Chapter Twelve
George Wallace sat at the lunch counter of the diner he frequented several times a week, waiting for his sandwich as the final minutes of the noon newscast flickered across the mounted television above the register.
His attention remained fixed on the screen, and a slow smile spread across his face as the report wrapped up.
He’d made the news again, which filled him with quiet satisfaction. He made a mental note to record the evening broadcast and save it. A keepsake. Proof that people were finally paying attention.
He hadn’t stayed in Pennsylvania long enough to draw this kind of notice. North Carolina, though, was different. Here, the story had taken hold.
Moving into the house his late aunt had left him had turned out to be an even better decision than he’d first imagined.
Soon, the weather would turn warmer, the beaches would fill with tourists, and the area would be flooded with young women eager to show off in skimpy bathing suits and tiny shorts.
The possibilities made his stomach tighten with anticipation.
“Here ya go, George.” The waitress’s voice pulled him from his thoughts as she set his lunch in front of him. “Can I get you anything else?”
He looked up and offered her a polite smile. “No thanks, Anita. This looks perfect.”
She gave his shoulder a light pat. “Well, enjoy. Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will.” Once she moved on, George picked up half of the oversized BLT and took a large bite.
He liked Anita. She was older, soft around the middle, her dark hair threaded with silver, and she carried herself with an easy kindness that made people feel welcome. There was something comforting about her. Sometimes he caught himself wishing she’d been his mother.
Instead, he’d gotten Wanda Wallace.
The thought soured his appetite for a moment. Even as a boy, he’d understood he’d been cursed with the wrong mother.
School had been his refuge. He’d gone every day and worked hard enough to keep his grades hovering between A-minuses and B-pluses through all his years in public education.
The classroom had offered a few precious hours away from the chaos waiting at home, where there had only been his mother’s drinking binges, screaming fits, and beatings.
Always in that order.
Wanda Wallace was a bleached-blonde disaster who spent most of her life chasing men, alcohol, and excuses.
Every weekend, she shoved a handful of loose change into his palm and sent him walking three blocks to the movie theater alone so she could entertain whichever man had agreed to pay for her attention.
The state’s welfare checks and food stamps covered the basics, but her drinking habit required extra income.
George had been no more than seven the first time he’d stood at the ticket counter, buying admission with a fistful of quarters, nickels, dimes, and pennies while his mother sold herself for far more than the coins she’d tossed his way.
What kind of mother did that?
A worthless one.
When he didn’t have enough money for a movie ticket, he’d wander elsewhere. On Wednesdays, he’d go to the zoo because admission was free, but he still had to sneak in since some people questioned why a young boy was there alone.
He could still remember the expression on one attendant’s face after she’d asked where his mother was.
“Screwing some guy for money.”
The woman had gone pale. Guess she hadn’t expected a seven-year-old to say something like that.
He’d run before she could call the police.
Not that they would have helped. The police never did. When his mother got herself arrested, they handed him over to foster homes that were often worse than her apartment. Then, as soon as Wanda made enough empty promises to the courts, they sent him right back.
Round and round it went. A miserable carousel of neglect, disappointment, and betrayal.
As he grew older, he stopped leaving the apartment when she told him to.
Instead, he kept the pittance she gave him and stayed hidden in his bedroom, watching through the small hole he’d drilled through the back of his closet into her room.
He watched the parade of men come and go.
He watched his mother laugh, flirt, and sell herself night after night.
And with every passing year, his disgust deepened. Hatred had become his closest companion.
His mother never missed a chance to remind him that his father had vanished the moment she’d announced her pregnancy. According to Wanda, George had ruined her life.
The feeling was mutual.
He took another bite of his sandwich, chewing as his thoughts drifted toward the moment everything had finally changed. His life had remained trapped in that endless cycle of misery and resentment. At least, until he turned fifteen.
Sean hung up the phone and looked across the conference room at Lynch. “That was my profiler. She’ll be here in about ten minutes.”
The detective nodded, his expression grim as he swept a hand toward the whiteboards crowded with photographs, timelines, and notes. “Great. Maybe she can make some sense out of this mess.”
Sean understood the feeling. Hours of digging had given them more victims, more reports, and more questions, but no closer glimpse of the man responsible.
A few minutes later, Brian and Rafe walked into the room, and almost on cue, one of the landline phones on the table rang.
Sean picked it up and listened as the deputy at the front desk informed him that Dr. Suki Ralston had arrived.
He replaced the receiver and headed for the lobby.
The moment he spotted her near the front entrance, he had to suppress a groan.
Suki looked exactly as polished and striking as ever.
And all he could think about was Brian’s reaction.
His brother had always treated women like a revolving door—step through, enjoy the scenery, and move on before anyone expected permanence.
Sean had never approached relationships that way, but the outcome had often been the same.
Long hours, sudden call-outs, and the relentless demands of the Bureau had a way of wearing down even the strongest connections.
His mind drifted to Grace. The memory of her soft lips against his surfaced without warning, bringing with it the same restless pull that had distracted him half the day. He pushed the thought aside—now was not the time.
Suki wore a dark blue suit, the skirt falling just above her knees.
A crisp white blouse with the top two buttons undone and navy heels completed the look.
Since most of her time was spent behind a desk building profiles rather than chasing suspects through alleys, she could get away with footwear that would cripple most field agents after an hour.
Even so, he knew the tailored jacket concealed a shoulder holster. She was still an agent.
A thin gold chain rested against her throat, and a simple watch circled her wrist. She wore almost no makeup, but she didn’t need it. Her black hair was pinned into a sleek professional knot, though Sean knew that when she let it down, it would fall to the middle of her back.
As he pushed open the secured door leading to the back hallway, her face brightened.“Hey, stud muffin, how’s that rhythm thing going?”
He winced. “Do me a favor, will you? My brother’s working with us, so if you could cool it with the ‘stud muffin’ remarks, I’d really appreciate it.”
Her smile widened. “No problem. I know what it’s like to be teased by older brothers.”
As they fell into step down the hallway, her playful expression faded, replaced by the focused professionalism he expected from her. “Has anything changed in the case since yesterday?”
He nodded. “Yeah. We found three more victims in Philadelphia from last summer. The lead agent emailed me the report and is sending the rest of the file down tonight. She said she knows you. Karen Winslow?”
Recognition flickered across her face. “Oh, yes. I know her well. She can be a little gruff at times, but she’s an excellent agent.”
“Well, now we’ve got six victims, and we’re still spinning our wheels. I’m hoping between you and Winslow, you can point us in some kind of direction.”
“I’ll do my best.”
He opened the conference room door and let her walk in first, her well-worn brown leather briefcase tucked against her side.
The four detectives, who had been in the middle of a conversation only seconds earlier, fell silent and gaped the moment she entered.
Sean fought the urge to sigh. Predictable.
Suki strode to the head of the table with calm confidence, completely at ease beneath the sudden attention. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.”
The men rose almost as one and returned the greeting, as Sean stepped forward to make the introductions, indicating each man with a flick of his hand.
“Suki, this is our lead detective, Brad Lynch, Rafe Montoya of the SBI, and my brother, Brian, also with the state police. Guys, this is Dr. Suki Ralston, FBI agent and profiler extraordinaire.”
She shook hands with each of them, poised and professional, seemingly oblivious to the reaction her appearance always sparked.
Sean had worked enough cases with her to know she was used to it.
Off duty, she was quick-witted, sharp, and fun to be around.
The moment work entered the equation, though, every ounce of that easygoing charm gave way to laser-sharp focus.
She reached for the nearest chair, but Rafe—standing closest—beat her to it, pulling it out for her with enough eagerness to make Sean suppress a smirk.
Suki offered him a gracious smile as she sat. “Thank you.”
Setting her briefcase on the floor, she pulled out a pen and a fresh yellow legal pad before glancing around the room, all business.
“Okay, gentlemen, please have a seat and tell me about this case from the beginning. Sean gave me the basics yesterday, but I want to hear everything from the top, including any theories you’ve developed. ”