The Hand that Fractures (The Butcher of Crows Hollow Book 2)

Chapter 4

Igrip the booties as I walk away from the scene. Agents and detectives are none the wiser. It’s almost like they like the chase so fucking much they turn a blind eye to their surroundings. An officer lifts the caution tape, letting me pass. I nod to him in thanks as I whistle and head toward the back of the C.S.I. van. I toss the box of booties through the open doors; the crowd of onlookers drowns out the thud of its landing.

The booties she’d thrown at me, though, I fist and shove it into my pocket to take with me. I’ve got work to do if I’m going to keep her interested. Now that I have her attention, I don’t want to lose it.

I couldn’t creep closer to the crime scene than the front steps. And it had nearly killed me.

Was she excited by what she saw?

Did she admire my work?

Had my style turned her on? What about the changes I’d made to her partner in crime’s M.O.?

I slide into the beat-up Chevy truck I drive in the daytime, which is nothing like the Shelby Mustang I troll the nighttime with. The feel of the power steering makes me work for each curve. The way she glides over the pavement like she’s on rails and the rough growl of her engine is enough to make me want to drive her around all the time.

But Black Betty isn’t suited for the day. She draws too much attention.

And that’s the last thing I need right now.

The Chevy’s 5.3-liter engine rumbles as I move down Oak Street. My next target has been living with her parents since her release from the local prison for vehicular manslaughter. Sure, half the town believes that it was a tragic accident when she rolled her Civic into a ditch, killing her best friend after their joint birthday party. But the other half doesn’t.

And I have to say, I don’t care what either side thinks.

She served her time, and now she’s going to pay further.

And the Butcher is going to take the heat.

When I set on this mission of flushing him out, of trying to get to her, I hadn’t thought I’d get this far. But from the first spray of blood against the warmth of my skin, I was hooked.

There was no going back.

I park the truck out of sight, hidden between a work van and a yellow Mazda Miata, and sit back. Shifting into the seat, I tug the booties out of my pocket and shove them to my nose, breathing in any scrap of her scent left on them.

She walked on them.

Her feet were in them.

They were a piece of her, even briefly.

And I can’t get enough.

I close my eyes, knowing I have plenty of time to fantasize while I wait for my next little toy to get off work and her mother to sleep. I let my mind wander to watching her inside the club, then again outside the club. I go back to watching her walk up today, the way her hips swayed, and her eyes glowed with a thrill at what she was about to do.

She marched under the tape onto my crime scene like she fucking owned it. And my reaction had been instant. Blood pooled in my veins, fighting its cells to race toward my dick.

I eagerly awaited the moment she locked eyes with me when she would thank me for the booties, but she hadn’t.

She hadn’t given me even one millisecond of her time as if I were beneath her.

And something about it made me want her even more.

Another part of me begged to slit her throat. To add one of her fingernails to my collection that I’ve been keeping with each kill.

To immortalize her in some raw and vicious way.

I shake the thought away and open my eyes.

Somehow, hours had flown past, and dark surrounded the truck.

“Fuck. Time to get to work,” I mutter, sliding out of the truck and leaving the booties behind on the seat. I grab my toolbox and whistle as I move around the back of the residence.

I had to become something different to get her attention. Now that I have it, I’m going to give her a show.