Chapter Ten
SAINT
Sometimes, I truly despise my job. I like being the one to put these sick assholes behind bars, but I don't like why I have to in the first place. Standing at yet another death scene, listening to the officers tell me the evidence they've collected so far, there's no doubt in my mind that this is the same killer. Crimes of passion, I could almost, almost understand. This sick premeditated, trophy, methodical killing, I just don't get. I also don't agree with these psychos getting second chances at life after taking so many of them.
The officer in front of me is showing me a photo of the latest victim, identified by the missing person report filed by her parents two days ago. I clench my teeth and try not to think about what he could've done to her in the time that he's had her. Then another feeling hits my gut. I tried to tell myself that all the girls before this one were a coincidence, but there's no denying it this time. This victim could honestly be some relative of Darci. Same reddish-0brown hair. Same blue eyes. Even the shape of her face is the same. This one has a short bob cut instead of the waves that Darci has, but there's no doubt the similarity.
"Send that to me," I tell the officer. "As well as a copy of all of the evidence you've collected here today."
"Yessir," he says.
I'll have to wait on some of it to come back, but I know what it'll all say. The same thing it's told me on all of the other victims. Absolutely nothing. I take a deep breath through my nose and exhale. Anger boils down in my gut, and I know that I'll be running an extra couple of miles tonight to work off the steam. The only thing saving me from going to check on Darci this morning is knowing that she's tucked safely between two of my packmates like she has been all night. I don't want her to feel like I'm trying to control her life, but I can't help but wonder if I can talk her into staying with us until this is all over. Until I can catch this psycho and get him off the streets. Either way, I'm going to have to tell her why.
I'm surprised with how fast her brain works that she hasn't picked up on it already. I've been listening to her podcast for a long time. Even went back and listened to all of her old episodes. She's consistent with the information that she puts out there. It's all facts and no opinions. It's clear that she does the research beforehand. And more so, her compassion for the victims drew me in faster than anything. I'm sure she gets paid for them, but it doesn't seem like she's in it for the money. When I'd done my own digging, I found out that she was right here on campus, and thought it'd take forever to find her. Then she practically fell into my lap at the coffee shop. I'd already been half in love with her compassion and voice, then I witnessed her beautiful face in person and got my first dose of her scent. It was over from there. I knew I was a goner.
I pull out my phone and text Banks, because I know he should already be up.
Is she awake?
It takes a few minutes before he gets back to me.
Yeah, grabbing a shower before class. Why, what's up?
Ask her to call me when she gets out, would you?
Sure thing
It takes less than ten minutes before my phone starts ringing.
" Good morning, babe," I start.
" Good morning," she replies sweetly, making my dick hard instantly. Or maybe it's just the sound of her voice in general. "Everything okay?
"I'm fine," I tell her, knowing that's half of what she's asking. "Can I pick you up after your last class today?"
"He's killed another one, hasn't he?" she asks quietly.
I don't want to ever lie to her, no matter what it's about. "Yeah."
I can feel the heavy weight of her long sigh through the phone. "Don't wait. I haven't missed any classes this semester. Come get me now. I'm at your house."
"I know, babe," I tell her, not letting her know that we'd all have to be deaf, blind, and without our sense of smell to not know she was there last night. "Are you sure, though?"
"Positive," she states, steel back in her voice.
Damn, that's my girl.
"Okay, I'll be there shortly," I tell her.
From the beginning of bringing her onto the case, I haven't once sugar-coated a single thing. It's difficult being the one who deals with this and has to sort through the evidence, but she's proven more than once that she can handle it. So, when she gets into the car, I open my email and flip my phone around to hand to her.
The photo is the first thing listed with some of the personal belongings they found on the body. Her silent o that she makes with her mouth tells me that she's put together the same conclusion that I have. Giving her time to process, I wait until we're halfway to the station before asking if she's okay.
"They look like me, Saint," she all but whispers. "Or am I crazy?"
I shake my head, "No, babe. You're not crazy. I was on that same brainwave this morning. So, the question is, does the killer just have a preference, or are you his actual target? Do you have any enemies?"
She's looking straight ahead at the road when she finally answers after a few minutes. "I'm a loner. I keep to myself and until you walked into my life, didn't have any interaction with anyone other than the few public places I frequent."
I feel like she's not done, so I remain quiet, letting her gather her thoughts.
"I haven't been completely honest," she finally says. My stomach goes tight, and I prepare myself for the worst when she murmurs, "See, I have a brother. He's not a good person."
I immediately let out the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding as soon as she says the word ‘brother.’ I'm a detective. Any one of us worth anything would've done their research. Besides, after the first week or two, I couldn't shake the feeling that her last name kept ringing a bell.
"He's locked away for life in a mental institution for murdering four girls," she continues. Her shoulders slumping with every word like she's carrying the weight of her brother's sins on them.
I pull off to the side of the road, and her tear-filled eyes glance up at me. "That's not even the worst, Saint. My mom is a psychologist and thinks that I may have that same gene that made my brother a murderer. She makes me do monthly evaluations with her to make sure that I haven't crossed over to the dark side or something."
"It doesn't work like that, sweetheart," I tell her, my voice gravelly with emotion. "Your brother is his own person. Different brain. Urges and impulses completely his own. How many times have you read about this and covered a case on it? You know that just because of his decisions, that doesn't have anything to do with you."
I capture her chin between my fingers, turning her head so that she'll look at me. "You are not your brother. And he made his choices. Not you."
She nods, leaning over to press a kiss against my lips. I'd be a lying man if I said I didn't feel it straight to my stomach and dick. Just as quickly, she pulls away with a wild expression written across her face.
"Saint, I've got an idea," she starts. "But you're going to have to trust me."
"Beyond question, babe," I tell her, knowing I'd follow her blindly to the ends of the Earth if she asked.