33. Braxton
CHAPTER 33
Braxton
F or the first time in many years, I’m shocked. I stare at the cold, lifeless body of Kylie, who was strangled from behind with what looks like the belt of a dress. She’s still propped up, sitting in the chair of her lover’s home.
The man who owns the home is in hysterics in the corner as he’s being interrogated by a couple of officers who were first on the scene. I wasn’t far behind them.
I look at the window that was easily unlatched from the outside and allowed the killer to break in.
I walk over to the man, still reeling from whatever the fuck is happening right now. “I’ll take over here,” I say, interrupting the police officer who’s asking questions. He continues to note things down as I lead the interrogation.
“So, you’re telling me you and Kylie were involved romantically?” I really don’t care about her having a partner, but I know Lucas never mentioned him. Then again, maybe he was aware of her new beau and didn’t think he was good enough for her. The house is run down, in a bad area of town, and there’s no security system or cameras. I imagine for someone who cared so much about reputation, Kylie wanted to keep this relationship private.
“Y-yes,” he sobs. “I loved her. We were just celebrating her new collection. We’d just been… Oh God,” he cries and looks up. “We’d just made love, and I was making her favorite tea in the kitchen. And when I came back—” He chokes on his words.
My eyebrows dip. It’s highly possible he killed her himself, but my gut is telling me otherwise. “You didn’t hear any struggle?”
He looks over to the old record player. “No. We were listening to her favorite track. Maybe if I checked the latch to the window… Maybe if I did something different, this night…” He begins to ramble, and I excuse myself. The police officers will take him in, and I can interrogate him when he comes back to his senses. If he ever does. The scene is gnarly. Her eyes and mouth are wide open.
My lips draw thin. This doesn’t make any sense. The killer has only killed men so far. So, I have to ask again: are we dealing with multiple killers? The problem with this particular murder is how close I am to this victim personally.
Fuck . I think about Lucas. I try to call him again, but he doesn’t answer.
Fuck .
“Close her eyes at least,” I snap to the person placing markers and taking photos. Fuck, this is so bad.
A commotion begins to stir outside the room, and I know without seeing him that Lucas has arrived. He would’ve heard it over the radio. I catch him before he walks into the room, blocking his view.
“Let me in! I have to see her!” Lucas yells. I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know how to console him or give him answers to a crime that we are far from tying up. This… This will break him.
“Lucas!”
“No!” he shouts and punches me in the jaw. It has enough force behind it, I stumble back, and he falls into the room on his hands and knees. He looks up, and a guttural cry seeps from his soul. I close my eyes, trying my hardest to block it out.
Kylie should have never been involved.
And it again circles back to one family. The Ivanovs.
“Who would do this?!” Lucas screams, and those in the room try their hardest to usher him out. I clench my jaw and roll my shoulders as I lift his dead weight.
“No! No! No!” Lucas is screaming as I drag him out. “They took her! It’s because we’ve taken too long! They’re targeting us now!”
I throw him out into the hallway and pin him against the wall by the collar. “You need to get a grip. Right now.”
His eyes widen, and for the first time, I see the steady Lucas I know pull through, but it’s quickly covered by tears. This feels like a nail in the coffin, and that things will never be the same between us. We’ve failed, and it cost him the price of one of the most precious things in his life.
“They took her from me,” he squeaks. He stares at the floor, his mouth opening and shutting. Fuck, this is bad.
He begins to cry, and I stand there awkwardly as he hides his face in my shirt, his sobs echoing through the hall. Slowly, he slides down the wall, hanging his head between his knees.
I shut my feelings for him out. I can’t be emotionally invested in this case, and he’s most likely going to be kicked off the case because of it.
One of our colleagues comes out and she offers to assist him in my stead. Phone calls are already being made, and it’s only a matter of time before it hits the news.
I walk around the outside of the house, checking out the window that was broken into. There’s a small scrape mark where the person obviously went to the effort to chip away at the window seal to unlatch it. I can see inside from my height, and it really isn’t much of a jump from the ground to the windowsill.
A boot mark has been half covered up in the dirt. Whoever is doing this is good about not leaving any evidence besides the body, almost flaunting the fact they can’t be caught. I study the footprint. It looks narrow, but without the whole thing, I can’t tell if it’s a man’s or woman’s shoe.
“Fuck.” This is going to create chaos in the media tomorrow once they realize the latest victim is related to a detective who’s been working on the serial killer case. And, once again, a different method of killing. Not to mention, Kylie being killed ruins the consistency of the murderer only targeting men.
My phone buzzes, but I ignore it, scanning the bushes for hints of evidence. I look at the street and surrounding houses, hoping to spot any cameras, but in this part of town, it’s unlikely. My phone buzzes again, and this time, I take it from my pocket.
I’m disappointed when it’s not Hope returning my call. My eyebrows furrow as I notice it’s one of my colleagues calling for a third time. And a bad feeling sinks into my stomach.
“Braxton,” he says. “There’s another body.”
“Where?” I grit.
Two in one night? Are you fucking kidding me?
“A nightclub called Lucy’s.”
My jaw tics. Lucy’s is owned by Eli Monti, the fucking boss of the Italian mafia. It’s very rare a body is found at any of their establishments, and I’m certain the moment I arrive it’ll be gone.
“Who called it in?” I ask.
“A woman found it and called us, but I don’t think she’s local.”
No, because if she were, she wouldn’t have ever dared call the police while at a Monti establishment.
We can’t fucking touch them, and yet I don’t fucking care.
Someone’s getting ballsy about their kills, and they’ll have to answer for it.