Chapter Twenty-Four #2
George gripped the steering wheel of his aunt’s old car and drove past the address he’d dug up for Special Agent Sean Malone, his jaw aching from how hard he was clenching it.
The stale scent of old cigarette smoke clung to the upholstery, mixing with the sharp pine smell of the air freshener his aunt had hung from the rearview mirror. It turned his stomach.
Grabbing it, he yanked it until its thin twine snapped, then threw it out the window.
He’d switched vehicles after the incident and tucked his own car out of sight behind the detached garage at home. The damage to the front end would have to wait. Getting it repaired too soon would raise questions he didn’t need anyone asking.
Three days.
Three whole days since he’d plowed into the federal agent, and Malone still hadn’t shown his face at the beach house.
George’s fingers tapped against the wheel as he slowed to pass the place again, his gaze sweeping over the quiet property. He’d expected the man to crawl back there after the hospital, bruised and vulnerable, easy to watch and easier to finish off. Instead, the house had remained dark and empty.
The night of the attack and the following morning, another man had come and gone with a pregnant woman. Family, most likely. Malone’s type always had people hovering around, fussing over every scrape as if he were someone worth protecting.
Since then, nothing. The curtains hadn’t moved. No lights had flickered on after sunset. No car had pulled into the drive.
As far as George could tell, Malone was staying somewhere else—probably with the blonde.
The thought sent a fresh wave of irritation through him. George could still picture her. Pretty. Soft. The kind of woman who probably believed a man like Sean Malone could protect her.
She would soon learn otherwise.
He drove another quarter mile before jerking the wheel into a hard U-turn, tires crunching over loose gravel at the edge of the pavement. His mind sifted through possibilities.
The sheriff’s department.
That was where Malone would surface. The man was too consumed by the investigation to stay hidden for long. George could wait, watch, and follow him when he showed.
A smile crept across his face as the pieces began sliding into place. Yes. That would work.
But first, he needed something to occupy his hands. The urge had been building for days, pressing at him from beneath the surface, demanding release. He needed a new canvas. A new subject to transform into something beautiful.
And if he placed his next masterpiece in the right location...
George’s pulse quickened, his eyes narrowing as the answer snapped into focus.
“That’s it! That’s how to lure him back into the open!” The words filled the car, sharp with triumph.
He let out a low laugh and turned toward home, the frustration that had followed him for three days giving way to anticipation. He was off the next day and would have all the time he needed to prepare.
There were plans to make, details to arrange, and a woman somewhere who had no idea her final hours were already taking shape.
For the first time in days, everything felt as though it was falling into place.
“How does that feel?”
Sean let his eyes drift shut as Grace worked her hands across the battered muscles of his back and shoulder. The faint scent of eucalyptus drifted from the steamer in the corner, mingling with the sharp menthol smell of therapeutic creams that clung to Pro-Care.
“Hmmm.” A low groan slipped out as her fingers found a knot near his shoulder blade. “Like heaven.”
She shifted her hands. “There?”
He let out a slow breath and tipped his head forward. “If your hands were on me all day, I’d be a happy man.”
Her laugh drew a grin from him as she kept kneading the sore muscles along his back. “You’re impossible. My first patients are due any moment, and I’m not getting blamed if you show up late to work because you talked me into an extra half hour.”
“Ha! Fair enough.” Reaching back with his good arm, he gave her hip a quick squeeze. “Still think I should file a formal request for extended treatment.”
“There’s a waiting list, Special Agent Malone.”
“There better not be.”
The front door opened, and Tim Koppel stepped into the clinic with two patients trailing behind him.
Sean glanced at the clock on the wall—it was a few minutes before eight.
Once Grace finished working on his shoulder, he’d head straight to the sheriff’s department.
Being sidelined these past few days had grated on him more than the bruises and road rash.
Brian and the others had kept him informed, but until the orthopedist signed his health release yesterday afternoon, agency policy had kept him benched.
Tim helped an older man onto one of the therapy tables and looked over. “How’re you feeling, Sean?”
“Great. Got the best physical therapist there is working on me.”
Grace shot him an amused look before crossing to the steamer. She retrieved a moist heating pad and draped it over his shoulder, drawing a relieved breath from him. “Not that he’s biased at all.”
“No, not at all,” Tim agreed with a smile before turning his attention to his patient.
Sean had already filled the therapist in on everything that had happened.
Knowing Tim was there helped. Between him, Uncle Dan right across the street, and the steady stream of patients moving through the clinic all day, Grace was as protected as she could be without Sean posting armed guards at every entrance.
The thought had crossed his mind more than once, and that alone irritated him.
He knew better than to let fear dictate strategy.
As Grace moved to prepare the other patient’s station, his cell phone buzzed beside his head on the padded table. Seeing Brian’s name on the screen, he grabbed it and answered. “Hey, bro.”
“Where are you?”
The strain in Brian’s voice sent Sean upright on the table. “I’m at Grace’s PT clinic and almost done. Heading to the sheriff’s department in a few. What’s wrong?”
“Don’t bother going to HQ. Meet me at the beach house as soon as you can.”
Sean yanked the heating pad from his shoulder and swung his legs over the side of the table. “The beach house? Why?”
“The psycho left you a present. Victim number six—or nine if you count the ones in Pennsylvania—is on the patio.”
The words landed like a blow. For half a second, Sean just stared at the wall, his mind trying to catch up. “Damn. I'm on my way.”
He ended the call and reached for his shirt. Grace stepped toward him, concern flickering across her face. “Sean? Everything okay?”
He shoved his arm through the sleeve, ignoring the protest from his shoulder. “I’ve got to run.”
Her brow furrowed, and he hated the questions he saw gathering in her eyes, but there wasn’t time to explain.
Not here, not with patients arriving and half the story still unknown.
He forced a quick smile, which he doubted fooled her, and brushed a kiss across her cheek before heading for the door. “I’ll call you later.”
Before she could ask anything else, he was gone.
Within minutes, he screeched the Mustang to a stop behind a state BCI truck parked at the curb. He barely registered the techs unloading equipment as he strode up the driveway, each step fueled by a growing sense of dread and anger he couldn’t shake.
The moment he reached the patio, his stride faltered.
The victim was naked, mutilated, and prone on one of the outdoor loveseats surrounding the stone fire pit.
Sean’s stomach lurched. He and Grace had sat on that exact couch after Easter dinner while ocean air drifted across the dunes and the fire snapped against the darkening sky.
He could still picture Grace tucked beneath a blanket beside him, her hand resting in his.
Nearby, a crime scene tech snapped photographs, the rapid clicks slicing through the silence, while another recorded the scene on video.
Sean forced his gaze from the body and looked toward Brian, Matt, Brad, and Rafe, searching their faces for answers.
The grim expressions staring back told him there weren’t any.
His brother pointed toward the cottage next door.
“Mrs. Zielinski’s nephew, Andre, is using her cottage for the week and spotted our vic when he came out to have his coffee on the porch.
He went to bed around ten last night and didn’t hear a thing.
” Brian lifted his chin toward the body. “The killer left you a note.”
What?
His gaze returned to the victim, and he pushed aside his rage that a place he loved and had lived in during his teenage years had been pulled into this nightmare. But that was the least of their problems right now.
What mattered was the young blonde woman stretched across the loveseat, posed like some grotesque display.
She couldn’t have been more than her early twenties.
Pale blue skin stretched taut over lifeless features, and even from where he stood, the deep ligature marks around her neck, wrists, and ankles stood out in brutal contrast. A penny dotted her forehead, and the word “sinner” had been carved into her torso.
A knot formed low in his gut.
The message was unmistakable. The killer wanted Sean standing exactly where he was now, looking at what had been left for him.
He turned toward the photographer. “Get pictures of the note so we can open it.”
“Already done. You’re good to take it.”
Brian held out a pair of latex gloves. “It’s your mail.”
Despite everything, Sean caught the grim attempt at humor. “Gee, thanks.”
He pulled on the gloves and reached for the envelope, lifting it by one corner. “Does anyone have a knife?”
One of the BCI techs reached into his open toolbox and handed over a Leatherman multi-tool. “Here.”
“Thanks.”
He flipped open the blade and slid it beneath the sealed flap, taking care not to disturb the glued edge. After withdrawing the folded sheet inside, he dropped the envelope into the evidence bag the tech held open.
The others drifted closer as he unfolded the paper.
The same cutout newspaper letters stared back at him.
Hope you enjoy your get-well present. Next time you won’t be so lucky. S.S.
For a moment, all Sean heard was the distant crash of waves beyond the dunes and the rapid click of the crime scene photographer’s camera. The killer had crossed another line, dragging Sean’s family into his twisted game and daring him to respond.
The urge to crumple the paper into his fist and tear it apart pulsed through him, but he resisted and slipped it into the second evidence bag.
Movement at the edge of the patio drew his attention as the ME and two attendants approached. Dr. Hansen took one look at the victim and shook his head.
“This guy is really starting to tick me off, Sheriff.”
Matt crossed his arms, his expression darkening as he stared at the body. “I’m way past ‘starting to’ get ticked off. Can we take some fingerprints before you take her? I want to find out who she is as fast as possible.”
Hansen nodded to one of the attendants. “Make sure you scrape under her nails before doing the prints.”
As the team moved into action, Sean stepped back, forcing himself to breathe through the rage inside him. The killer wanted him rattled. Wanted him distracted. But Sean had spent years hunting men who thought they were smarter than law enforcement. This one had just made things personal.
Brian moved to his side and lowered his voice. “Rock, paper, scissors?”
He frowned. “For what?”
“Winner sits in on the autopsy. Loser tells Uncle Dan his beloved beach house is now a homicide crime scene.”