by S. E. Green
But between Justin’s grief, and Victor, and about a dozen other things, no one focused on those six hours Daisy was missing.
I texted. Victor did, too. In the end, he said, “If she’s gone eight hours, we’ll go looking.” He was trying to respect her space. I was as well. Yet she’s never told us what she did in those six hours.
She did return at hour seven. Not angry anymore and she clearly had been drinking. I helped her to bed. In the days that followed, she remained quiet and withdrawn. Then the three of us went to the funeral home and in the weeks to follow that, my sister became very needy of my attention to the point where she slept with me nearly every night.
Since then it’s been up and down with her. And just when I think I have her figured out, I don’t. One day she’s angry. Another she’s defending Mom. Yet another she’s distant. And some days she seems fine. I’m not sure I ever will figure her out.
Perhaps she feels the same way about me.
With another sigh, I open my eyes. Daisy stands right beside my bed, looking down at me.
I barely breathe. How did I not hear her get up?
“I’ve been thinking about us,” she says, lowering to the edge of the bed.
Pulling my legs in, I push up to sit. “Oh?”
She nods. “How much I need you. Not just now, but in the days, weeks, months, and years to come.” She looks down at her fingers, idly pushing the cuticle back on her thumbnail. “You’ll be there for me, right?”
Was she awake this whole time? Did she hear my whispered words? “Daisy—”
She stops with the cuticle and looks me dead in the eyes. “I need to tell you something.”
“Okay.”
“Bart Novak wasn’t the first person I killed.”
64
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I concentrate on keeping my expression accepting, supportive. “Okay, will you tell me about it?”
“Do you remember how angry I was when Dad first told us about Mom’s murder?” Daisy asks.
“Yes, I was actually just thinking of that.”
She looks down at her fingers again, rubbing the cuticle forward that she just pushed back. “After he told us, I left the house.”
“I remember.”
“I walked from our neighborhood and just kept on walking. Eventually, I got a Lyft and took it to Brentwood.”
“As in Northeast D.C.?” That’s the worst neighborhood in the district.
She nods. “I walked in a bar, showed my fake ID, and proceeded to drink a hell of a lot of vodka. There wasn’t anybody there. Just me and the bartender. I went to the bathroom. I was hovering over the toilet and the bartender walked in. ‘What’s your problem?’ I yelled at him. ‘Get the fuck out of here!’ But he didn’t.”
Daisy stops with the cuticle, but still, she doesn’t look at me. “He locked the door. He unbuckled his belt and slid it free of the loops, all while staring at me still hovering over the toilet. ‘You got a nasty mouth,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what you can do with it’.”
My hand shakes as I reach forward and grab Daisy’s fingers.
“The place was dirty,” she says. “Hadn’t been cleaned in probably forever. He unbuttoned his jeans and unzipped them. He pulled himself out. He was already hard.”
Finally, she looks up at me. Her voice lowers to a whisper. “He cracked the belt against the sink and the sound of the leather smacking porcelain echoed off the cement walls. There was a rusted pipe laying in the corner near the toilet. I grabbed it and something inside of me took over. I didn’t even pull my leggings up, I lunged.”
“I hit him. And I hit him again. And again. And again. I don’t know how many times I hit him, but eventually, I stopped.” She swallows. “There was blood everywhere. On me. Him. The bathroom walls. The grimy mirror. I dropped the pipe and I nearly busted through the door trying to get out of there. When I raced back out into the bar, I discovered he had locked the door to the bar, too. He wanted plenty of time to do whatever he wanted to do with me.”
She squeezes my fingers. “So I sat there on a nasty barstool and I breathed. I calmed down. Eventually, I went behind the bar and I used the sink to clean up. I looked around and I didn’t see security cameras anywhere.” She lets out a harsh laugh. “Like there would be in that place. I left the front door locked and I went out the back into the alley. I walked a few blocks and I got a Lyft and I came back home. I kept waiting for a cop to show up and arrest me. But…nothing happened.”
Still staring into my eyes, she swallows. “Say something.”
Trembling, I pull her in for a hug, and I don’t let her go. I hold her hard against me, my heart pounding in my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling her heart pounding, too. “What you did was human and right. You are not to blame. I’m proud of you. That man deserved your fury. Do you hear me? Deserved it.”
My fingers dig into her shoulders as I pull back, and still trembling, I look into her frightened blue eyes. “Thank you for telling me that. I’m here for you, Daisy. Always. In the days, weeks, months, and years to come. I am here for you.”
“Do you promise?”
“I do. I promise.” She’s not better off without me. None of them are. And I’m not better off without them.
Her bottom lip quivers. “Please don’t tell anyone.”
I pull her in for another hug. “I won’t. This is between you and me.”
She begins to cry, and I rub a hand over her back, letting her know its okay. “Listen to me, Daisy. When you’re asked again, you say, you killed ‘him’. Not ‘them’. ‘Him’. Got it?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “I’ve got it.”
65
The story of Bart Novak comes out and fills the news.
Or at least a version of it.
Suzie Cameron, former director of the FBI’s behavioral unit, witnessed a murder forty years ago. To protect her, her parents chose to change their identities and relocate. Fast forward forty years and the murderer returns to the area, one Bart Novak, to finish what he started. Not realizing Suzie was already dead, he tracks her to her home in McLean, Virginia. He breaks in. He restrains her daughter, Lane. Her other daughter, Daisy, finds them in the living room and using a knife from their kitchen, stabs Bart Novak in the stomach. Bart later dies from self-inflicted wounds.
That is the story that circulates the news. Some truth, some lie.
Between Victor, Daisy, and a few high up people in the FBI, we know the full story. The one that includes Marji being a serial killer. The one that links Bart Novak to the string of suicide-murders. And the one that also involves me digging around and independently researching things as I gathered evidence to bring Bart to justice.
Justice to them meaning turning him in, but I know otherwise. Of course, Victor is irritated with me over the whole thing. But what’s new?
Yes, I say they know the full story, but Mom’s alter identity still stays buried deep.
…
Now over a week later, I sit at the dining room table, staring out the blinds and up at the half moon. My thoughts go from the past few weeks to the here and now. At this moment millions of other people see this same moon. That one piece of light connects us all.
Dark. Light.
Why do I fight against the light? I don’t know. I don’t need to. Yet I do. Maybe one day I’ll be rid of this dark stain on my soul. Perhaps it begins with time away. Like Victor did in taking Justin and Daisy on that mini vacation. He’s onto something. Life is to be lived.
I should take Daisy on a sister’s weekend. It would be good for both of us.
Sliding from the chair, I move into the kitchen. A sliver of light still filters out from underneath the office door. Victor has been in there a long time.
Stepping close to the door, I pause to listen, but only silence greets me. I clear my throat. “Dad?”
But he doesn’t answer.
Softly, I knock. I wait.
No answer.
Victor lays slouched in the leather chair, his puffy and red-rimmed eyes closed. A half bottle of whiskey sits on the desk. Logic tells me he’s passed out drunk, but still, I step toward him and press my fingers to his neck.
A strong and too fast pulse flutters my skin. An alcohol pulse.
Spread on the desk under the whiskey bottle are diagrams, lists, notes, and photos of The Decapitator’s killing spree. Red lines circle and connect victim names and cities—all pointing to two names in the center.
Suzie Cameron and Seth Leaf—my real parents.
Victor knows.
He stirs, mumbling, and opens his eyes. He sees what I’m looking at and moves fast to cover things up. Another photo surfaces. It’s the one Reggie sent me from a long time ago when I was just three and found sitting on a blood-soaked bed holding the hand of my parents’ victim.
With gentle hands, I stop Victor’s frantic ones and I look down into his flushed face.
He raises tear-filled hazel eyes to mine and his lips quiver with a contained cry.
“I know,” I quietly tell him.
I thought I could change who I am. But it doesn’t matter. This life of mine. It’s fate. “I’m the one who killed her.”
Acknowledgments
Novels do not get written in a vacuum. It is a team effort for sure! I want to first thank Patrick Price, the editor of the Killer Instinct series. He fell in love with Lane from the beginning and has been an ongoing cheerleader for the continuing saga of Lane and her vigilante ways.
I’d also like to thank Steven at Novak Illustration for the excellent exterior design of Killers Among.
My readers, too, who are the sole reason why I went on to write more stories in Lane’s world. Thank you for your support!
To the team of beta readers of The Strangler who offered invaluable input and enthusiasm. In alphabetical order: Teresa Beasley, Brandi Brinkley, Madison Burkett, Megan Forno, Kayla Gilbert, Sabrina Klotz, Cloé Lalonde-LeBlond, Dora Landa, T. Lucas, L. Michelle Medone, Charley Meredew, Elizabeth J. Miller, Kelsey Miller, Nicolle Pizarro, Jessica Porter, Kaitlyn Puckett, Freya Schalla, Tristan Shirley, Keisha Smith, Paige Ulevich.
To the beta readers of The Suicide Killer: Sam Gutekunst, T. Lucas, and Kelsey Miller. I heart each one of you!
To Karin Perry for creating fabulous swag inspired by the Killer Instinct series. You can check her store out on Zazzle under Doodle_with_Karin
Special thanks to my longtime friend, Thais Mootz, for driving me around Alexandria as we plotted out the specifics of The Suicide Killer.
A smile to Sabrina Klotz and Paige Akins Ulevich who pitched in on research and won a character named after them in The Suicide Killer. Sabrina, Lane’s new roommate, and Paige, the hanging victim.
Lastly, an enormous amount of gratitude goes to the very talented artist Glynice Esmerna. Thank you for contributing your work!
About the Author
Things you should know about me: I write novels. Some have won awards. Others have been bestsellers. Under Shannon Greenland (my real name) you’ll find spies, adventure, and romantic suspense. Under S. E. Green (my pen) you’ll find dark and gritty fiction about serial killers, cults, secret societies that do bad things, and whatever else my twisted brain deems to dream up.
I’m on Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook. I also have a website and a very non-annoying newsletter where you can keep up to date with new releases, free stuff, and my mild ramblings about my travels. I have a very old and grouchy dog. But I love him. My humor runs dark and so don’t be offended by something off I might say. I mean no harm. I live in a small Florida beach town but I’m most often found exploring the world. I eat entirely too many chips. I also love math!
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BOOKS BY S. E. GREEN
Vanquished
Ultimate Sacrifice
Monster
Twisted Truth Box Set
BOOKS BY SHANNON GREENLAND
The Specialists Series
The Summer My Life Began Box Set
Copyright © S. E. Green 2019
The right of S. E. Green to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1976.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental.
Contents
PRAISE FOR THE SERIES
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Strangler
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The Suicide Killer
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
Contents
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