Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
He grinned at me, holding up his glove and asking for the ball. I tossed it toward him, and then, despite my better judgment, jogged out onto the field, Titan breaking into a run beside me, my heart beating louder than it had in years.
I love you because right now, there’s nothing more tempting in life than to pull you on top of me and push inside of you.
We said little for the next hour, falling into an easy rhythm of catching, the ball arching through the air between us, lost in the night, then found again when it connected with the leather of a glove. I caught grounders for the first time in years, my movements rusty at first, then smoothing out, the flex of an old muscle enjoyable.
It was, out of all of my nights on that field, the most painful of them all.
“It was crazy, with the whole city involved—picketers at the game, media crowding the press box, every fan demanding Chase Stern’s return—there were only two people, in that entire city who really knew what was happening.
And only one who could fix it.”
Dan Velacruz, New York Times
78
When we got the call about Julie Gavin, her body left at the East Gate, Tobey vomited. I remember standing at the bathroom door, my hand on its surface, and feeling heartless. He was the man, the strong one. He was the one who climbed mountains and stayed dry-eyed during The Green Mile. Yet he was puking into the toilet and I was calm, uncaring. I remember analyzing my feelings, trying to find the root of my problem.
“Babe.” I jiggled the handle, frowning when I discovered it locked, the sound of retching causing my brow to furrow. “Talk to me.”
“What the fuck is there to say?” he snapped, the words almost drowned out by the toilet flushing.
“It’s not our fault.” I leaned into the door, putting my mouth by the crack, hoping my words would carry. “We did everything we could. The security—”
“It’s a pattern, Ty.” He interrupted. “That’s what Harold said. She isn’t the first.”
Yes, our head of security had been clear on that. This girl, the one that showed up dead outside our gates, a detective had linked her with two other girls. Both also stabbed, and also on the last day of the season. The detective thought it was a World Series freak, someone pissed at the trade of Chase, and punishing the city every year we fell short of winning it all. “They might be wrong,” I said. “Who would kill girls over that? It’s—” I stopped short of saying crazy. Because of course this guy, whoever he is, was crazy. Sane people didn’t murder. And sane people certainly didn’t base murders on a baseball schedule.
“I don’t think they’re wrong.” He had moved, to a different part of the bathroom, his voice echoing off the tiles, and I jiggled the handle, wishing he would just open the damn door already.
I hadn’t argued with him, but I hadn’t taken it seriously. I hadn’t felt guilt. Or pressure. Not until 2014. Not until Tiffany Wharton.
I was the one who found her. I later wondered if it was planned, my discovery of Tiffany. If so, it was brilliantly effective. I’d paid attention to the deaths before; we’d met with investigators, donated money to memorial funds, made personal calls to parents. But her death, at least for me, changed everything. After her, the deaths ruled my life. There was no way to avoid a dead girl. No way to forget the blank stare of her eyes, the open gape of her mouth. I still see her face in my nightmares. I still can hear the scrape of gravel as I skidded to a stop in front of her body.
She was on the edge of our Hamptons’ property, on the service road that led to our back gate. Her body was on its side, as if it’d been kicked from a moving car, no care made to lay her flat, her arms at an unnatural angle. She’d been more than a fan. She’d been a member of our staff, a Human Resources’ admin, her face familiar to me.
Titan and I had come around a curve, his ears up, stance alert, and we’d almost stepped on her. I’d known, as soon as I’d seen her, that it was a message—one screamed through blonde hair and the dust of our property on her face.
In that moment, I understood Tobey’s nausea. I understood his panic. I felt the pressure, the breath of this psycho on the back of my sweaty neck. Whoever the madman was, he had my attention. And from that moment on, he had all of my focus. We needed to win. The NYPD needed to step up its fucking game.
Time was ticking, and everything amped up. Our recruiting. Our training. Our pressure. Tobey changed, retreating into himself, short with everyone but me, his obsession with winning almost manic in its focus. And that day, I became the same way.