That Jameson from this morning—and, let’s admit it, most of the night—rises in my stomach, almost pounding its way up my throat.
Reminding myself to stay calm, to not jump to conclusions, I minimize the picture and search through a few more.
I’m lying to myself. That much becomes evident within a second or two. This time, I wasn’t jumping to conclusions. This time, my cop instincts were right.
Almost photo after photo.
Event after event.
It’s a kaleidoscope of my life is officially fucked up as the reality solidifies before my very eyes.
Clive Bennett and Gerard DuBois remained close friends all these years.
Heck, based on these pictures, they’re practically family.
Could just be a coincidence. And now I’m obviously desperate. This is too big to be a coincidence. Especially when most of the other victim’s already had a connection to this family, no matter how small.
Dr. Digby is not a small connection. He was their children’s childhood physician.
I’m definitely going to be fucking sick. My stupid, infatuated heart twists in my chest, and the only reason I force myself to continue going through the photos is because I’m anxious to find something—anything—that’ll point me in another direction.
My mind is trapped in a cyclone of turmoil, to the point that I almost miss it. By sheer force of will, I bring my focus back to the screen, studying Jacqueline . . .
I don’t think I’m imagining it. It happens too often not to be there, but in pictures where she’s on her own, she seems lively.
A woman sparkling with her status in society.
Yet in the photos with Gerard? Her face is a perfect, controlled mask of grace. An expression obviously practiced. And then when Clive is introduced into the mix? It’s like she becomes the female version of her son Elon. Eyes lifeless. Smile charismatic yet chillingly cold.
What the fuck is going on with this family? Your girlfriend’s family. Son of . . .
“I’m heading to grab some more coffee. Want so—” Ruby stops mid-question, standing by her desk, and eyes me. “You good?”
“Yeah. Yeah.” I clear my throat and close down the browser in case she comes back my way. “And yes, please. Get me a refill.” I hold my empty mug to her.
“Sure. No problem.” She takes it and heads in the direction of the break room.
Leaving me here, something akin to existential terror eating me alive from within.
Fuck. What the hell am I going to do now?
Continue investigating this case, that’s what. No matter where it leads me. Even if it’s to my own demise.
“For he is the minister of God to thee for good. But if thou do that which is evil, be afraid; for he beareth not the sword in vain: for he is the minister of God, a revenger to execute wrath upon him that doeth evil.” - Romans 13:4
K: One more day . . . I can’t wait to see you.
Phone in hand, I’ve been staring at that text since it came in twenty minutes ago. It’s well past 9:00am and I’m still at sitting at my desk, spinning around in my chair. Ruby went home hours ago, as did everyone else. The night tour cops are busy doing their thing, and the janitor just came in to start his duties, as well.
So why am I still here, you ask?
Because after learning that Clive and Gerard not only went to school together, but stayed in touch all these years as well, I can’t bring myself to leave this office. Not with that USB sitting on my dining room table. The same one I purposely left behind to avoid being reviewed by other eyes.
Hell, to avoid being reviewed by my eyes.
I saw the shit in Elon’s file and I can’t help but wonder if Kiera’s will be the same.
Will it be worse?
I clamp my eyes shut, chest aching, stomach knotting.
Nope, can’t think like that. Can’t jump to conclusions and make assumptions, not when her brother’s file is so vague. For all I know, those scratches and bite marks were from school.
You know deep down they’re not.
Thumbs pounding the screen, I shake the taunting whispers out of my head and focus on Kiera.
Me: Can’t wait either.
It’s short, almost curt in a way, but I send it anyway. As much as I love being able to communicate with her whenever, every time we have another interaction, we’re leaving behind a paper trail. I plan to bring it up to her at some point this weekend, but I’m not sure how, and I’m not dwelling on it right now. I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.
I’m just about to set my phone down and return to my research on Clive when it vibes in my hand.
K: Tomorrow seems so far away. I’m ready for you now, literally dripping for you.
The visual is brutal.
“Fuck,” I hiss, dropping my head back as the scene plays out in my head. “Why, God? Why?”
You wanted her, right? Well, you got her.
Me: I thought we made a deal?
K: We did. Pinky promise I’ve made good on that.
Me: But you’re dripping . . .
And so am I. Just typing that makes my dick react.
K: Fantasies, baby. I’ve been laying here thinking about them for the last half hour.
Me: What kind of fantasies?
K: I want you to cuff me to your bed.
My jaw drops, literally pops wide open. The visual is twice as brutal as the first.
Kiera cuffed to my bed.
Legs spread.
That pussy dripping.
Yup, I’m hard, straining painfully against my slacks.
I’m preparing my response when my work cell blares. I nearly jump out of my own skin as if I’ve been caught rubbing one out or some shit. Dropping my personal into my lap, I snatch up the other phone and accept the call without checking the caller I.D.
“Quinn.”
“Wellington Common Park, get there now.” It’s Captain Porter and he sounds out of breath. “She’s dropped another one.”
The hairs at the nape of my neck go rigid. I’m already out of my seat, shoving everything into my pockets. “You’re sure?”
“Positive. Witness who called it in said the body’s laying facedown, wound to the back of the next, and she’s wearing a suit.”
“She?”
“Yes, she. Hurry, Quinn—the press is already there!”
Shit! I rush down to the elevators, accompanied by at least four other officers. No need to guess; they were called on scene as well.
Within minutes, I find myself speeding down the road, sirens blasting, at least five cop cruisers alongside me. Our combined sirens are a cacophony in the air, alerting the Boston residents that something big has gone down.
Screeching into a double park besides another detective’s car, I slam out of my own and spot Captain Porter from the distance. More police are on the scene, including my partner and Blackstone.
A disheveled Blackstone, with his hair a mess and what looks like a fucking claw mark running down his cheek. Something he’s currently getting his ass chewed out for.
Grimacing sheepishly, Nathaniel runs his fingers down his cheek. “Sorry, Cap. My girlfriend likes to get rough. I already warned her to stop leaving visible marks.”
“A disgrace, Blackstone,” Porter hisses, turning away in disgust. “You’re an utter disgrace.”
While there’s no arguing with him on that, I shift my attention to where a few POs are busy putting up the yellow police tape around the area of bushes where the body is.
“Ah, Quinn. There you are.” Porter motions me closer with his head. “M.E hasn’t arrived to confirm anything, yet, but there’s a blade sticking out of the neck in the same exact spot.”
“Yes, but the Slasher”—or the St. Cecilia Slayer, as she’s now known—“has never targeted a woman before.” As a group, we begin walking toward where the victim’s body lies. There’s another group of officers setting up a barricade and urging the growing crowd of spectators back. “You m
entioned press was already here, Cap?”
“Oh, the brigade of those hungry bastards is no doubt en route, but there happened to be one of them walking the path when the first person stumbled upon the body.”
Which means up close and personal shots of the victim are already on a journalist’s phone, awaiting the light of day.
Or, knowing how the media works, another five minutes before they hit the air.
We stop inches from the yellow police tape. Blackstone hurries to hold it up for us, clearly desperate to look good in front of the Captain, and we duck beneath it to get closer to the body.
My boss wasn’t lying. Female. Blonde. Face-down in the grass. Hair parted at her nape, almost on purpose, to display the blade left in it.
The blade that I know for a fact has my family’s freaking cross carved into it.
Her suit is pale pink, seemingly expensive. The heels on her feet sport red bottoms. On her wrist is a bracelet with enough diamonds to reflect every single light in the vicinity, a discord of sparkles that’s nearly blinding. No telling her approximate age since her face is hidden by the ground, but she’s in perfect shape.
There’s a discarded purse on the side next to her, as well as a briefcase. Surprised the journalist didn’t snatch both up to identify the victim. Then again, my colleagues probably arrived and ran them off, blocking their chance to do so.
“Cap, there’s drag marks over here,” Ruby says, kneeling to point at what indeed seems to be drag marks in the dirt.
Meaning: the victim wasn’t attacked here.
Also meaning: the slayer left her purse and briefcase strewn feet from her body on purpose.
As if she wanted us to identify her.
Nathaniel pipes up, parroting my observations. “There’s a purse and briefcase over here, Cap.”
Captain Porter pivots toward him and drops his gaze to the ground. “Leave it where it is. CSI still needs to document all of that. Once they’ve taken images of the scene, one of you can go through it and see if there’s some form of identification.”
“I wonder what made her go after a woman this time,” Ruby says, striding back over to us.
“Judging by her attire, she’s clearly well off. Probably part of the same circle as the others,” Nathaniel answers.
The conversation continues among the three of them, but I don’t add my two cents. I can’t. My focus is on the victim and the fact that it’s a woman this time around. As my partner put it: why? Up until now, all of the killer’s victims were men, including her Boston Slasher days.
If she is the old Slasher, which most of the evidence as of now points to that being the case.
Yet it’s rare for serial killers to break their patterns to this extent. Fifteen vics, if this killer truly is the old Boston Slasher, all men, and out of the blue she chooses a female to be her sixteenth one?
The thought hits me then, and while I could be way off, it still hits hard regardless. Like a ton of bricks.
What if this woman witnessed her committing one of the murders? Did she see Digby go down? Maybe even Clive since he was most recent?
Or what if Blackstone is right and she’s part of the same circle?
Was she at the ball I first met Kiera?
Probably . . . you can bet Clive was.
My eyes widen at the prospect. I’m going to have to review those tapes again. I don’t want to, but I have to. A fact that reiterates how improbable a true relationship with Kiera is. As much as I hate to admit it, much less contemplate it, everything somehow keeps pointing back to her family.
All I can wonder now is, did Gerard hurt the killer in some way? Did he perhaps betray her? Is she an ex-lover, maybe even a mistress out for revenge?
Is he next on the list?
Another question rams into me, one that widens my eyes with a bone-deep terror—now that the Slayer is targeting females, is Kiera also in danger?
Could just be a copycat, I remind myself desperately, struggling to control my reaction.
“You okay, Mav?” Ruby’s small hand falls to my shoulder.
Dazed from the information overload ricocheting through my head, I nod, my stare still fixated on the body with CSI now hovering around it. Behind me, the M.E just arrived on scene, and on their tails are the press. “Fine, just trying to work out different angles.”
“What types of angles?”
“Where the murder was committed, how she got the body here, why she chose a woman as her victim . . .”
“Any ideas?”
The DuBois Family, that mental voice whispers, but I can’t bring myself to say it aloud.
I don’t think I ever will.
Despite what I know and all that’s come to light, I keep hoping and praying they’re innocent.
No, I need them to be innocent—because I need Kiera DuBois like I need my next breath.
“There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love.” - 1 John 13:4
It’s well after midnight when I finally walk in the front door of my condo and toss my keys on the counter. I’m exhausted, on edge, and yet sleep is the last thing on my mind.
At the forefront? Reality. Necessity. Duty.
It’s time I stop running.
It’s time I face this.
Not just for the sake of this case, to put a stop to a killer on a rampage, but because it’s the right thing to do.
My entire life I’ve been big on morality. On doing what’s right. Yet this one’s already costing me, and I haven’t even taken the first step in the direction of my desktop, yet.
It’s time I read Kiera’s medical files.
My entire being seems to quake with irrational fear at the thought. Why? Because—and it’s time I admit this to myself for real—I went and did it.
Somehow, despite the fact it’s only been like a month since I met her, one packed with chaos and turbulent encounters, I’ve gone ahead and done it.
I’ve fallen in love with that woman.
And every fiber of my cop soul is telling me these killings are related directly to her family somehow.
Don’t know if the ones from nearly nine years ago were, too. Despite years of obsessive research, I never found a connection between those eleven men that were butchered and left scattered through this city.
But this round of killings does have one, a glaring one, and it’s going to undo me to confirm it.
Biting down on my cheek, I rush to my desk, refusing to give myself another second to dwell on it. Within minutes I’m back inside the drive, searching for that folder with my girl’s name on it . . .
Kiera DuBois.
I almost throw up just reading her name. Stop being ridiculous. It’s probably just regular medical shit. Yeah. Okay. Because Elon’s was so regular.
Hand shaking, I click open the file and begin my slow, focused trek through it, even as my heartbeat pounds in my ears.
The first ten years or so is typical shit. Vaccinations. Visits for colds. The flu. What I know for a fact is typical, childhood accidents—
And then, they’re not so typical anymore.
Twelve years ago, Kiera’s file takes a turn for the odd, becoming riddled with vague treatments for a series of accidents that seem out of place.
The first?
Holy Jesus, the first sends a blast of sheer ice down my spine.
“Ruptured hymen due to bicycling accident.”
I nearly rear back right out of my seat. My head does jerk back, nostrils flaring, and I press my hands to my face. “Stop. Stop. It happens to a lot of girls. Don’t jump to fucking conclusions.”
Except, my days at DV rewired my brain, and I can’t help but suspect what this “bicycling” accident actually means. And she was thirteen when it happened . . .
I haven’t even had a drop of alcohol and I feel like barfing all over the place.
Jesus fuck, get it together, Maverick, I chastise myself as I scru
b a hand down my face and take a deep breath. If there’s any hope of me making it through the remainder of her records, I need to stop this ridiculous jumping to conclusions bullshit, regardless of my raging gut.
Hand back on the mouse, I continue scrolling and, unfortunately for me, that one occurence wasn’t the worst of it. Every inch downward only makes me sicker. I try my damnedest to ignore the turmoil wreaking havoc in my stomach, but the jackhammering in my chest?
It’s impossible.
The shit I’m seeing . . .
Consistent bruising, bite marks, scratches, behavioral changes, etc, etc. It goes on, and on, and on.
Ironically matches some of Elon’s file, too, my mental voice suggests—and that’s when the world around me begins to give way.
I’m left breathless. Bile rushes up my throat as sweat beads at my temples. No. No, no, no. It can’t be, it just can’t.
And yet, it is. A cross reference into Elon’s file confirms it. The dates all match. He was treated for injuries on ninety-percent of the same days as Kiera. It’s all there. Everything.
“No!” I roar, slamming my hands on the desk and pushing onto my feet.
I’m going to be fucking sick. It all makes sense now. Perfect, despicable sense. His soulless, detached stare the night I met Kiera. Her lifeless, guarded demeanor when I bumped into them at the Boston Harbor Hotel. Their bizzare altercation the morning of the press conference.
Pacing the space before my desk, I inhale breath after deep breath to settle myself.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Fifteen.
But the overwhelming feeling doesn’t dissipate even a smidge.
You need a drink, my demons insist, shooting my hands into my hair. “No, I don’t!” I’m fisting the strands with such force, I actually wince from the pain.
It’s welcome, though, preferable to the despair clawing at my heart.
How could this happen? Do their parents know? Did Digby know, or did he truly believe what’s written in their records?
Depraved: St. Cecilia Slayings Book Three Page 8
