As well as the faint glow of a light through my closed eyelids.
Rolling over, I throw an arm around—
Empty space.
Even as exhausted and out of it as I am, I know there’s supposed to be something there.
Someone there.
Kiera.
I lift my heavy eyelids and the sight of her immediately comes into view.
Standing naked next to my bed.
In front of my nightstand.
Deadened expression highlighted by the glow of my vibrating cell phone.
My personal cell phone.
I lift my head off the pillow. “Kiera?”
Her own head turns smoothly in my direction. Too smooth. The move is almost creepy, especially when paired with that lifeless, silver stare.
Then, she asks the one question that catches me completely off guard. “Who is Ruby again?”
“Ruby?” I croak, trying to blink past the cloak of sleep still dangling over my mind. “I . . . she’s my work partner—”
“She keeps calling you,” that empty voice murmurs. “On your personal cell.”
Freaking Ruby. I’ll bet she’s up to something that’s Blackstone-related.
Dropping my head back onto the pillow, I groan. “Just ignore it, baby. I’ll get back to her in the morning.”
Kiera walks up to the bed, stopping right next to it, facing me. Without the light illuminating her face, all I see is the outline of her hair, body, and a glimpse of those unholy eyes. “So it’s not work related, then?” There’s an inflection on that one word, but aside from that, she might as well be discussing the weather with that monotone.
I’m too tired to fully understand what’s happening. All I know is that I’m not in the mood or the right cognitive headspace to deal with Ruby.
And I want my girl back in my arms.
Opening said arms, I beckon her closer. “I don’t know, baby, and right now I don’t care. Come here. I can’t fall back to sleep without you.”
Finally, she presses her knee to the bed, doing as I asked. Once she’s settled on my chest again, I secure her in my embrace, close my eyes, and let sleep drag me under once more.
It’ll prove to be one of the greatest mistakes I’ve ever made in my life.
A decision that will haunt me forever.
* * *
9:45am.
Officially two hours since tour started.
No sign of Ruby.
Staring at me from my phone screen? Every single missed call—six of them. Two were to my work phone before she obviously gave up on that avenue.
But what’s worse? The text messages she sent between each call attempt. The one’s I’m trying not to read too deeply into.
Ruby: Please answer
Ruby: I’m serious please
Ruby: You don’t understand
Ruby: ANSWER
The final three calls to my cell came in after that. Then, nothing. Not even a reply to the messages I sent her this morning.
My eyes cut to the Captain’s office and its closed door.
He has to know she hasn’t come in, so that’s not the issue here. The issue is—
His door flies open. “Quinn,” he says evenly from the threshold, tipping his head upon realizing I was already zoned in on his direction. Shuffling over to my desk with coffee mug in hand, he turns his back to the rest of our colleagues and stares down at me. “I need you on interrogation with Lee today.”
With Lee?
“Yes, sir, of course. But why Lee? Shouldn’t he be out with Blackstone?”
“Yes, he should, but”—he takes a long, generous sip—“It appears Blackstone is a no-show today as well. Something about a family emergency.” Porter looks around the command before settling his gaze back on me. “By the way, have you heard from Ruby? She’s a no-show with zero contact so far.”
“Not since yesterday, no.” It’s not a total lie. Aside from the texts and phone calls I purposely ignored while with Kiera, the last time I saw my partner was here in command.
The Cap hums and savors another sip of his coffee. “Same here. I’ve tried calling her, so did the Lieutenant, but it goes straight to voicemail. First time for her. Let’s hope nothing too urgent came up.”
My heart plummets at the knowledge.
Something about that doesn’t sit well with me in the slightest.
Especially because the nature of her texts did seem urgent.
“Well . . .” He raps his fingertips on my desk. “We’ll try her again later, but for now, I need you and Lee in interrogation as soon as possible. Two of the professors from Winsor that were close to Mrs. Blount have come in for questioning and I don’t want to keep them waiting longer than necessary.”
“Right, okay, I’ll be right there,” I say, as I gather a notepad and pen, and push out of my seat.
He’s gone after that, right as Lee approaches with a look on his face that’s nothing short of annoyed. “I rather be out on the streets. Wouldn’t you?” he whisper-hisses.
“Yeah. But we gotta do what we gotta do. Come on.” I stand and nod toward the interrogation rooms just as two people—an older man and a woman—are lead in by another officer.
Lee shakes his head, too, thinning his lips. “Fine. Let’s do this.”
I walk behind him down the hall leading to interrogation. Both of them being out on the same day is a ways beyond a simple coincidence, don’t you think? Especially if she was doing last night what you think she was doing. It is, but I refuse to allow myself to go there.
It’s just a coincidence. It has to be.
Besides, even if Nathaniel caught her stalking him . . .
Shit. What if he was handling family-related business and he spotted her on his tail? That means he’s probably preparing to return to work and report her again. She would know this.
Doubt her career will be over, but then again it just might. Stalking a fellow officer isn’t taken lightly within the force.
Son of a bitch. She’s probably hysterical at home, refusing to talk to anyone in her shame. Which is stupid beyond belief. The best thing she can do is get ahead of this. Show up and display some level of professionalism.
There were many times I wanted to get rid of my partner but not like this. Fuck.
“So how are we doing this? Are we interrogating together or . . .?” Lee asks as we amble down the hallway to questioning.
“Probably faster if you take one and I take the other. You cool with that?” I counter, and not in a dickhead way.
Blackstone does most of the work between the two of them, especially interrogations.
“Yeah, that works. Are we switching off after the fact?”
“If necessary, yes, but I have a feeling we’ll be able to clear them after one round.”
Lee nods and we split off without another word.
Mrs. Jennifer Baker, the eighth grade teacher at Winsor, awaits me as I stalk into Room One. Offering a small smile, she watches me as I take the seat before her and set my belongings on the steel table.
“Jennifer Baker, right?” I ask, to which she nods as I’m extending my hand. “I’m Detective Quinn. Thank you for coming in.”
“It’s not a problem at all. Anything I can do to help bring justice for Evelyn and her family is all I care about,” she says, surprising me with a firm grip.
Releasing her hand, I ease back into my seat and clear my throat. “I appreciate that. We’ll just be doing a basic run through of what you know. Usually these interviews are recorded, but our systems have been having issues, so I’ll do my best to take it all down by hand.”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
“Now, I know this might be a difficult thing to have to think about, but is there anything you might’ve noticed that was off about Mrs. Blount? Maybe her own behavior or interactions with others?”
Ms. Baker fidgets with her purse strap. “Dear God, no. Evelyn was the sweetest soul, you just don’t understand. She’s probably
one of the only teachers that never had an issue with any of the students . . . well . . .” she trails off, getting that far off look that people get when searching their memory.
I lean forward on the table. “Yes?”
“There was only one time.” Ms. Baker waves a hand dismissively. “But it was such a long, long time ago. I doubt it would matter to what happened to her now.”
“Everything matters. The smallest detail, no matter how old, could end up helping the case immensely,” I urge in the most gentle tone I can.
She fidgets with her purse strap again. “Well, there was this one issue years back. A student with severe problems, who came to Evelyn with false claims. It started this whole problem for both Evelyn and the school.”
Heart pounding, I fight the urge to tap my pen impatiently against the table. “Go on. What exactly happened?”
“This girl in Evelyn’s class claimed some type of abuse was happening at home. Evelyn, kind soul that she was, took her word for it entirely. Alerted the headmistress, who alerted the authorities. It became a huge fiasco once the police were involved and they did an investigation. That’s when it came to light the girl was lying and the family was incensed. Threatened legal action against the school and everything.” Ms. Baker sucks her teeth sadly under her breath. “It was a sad time for everyone, how Evelyn’s trusting nature could’ve been used against her in such a way. And all by a rebellious child looking to stir up trouble for her own family.”
Feeling my temple breaking out in a sweat, I push past the lump in my throat to ask, “When exactly did this happen again?”
“Oh, about ten . . . No, maybe twelve years ago, if I remember correctly. As I said, it was a long time ago and I don’t see how it would pertain to this case at all.”
Yes. On the surface anyone would agree. How could an incident like this, from over a decade ago, pertain to the case?
Unless that girl wasn’t lying.
Unless she was telling the brutal truth.
Unless she’s now grown up and running around the city in a latex bodysuit, enacting revenge on a society that failed her this horribly.
Impossible. An investigation took place according to this woman. One that found the family innocent.
Feeling sick to my stomach, I make a mental note to look into this right away. All of it. Including getting Evelyn’s student list from the year in question.
Because somewhere on it, among all those privileged girls, might be the name of our killer.
The name of the Boston Slasher.
Or, as the media now calls her: The St. Cecilia Slayer.
“The last enemy to be destroyed is death.”
- 1 Corinthians 15:26
Amber.
The color of the liquid in my glass.
The color of Ruby’s eyes.
Ruby, who never showed and hasn’t answered a single call.
I’ll admit it, I’m worried, really worried. So much that, I drove out two neighborhoods over for a drink. With everything already going on—the case, Kiera, my mom—Ruby possibly going missing was the cherry on top.
I’m trying to control myself, allotting only one drink, but I’m not sure restraint is my strong suit at this hour. It’s too much. It’s all too fucking much, and all I can do is take a moment to drown in the depths of this glass, then pull myself out and handle my shit.
The glass is half empty, though, and I know what’s left won’t be enough to even scratch the surface of drowning. I need a bottle for that.
And I can’t have a damn bottle.
Another burning sip.
Where the fuck is Ruby? No, seriously. Where could she be?
Whipping out my phone, I thumb my way into our thread and re-read her texts for the hundredth time.
Ruby: Please answer
Ruby: I’m serious please
Ruby: You don’t understand
Ruby: ANSWER
The more I read them, the more my stomach churns. These aren’t like her other texts about getting me to listen regarding Nathaniel. These are shorter.
Rushed.
Almost as if she were—
A drop down pings at the top of my screen. It’s a text. My girl.
K: Please tell me I can spend the night again?
Because I wasn’t anxious enough already, right? Forget churn, my stomach constricts, heart rate beginning a steady trot.
Me: Is everything okay?
Probably not the best way to respond, but I have to know.
K: Lol everything is fine, baby. I just like sleeping with you. <3
The entire bar must hear my sigh of relief. It’s loud, even to my own ears. A part of me suggests that it can’t be that easy. Shit, nothing with Kiera has been easy.
But her response seems genuine.
It was instantaneous, too.
And let’s face it, I want the woman in my bed just as badly as she claims she wants to be in it.
With me.
I’m just about to send her my reply when my work phone goes off in my pocket.
Sonofabitch.
Another body. I know it without even having answered the call. This psycho put down another body and we’re still nowhere near nailing her.
While my partner on this case—my partner, period—has gone MIA.
Fishing out the cell, I swipe the screen and lift it to my ear. “Quinn.”
“Walkway behind the FP3 Condos on Congress Street. Get there, stat. Another—”
“Body,” I finish.
“You guessed it. Another woman from what the caller said,” Porter explains.
“I’ll be right there.” Ending the call, I drain my glass, slam a twenty from my wallet onto the table, and bolt out of the booth to my car.
Ignition.
Lights.
Sirens.
Tires squeaking, I peel out of the parking lot. Cut a left onto the main road.
My heart’s racing. Stomach flopping all over again. Head almost spinning. That drink did nothing but make me more anxious.
Another woman. Number three to be exact and three makes a pattern. Is this really what she’s doing now? Who she’s going after moving forward?
Why?
Countless men have been murdered and dumped all around our city, so why switch to women? What could prompt her to alter such deep-rooted habits?
I didn’t realize it when Porter barked out the address or when I stormed out of the bar, but I was actually a lot closer to the scene than I would’ve been had I been at home.
And I mean a lot.
Like fifteen minutes away close.
Way, way further than any body has been dropped before.
Too far away from St. Cecilia Church.
Another broken link in the chain of this pattern.
Another unpredictability.
“God damn you,” I growl under my breath. “What the fuck are you up to?”
The body must have just been found because chaos has yet to ensue when I pull up between two squad cars. There’s another three cars, no reporters, and one of the P.Os is just getting around to securing the perimeter with the yellow tape.
Doctor Connelly hasn’t even gotten here yet.
I might actually be the first from my precinct to arrive.
I don’t bother with my badge, just maneuver my way around the young P.O. and head straight for the small group of other officers huddled near the mouth of the alley.
The yellow police tape that must’ve just been erected.
One of them spins toward me as I approach, holding up a hand. “Whoa, there. Officers only.”
His name tag tells me he’s a Lieutenant, which is the main reason I do pull out my badge for him. “Detective Quinn, sir. From Police Headquarters. We’re the main ones working this case.”
Nodding, he steps aside. “Good to have you here. As soon as we saw the blade protruding from the back of her neck we knew it had to be yours. Matches that M.O. from that psychopath terrorizing our city.”
My eyes narrow as I peer deeper between the buildings. From this distance, I can only see a faint outline of the form. Definitely female. Definitely facedown on the concrete.
The Slayer must really be determined to throw us off. First, switching from men to women in her victim selection. Now, picking a location at least ten miles away from her original drop zones.
Fuck my life. As if catching her wasn’t already proving impossible. How the hell do we pin her down with her switching up her pattern constantly like this?
“Detective? . . . Detective?”
I snap my head back toward the Lieutenant. “Sorry, sir. Was just thinking over the distance in this new drop zone.”
“Honestly, I thought the same as I was calling it in, yet the positioning of the body and the blade sticking out the back of the neck is too coincidental.”
It is. Unless, God forbid, the infamy of the Slasher is bringing about another nightmare scenario. One that almost doesn’t bare contemplating: a wave of copycat killers springing forth, muddying the investigation even more.
Can’t think about that now. Not until I see the details of the body close up.
“We’ve already called in the M.E,” the Lieutenant continues.
“And the rest of my squad must already be on the way,” I add. “We’ll need more officers around the perimeter to stop the press once it starts to trickle in. Which should be soon. They usually don’t take too long to show their greedy faces.”
“Bastards,” another officer mumbles under his breath, ignoring when the Lieutenant glares in his direction.
Hey. Not like the guy’s lying. They are bastards.
Even as the thought goes through my head, my eyes are drawn back to the recesses of that pathway, where about thirty to forty-feet in lies the latest victim.
Her eighth victim.
And that’s considering there’s still a small possibility she isn’t the same killer from almost nine years ago.
My stomach does that odd rotation-thing as I study what I can about the body.
Sneakers. The woman seems to be wearing a pair of dirty, white sneakers.
Coveted: Saint Cecilia Slayings Book Four Page 7
