Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98819 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98819 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 494(@200wpm)___ 395(@250wpm)___ 329(@300wpm)
First, I’ll get him his damn profile. I have my own notes, but the files from the original case will be a big help, so I head to the bullpen to put in a request for them through official channels. I wish Rex hadn’t chased Mina off; she can get her hands on almost anything in a matter of hours versus days or weeks.
I shoot an email to an old FBI pal of mine, Dirk Larsen. He brought me in on a few of his cases as an unofficial consultant and owes me a few favors. I’m also pretty sure he doesn’t know I have personal ties to the BK murders. He emails back immediately to say he’ll see what he can do, but the person who has the most information on the case is Lacy Collins, a former detective who worked on the Elyria force back in the day. She discovered BK’s true identity as an alarm system salesman named Dennis Bundy and tracked him to the warehouse where he was hiding out.
Dirk offers to put me back in touch with her. I tell him there’s no need and I still have her number.
Then I pull out my phone and pull up her contact info.
Lacy Collins was more than just my mentor. She found me as a runaway. She was my hero and adoptive family rolled into one.
And then I cut ties with her. I moved to California and started a new life. I had no friends and no family, but there was also no one I could hurt.
She, of all people, could guess my worst secret, the one that keeps me running from city to city without putting down roots or making friends.
Do I dare call her now? Will it put her in danger? Is it worth the risk?
I’m squeezing my phone so tight my knuckles are a sickly white.
Finally, I decide she needs to know. I hit the Call button, my heart pounding painfully with every ring. Her voicemail picks up, and I catch my breath at her voice. Firm, kind, no-nonsense. “This is Lacy Collins. Leave a message at the beep.”
My own voice sounds shaky and unsure. “Hey. It’s me. I’m sorry I’ve been MIA.” An apology can’t begin to make up for what I’ve done, so I continue in a rush. “But I need your help with some cases in New Rome.” I hesitate but then decide blunt honesty is best. “It’s BK. He’s back.”
I end the call and clutch the phone tight, my throat clogged with emotion. All my old demons are rising up to strangle me.
You should’ve died with your family, my uncle told me all those years ago. If you had, none of this would’ve happened. My aunt had just died, and he was grieving, but I knew he was right. I’m cursed.
I’ve never told anyone what happened in the years after BK destroyed my life.
It started with my parents and brothers. First, I dreamed of their death, and then I lived it. You’d think their murders would be the worst thing that happened to me, but then I went to my grandmother’s, and within a year, she was gone. I had a vision of her slumped over the kitchen table and walked in after school to find her exactly as my vision had predicted. Slumped over the table, dead from a heart attack.
My aunt took me in, and the cycle continued. I had a vision of her collapsing on the deck. This time, I shared what I’d seen, but it was no use. She died a few days later, and her husband could no longer bear the sight of me.
You’re an angel of death, my uncle said. My aunt wasn’t cold in the ground before he kicked me out of his house. You killed her. I want you gone.
Everyone close to me dies. My parents and brothers, my grandmother, my aunt. Lacy Collins helped me, and I rewarded her by cutting off all contact as soon as I was old enough to do so.
I haven’t allowed anyone to get close to me since.
Not until Rex.
But I can’t think about that right now. I’m already too close to falling apart.
I stop by the task force room and survey the wall full of evidence, including the pictures of the crime scene.
Luckily, Bonds isn’t around to shoo me away. I’ve also avoided seeing Burgess or Cucinelli, which is always a win.
A photo of the scene around the body of Emily Rodriguez catches my eye. There’s a dead bird in the frame.
The door creaks open, casting a light over the black feathers to make them shimmer green—
I suck in a breath, blinking back the memory of the dead birds at my townhouse.
“There was a dead bird left at the scene?” I say to myself.
An old-timer—a retired detective who volunteers a few days a week—hears me and limps over. “Yes. That detail wasn’t released to the public.”