  *

  Bren shrugged, but the fight had gone out of him. Every single time Jacoby saw him, the guy looked worse—like he’d been aging rapidly. And Jacoby knew he wasn’t scaring Bren nearly as much as realizing what Jasper might be dragging him into.

  The fish was on the line…it was time to really reel him in. “When’s the last time you spoke with Jasper?”

  “Last night,” Bren admitted.

  Jacoby walked to the other side of the desk, allowing Bren to take his seat behind it while Jacoby pulled a chair up to sit across from him. “Looks like he told you a hell of a story.”

  Bren looked disturbed—much more discomfited than Jacoby had seen him through this entire experience. “It’s just…sometimes this gets to me. I know you think that I’m unfeeling, but I have to be for this book, or else it’s all too horrible. But his latest story…” He shuddered. “I won’t be rid of it for a long time. Maybe forever.”

  Jacoby wanted to say “good” and “join the club” but he couldn’t. His sister had made Bren as much of a victim as he and Ward were. It was just that Bren was finally beginning to see it. “Need to talk about it?”

  Bren winced a little. “I’m sure you know it anyway.”

  You have no fucking idea. “Probably.”

  Bren sighed. “Does it help to talk about it? I mean, you guys are supposed to keep your distance, but I’d imagine that would be hard.”

  “It is hard. And sometimes it helps to talk about it.” Jacoby threaded his fingers together on the desk in front of him. “I’m not going to use this story against you or anything.”

  Bren nodded. “Yeah, I believe you. Because you’d tell me if you were going to—you’re not shy.”

  Jacoby snorted his agreement. Even though he’d rather cut off a limb than hear ‘his’ story, he’d do it. “How does Jasper choose the stories he tells you?”

  “It’s where we were up to in his history. Last time we spoke, it was about how he found out his sister was a killer. He likes to end our talks on a cliffhanger. He likes to tell me how I should be writing this.” Bren seemed offended at that notion, and the ridiculousness of Bren being offended that a guy he thought was a serial killer’s brother was telling him how to write wasn’t lost on Jacoby. But he merely nodded and Bren continued, “Anyway, he told me that he was in his hotel room, online, looking for patterns. That he figured it was too well done a crime scene for it to be her first one. And he was searching online for similar crimes, thinking of going to the FBI. And when he found what he was looking for, and Ward’s name as the lead investigator, he formed a plan to meet Ward and confess everything.”

  Jacoby’s gut tightened. How far was Jasper going to go? How much about his and Ward’s relationship did he truly know…and how? Was Jessica there that first night he’d gone to Ward’s?

  He’d gone to Ward’s house for many reasons, not the least of which was he found the man’s address pretty easily without having to break into the FBI’s server. “So Jasper was going to show up at Ward’s house.”

  “I think so…he was vague about that. I’m assuming Jasper’s met Ward, but neither of them have actually come out and said it,” Bren explained. “I mean, maybe you don’t know that. Or maybe I’m telling you everything you already know. Shit.”

  “It’s all right. Take your time.”

  But the rest of Bre
n’s story came out in a giant rush, the way Jacoby feared it would. “She’d followed him. Accosted him. He’d been so freaked about her and the dead body that he hadn’t realized she’d never left the country like she was supposed to.” Bren gulped a breath.

  She was there, in his motel room. He’d sensed it when he’d walked in, but he was tired, and after all it had taken to get there, he figured he was entitled to a certain degree of paranoia. It would be illogical for him to not suffer from it.

  He should’ve walked out immediately, and he might’ve even made it. But he was barely one foot in the door before he felt the prick of the needle, accompanied by the Taser that felled him easily.

  “There was a Taser, and then four days of torture. I can’t…” Bren’s hand was fisted against his chest, his eyes closed.

  Jasper’s story must’ve been really descriptive. Hell, after a while, Jacoby hadn’t known what his own name was, so this guy might’ve been in the room observing everything, or his sister might’ve taped it to play over and over again for her own enjoyment…

  The next four days were a blur of pain. He was mostly aware, savored those few moments when he was blissfully unconscious. He prayed for ignorance in a way he never had before.

  None came. His sister made sure of it. She was skilled then, although not as much as some of her most recent work showcased.

  He didn’t bother to beg for mercy and she would show none. Instead, he concentrated on his conscience, on how much he needed to atone for, both on his own and for his family.

  Every cut was purposeful, every flick of the razor carved another letter, another phrase onto his skin. Her initials. The date she was raped. The date she accosted him. The penultimate—it can always be worse—warning that she’d carved on both his chest and his back. “So you can see it coming and going,” she’d told him. “So you can never escape it, the way I can’t.”

  The razor slashes were like red-hot burns across his skin, a never-ending line of fire that slashed and scorched in a never-ending bundle of pain until he went numb. And then the salt. She stuffed a rag in his mouth and Tased him when that didn’t muffle his yells enough. He hadn’t felt the need to try to be strong and stoic for her—she knew him, she knew it would hurt. To try to pretend at that point would serve no purpose and probably would’ve made his suffering last longer.