Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
Zoe could breathe fire. She didn’t fear anything anymore. Not about threatening Darren, not about being watched by Viktor, and not by Aiden sniffing around.
She didn’t even fear the twisted person responsible for torturing and killing women in Pineview Falls.
“When will Rodney be done with Jackie’s autopsy?” She asked Lisa, who was huddled in front of a computer with Ethan.
“He should have preliminary reports for us by later tonight. We just got through Jackie’s cell phone records.”
“Good, good.” She shifted on her heels and bit her nails.
Adrenaline pumped through her like little electric blades plucking her ribs and humming through her veins.
Her muscles were coiled tight—ready to be snapped into action.
She realized her unusual demeanor was drawing attention.
The typical Zoe with a skip in her step and smile on her face was unraveling.
She had messaged Benny again. He finally replied.
B: You never ask for fights this quickly.
Irritation danced on her skin. Why did he care?
She messaged him to mind his own business and find something for her.
She dreaded what she’d do if he didn’t. Because whatever was building inside her had to come out.
Aiden walked into the room, holding a garbage bag.
He dumped it on the table, his features drawn tight.
“This is from Jackie’s place?” she asked.
He nodded curtly and put on gloves before delving into the bag. The ride back had been fraught with tension. Aiden had tried to prod further but Zoe had clammed up. He already knew too much. Zoe sat across from him and began pulling out contents from the trash.
“What are we looking for?” she asked with a bounce in her voice.
“Anything related to the massacre.” He didn’t look at her. To her bewilderment, she realized that she really wished he had.
She sifted through receipts, used napkins, lipstick-stained coffee mugs, broken rubber bands, and crushed medicine bags.
Aiden had some pieces of paper laid out in front of him—torn and stained.
He was deep in thought as he tried to arrange the papers.
crumpled paper scraps, torn edges, and half-shredded words spread out in front of them.
He worked methodically, sorting through the discarded pieces, smoothing them out, aligning jagged edges like a puzzle.
Every now and then, he’d pause, turning a fragment sideways, testing its fit against another.
Ink bled at the seams where words reassembled themselves and incomplete sentences began to take shape.
She exhaled, arms crossed, resisting the urge to drum her fingers on the table.
“Almost there,” he murmured, not looking up. A strip of paper slid into place. A sentence emerged. “Shit.”
“What?”
Aiden froze. “It was Jackie.”
“What do you mean?”
He showed her the pieces. Words stuck out—ticktock, rock, marrow, blackens… words from the first poem that had been sent to Zoe. Words scribbled in Jackie’s handwriting as if she were trying to come up with a riddle and jotting down words and rhymes.
Zoe stared at Aiden in shocked silence. Her brain tried to restart. “Jackie sent that letter? Did she kill Annabelle?”
“Then who killed Jackie?”