Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
“Your father is dead, Wren.” Honey’s voice was very certain. “Milo doesn’t make mistakes. He went to the scene to verify everything himself. That’s where he’s been—where he is. Look, there was…a lot of decay with your father’s body. DNA had to be used for the identification process. Your DNA. Your father’s DNA that was collected after you were put in witness protection. The remains are his. Jonathan is not still out hunting in the world. But someone who knows what he did may certainly be.”
The pain and horror on Wren’s face gutted Jake.
“Your story was leaked on social media,” Honey added.
Wren didn’t react.
Because they already knew this bit, courtesy of Hunter’s early arrival. So it wasn’t exactly a shocking reveal at this point.
“It was posted on an assortment of true crime groups, too.” Honey heaved a disgusted sigh. “The daughter who should be dead but was ‘living it up along the beach.’”
Now Wren did flinch.
“Someone knows who you are, Wren.” Honey edged closer to Wren. Lifted her hand as if she’d give Wren a reassuring pat on the shoulder but stopped before actually touching her. “Someone knows a great deal about you and your father. Someone with a whole lot of intel. Too much intel, to my way of thinking. This is stalker level.”
“Wren’s phone was taken.” With an effort, Jake kept the emotion out of his voice. He even managed to unclench his fists. “I’m thinking the killer could have scrolled through her device. Accessed her private emails. Her texts. Learned a ton before he dumped the phone at the hospital.”
“This wasn’t on my phone.” Wren was adamant. “Or in my texts. I never talked to anyone about this. Not about how he left rings behind. How he severed fingers.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “The FBI team investigating knew those details. My father knew. I knew.”
“And what about the families of the vics?” Jake asked. He needed to learn more about these old cases. But, hell, the Sweetheart Slasher had never been on his radar when he’d been younger. The bastard certainly was, now. “They had to notice missing fingers on their loved ones.”
Wren flinched again.
Yeah, he’d just displayed zero tact. Story of his life.
“There were an assortment of injuries on the victims,” Honey explained into the uncomfortable silence. “Some premortem. Some…post.”
Hell.
Wren’s hand left her neck and fell back to her side. She swayed as the color seemed to drip from her face. He wrapped his arms around her. Don’t faint on me, sweetheart.
“I’m not going to fall,” she whispered.
“You sure as hell aren’t.” He pulled her closer even as his gaze swept over the room. Of course, Honey knew her crime scenes. The woman probably had a profile spinning through her head, and he wanted to hear it. Right then. “Talk to me, Honey. Tell me what you see.”
A brief pause and then… “Copycat. It’s what I see. It’s what my gut tells me.”
He nodded. “Same.” His exact thought. And like there was really any other option. No way was the dead killer strolling through Hilton Head.
Honey paced a bit to the right. Hummed. “Our perp overpowered Makayla with minimal effort. After all, Tom said he heard no screams. I’m thinking male, fit, someone who knows how to get in and out of houses without alerting homeowners. Probably started B&Es when he was younger and worked his way up. There was no sign of forced entry along any of the doors or windows. He has his craft well honed.” She seemed almost admiring. “If he was good enough—and I think he was—Makayla might not have even realized he was in the room with her until it was too late. He would have done a swift overpower job on Makayla. The woman is five-foot-four and a breeze could knock her down.” Honey turned away. Moved near the dress. Her head angled toward the blood spatter on the floor. “He got her here. Took her out. She?—”
“She would have screamed when he cut her finger off,” Wren insisted. Her chest rose and fell quickly. Too quickly.
But Honey shook her head. “Not if she was already knocked out. Maybe he drugged her. Would have made moving her body easier. It’s always easier when they don’t fight.”
Jake nodded. He’d figured all the same things. But a few things about the scene bothered him. “There are no blood droplets through the house. It’s just right here. If he cut off her finger, then hauled her out, he would have left a trail.” He’d paid careful attention to the floor on his way to the room.
Nothing had been there. Something should have been. Violence was messy. Blood was a bitch to clean up.
Honey looked back at him, a frown tugging her brows low. “He made sure there was no blood trail.”
Jake had another question that needed to be asked. “Wren, what did your father do with the, ah, the fingers?”
She turned her head to stare up at him. “If he…if he took one partner first, he left the severed finger for the second victim to find.”
Fuck. If that was the case, then Tom was going to lose his mind when he discovered Makayla’s finger.
“I’ll get my deputies to start searching,” Honey announced.
There was a sudden flurry of voices from outside the house. Honey hurried toward the window. Peered out. Swore. “Reporters. Hell. I knew we’d only keep them away so long. Vultures swooping in over prey.” She slanted a glance back at Wren and Jake. “You two need to go, now.”
There was nothing in the room that could lead him to Makayla. “Where is the vic’s phone?”
“Tom turned it over to me already. It was in the bedroom. Her car is still in the drive. Her keys and purse are all here at the house. I’m pulling up feeds from all nearby traffic cams to see if we can spot her in any vehicles, but, hell, you know that stuff is spotty. We’ll be lucky if we turn up anything in that footage.” She adjusted her badge. “Got to give a statement to the Press. Do not mention the Sweetheart Slasher out there, understand? Let’s try to keep this to a minimum shitshow level.”
That seemed like an impossible task. Jake was pretty sure they were already at maximum shitshow level.
But it was time to get out of there. Jake did one more sweep. The blood-spatter trail nagged at him. Truth be told, the whole scene nagged at him. The ring had been left as almost a—a deliberate taunt to Wren.
A mind fuck.
Jaw locking, he led her back through the house. At the front door, Honey exited first. He waited, knowing she would work to pull the attention of any reporters her way. He’d considered slipping out the back door, but he knew if he did that, they could still be spotted going to his Jeep. So he was opting to take the shortest escape route.
“She had to be terrified.” Wren’s low voice.
Yes, her friend had probably been afraid.
“She’s still alive.”
He hoped so. But he wasn’t going to lie and swear that she was. He didn’t want to lie to Wren.
“My f-father never killed victims right away. Certainly not until he had the full couple together.” She glanced toward the partially open door. “We should make sure Tom has protection.”
He wasn’t convinced Tom was the next target.
It keeps coming back to Wren. Everything circled back to her.
“Keep your head down,” he advised her. “Odds are the reporters will spot you no matter what, but it should just be the local crowd here now.” No heavy hitters…yet. “We get in the Jeep, and we get the hell away.” Hunter would be out there, watching and waiting. Once they arrived at the promised safe house, they would figure out their next plan of attack.
And Jake was chomping at the bit to attack. Playing defense wasn’t his style. Even back in high school, he’d been on the offensive line. He lived to attack. Not to sit on his ass and wait for the battle to come his way.
He saw that Honey had led the reporters to the side. Time to move. He opened the door fully and hurried out. He made sure to keep his arm around Wren’s shoulders and to press her tightly against him. Questions were being fired at Honey, one right after the other, but near his Jeep, a small group had gathered.
Not local reporters. At least, he didn’t recognize them.
“There she is!” An excited cry from a woman in a red dress. “Margaret! Margaret! Over here!”
Wren flinched.
“What’s it like to have a serial killer for a father?” the woman asked.
A short, balding man with small glasses and brown eyes that matched his muddy shirt squinted at Wren. “Did you see what he did? Were you there for everything?”
“Get away from my ride,” Jake ordered them. “Now.”
The man scampered back. The woman didn’t. And another male was with her. Thin and tall.
“Did you ever try to save them?” the woman demanded. “Or did you even care?”
“I’m sorry,” Wren began.
Yeah, fuck this. He scooped her into his arms. Got her to the passenger side and deposited her in the seat. Then he whirled for the growing crowd. Who in the hell were these people?
“She should have died like the victims!” This cry came from the tall, thin male. The one with sun-bleached blond hair and a phone gripped in his hand as he filmed the scene. “Margaret, what do you have to say to the families out there? All of the families of the victims who never got to hug their loved ones again because of your father? What do you want to say to them?”
Jake got right in front of the phone, blocking the camera. “Who told you to be here?” he demanded. He recognized an ambush when he saw one.
“Her dad took someone else!” From the woman in red. “Did she help him, again ? Was Margaret in on it?”
That woman needed to stop screaming in his face. “Did you hear about the attack and this location on a police scanner?” Was that how they’d known to be there?
“No.” The woman’s chin notched up. “It was posted on our local crime loop!” She pointed at Wren. “We know all about you! You can’t hide! We know what you did!”
Declan had better use his tech and find out who the hell was posting Wren’s business everywhere. “She did nothing. Now get the hell out of the way.”
But the woman in red was smiling. And she’d just pulled something out of her bag.
The reporters were looking their way because the little group was freaking loud. The woman in red darted closer to the Jeep, and she lifted a bottle toward Wren. She started to throw the contents at Wren.
Oh, the hell she would.
He grabbed her arm before the woman could throw the bottle. Red liquid jostled over his hand. Onto his clothes. “Are you fucked in the head?” he demanded.
The woman glared at him. “She’s the devil’s daughter! She’ll always have blood on her hands!”
Okay. Clearly, this was a big day for the screaming woman.
And the reporters were rushing over because the lady had obviously wanted a scene and her fifteen minutes of fame. She’d even come with her own special effects—a bottle of red paint and her filming buddy who would no doubt be loading everything onto social media, if he wasn’t already streaming live.
Jake tossed the bottle to the side. The woman was already reaching into her bag for another bottle. Seriously? Her gaze was lit with fierce intent. He studied her with a cynical eye. Full makeup. Carefully styled hair. A body-hugging red dress. Because she had to be camera ready for the big show, didn’t she?
You aren’t touching Wren.
He blocked the woman’s path. She could throw paint all over him. She was not touching Wren.
“Not today.” Honey grabbed the woman’s wrist this time. “ Not today .” Honey jerked her head toward the Jeep. “Get her out of here, Jake. Go on, now.”
Damn straight. But before Jake left, he made sure to take note of every face in the crowd. From the shadow of a nearby tree, he spotted Hunter doing the same survey. Only Hunter had his phone up and was recording the scene.
Maybe even broadcasting the thing straight back to Declan Flynn?
Their own livestream. Nice.
Without another word, Jake headed around the vehicle and jumped into the driver’s seat. He reached for the steering wheel.
Wren caught his hand. “You have paint on your fingers.”
Yeah, he did. His fingers were a glaring red. Like blood. He swiped his fingers over his shirt. Red remained on his fingers, but he grabbed for the wheel anyway. So what if he smeared some paint? Getting Wren out of there was his goal.
“She was going to throw the paint on me.”
He reversed the Jeep. Whipped them out of there. The tall and thin jerk—the lady in red’s filming buddy—still had his phone up and was recording. Oh, I will be seeing you again. He drove down the road, hurrying from the scene, because the sooner they were far away from those people, the better he would feel about her safety.
Silence filled the Jeep.
The motor growled. The Jeep ate up the empty road.
“You got hit with the paint instead of me. I’m sorry, Jake.”
“You’re not the one who threw the paint. You have nothing to be sorry about.” Jake bit off each word through clenched teeth, then his head turned as he glanced at her. “Margaret?”
She grimaced. “Yes. That was me. In another life.”
“Name never would have worked. You’re Wren. You’re?—”
A black truck barreled from a nearby driveway. It erupted straight out with a snarl of its engine and hurtled for the Jeep. Straight for Wren’s side of the vehicle. “Wren!” Jake bellowed even as he grabbed the wheel and tried to spin them, desperate to get her away from the point of impact.
The other driver didn’t stop. The front of the truck slammed into the Jeep, and the vehicle hurtled, bounced. Metal crunched. Wren screamed.
The truck reversed.
“Jake?” Wren’s desperate voice.
She reached for him.
The sonofabitch driving the truck hit them again.
Air bags deployed in the Jeep, and a cloud of white surrounded him. He shoved at the bags even as the other vehicle’s engine growled and snarled and came at them the hell again.
Again.
His head slammed forward. Then back.
Then the bastard hit them again.