Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
COOPER
“The Headless Horseman, so aptly named for his fascination with severing his victims’ heads and taking them with him, has struck again.
Locals are on edge as this is the second body to be discovered in as many weeks.
Experts suggest the change in pattern is due to an unforeseen trigger, and with the increase in timeline, people should be aware that other changes to the killer’s MO may also occur.
The latest body has been identified as twenty-year-old Stella Faye Waters, an American transfer student studying Literature at the local university, discovered early Sunday morning near an off-campus trail, with eerie signs suggesting the Horseman’s trademark theatrics.
“Police sources have confirmed that the scene included a plastic horse figurine left at the site, echoing similar items found with the previous victims. Bruising patterns and damage to the bodies have also been made public knowledge. The police are currently investigating a leak in the medical examiner’s office.
Despite increasing patrols and the use of behavioural profiling experts, the killer continues to evade capture, leaving behind a community steeped in fear.
“Students are being advised to travel in groups, avoid walking alone at night, and if you see anything suspicious, anything at all—please report it to your local authority.
“Detective Silas Turner is with us now; are there any insights?”
“This should be good,” I quip, turning up the volume. Detective Turner hasn’t changed much since the last time we saw him; sure, he’s a little rounder around the midriff, and there’s a little less hair on his head, but I see the grimace permanently etched into his face is still standing strong.
“We’re dealing with a man deviating from his routine, a man unhinged and unpredictable.”
Caleb’s boot flies past my head, and the TV cuts out as it hits his target.
“You had enough of that then, brother?” I remark, turning to face Caleb as he continues on with his client, ignoring me completely and looking like an idiot wearing only one shoe.
Of all the people we have issues with, Detective Silas Turner is up there at the top of our shit list. Corrupt as they come, this man has abused every law going to get his way, and he doesn’t care who he hurts in the process.
“They look like her, you know, the victims.” My voice is so quiet I almost question whether I’ve spoken the thought aloud.
Caleb won’t address the elephant in the room.
If he agrees with me, he won’t be able to hide the slither of worry that coats his words at the thought of anyone harming our Dove.
So I let it go.
I glance over at the faded photo with the torn edges pinned to the corkboard on our trailer wall.
A photo of two boys each flanking a smaller dark-haired girl protectively, the small soft smile on her face warming my soul even now as my heart lurches in my chest at the memory of her.
Ebony Trevel-Vanvello was at one point the axis that kept my world spinning.
Now she’s just a stranger who double-crossed us and threw us to the wolves.
I glance back at my phone on the coffee table, and Caleb clears his throat, bent over the makeshift clingfilm-wrapped tattoo table as he concentrates on a small patch of artwork detailing on Rodney’s neck piece.
The machine continues to buzz in his hand as he presses strokes of colour into the traditional eagle with wings spread across the entirety of his client’s throat.
I grab for my phone, checking for the umpteenth time that it’s still got enough charge—56%, good enough.
“Ever heard that a watched pot never boils, Coop?” Caleb grins, applying pressure on Rodney’s chin when he squirms in pain, the needles dancing over the soft sensitive flesh of his jugular.
“Ezra said he’d call when he had something.
If anyone can find her, he will,” Caleb adds when he catches me bouncing my knee nervously.
Impatience and my anxiety go hand in hand—especially where she is concerned.
We’d tried tracking her ourselves for three weeks, and every time we thought we’d found her, we hit a dead end.
Utilising Ezra’s new business ventures means we should have an answer soon, but most of the people he tracks end up buried four feet deep, and that particular job is ours.
Six years is a long time to wait for a stab at revenge, and the thought of not taking that for ourselves has my body thrumming with annoyance.
Before I can lose myself to all the reasons why our Dove deserves to pay for her transgressions, my phone buzzes with an incoming message.
Swiping at the screen, my eyes land on the grey eyes flecked with violet that haunt my dreams. I lean across Rodney and flash the photo at Caleb; he grumbles, that mixture of frustration and lust heavy in his gaze as the photo of our raven-haired Dove lights up the screen.
The grease splattered waitress uniform does nothing to hide her shapely hips and long legs.
“He found her,” I announce, even though it’s obvious, trying hard to hide the relief coating my tone.
The torniquet that has been wrapped around my windpipe for the past three weeks loosens its grip as I gaze down at her face.
It’s not enough, I know it isn’t. I need to see her flesh, blood, and bone, to convince myself she’s actually real.
“Fuck, now that’s the sort of girl you want warming your bed.”
The rage boiling my blood has a rampant thump filling my ears as my hand circles Rodney’s throat, holding him down against the bed as he fights for air, my grip tightening the more he struggles.
The freshly tattooed skin feels warm beneath my palm.
His eyes bulge, spittle splashing against his face as he struggles, his fingers clawing at my hand frantically as he kicks his legs against the bench.
Realising he has no hope of pulling himself free, he reaches out for my face.
Caleb moves quickly, holding Rodney’s hands against his body, a shit-eating grin on his face.
I don’t pay him much mind, my darkened gaze trained on Rodney’s mottled skin as his chest expands, his lungs searching for oxygen, the pain likely making him light-headed as the sweet release of the darkness creeps in.
“My brother doesn’t take kindly to men ogling what’s his.” Caleb chuckles, garnering a fear-filled expression to wash over Rodney’s face in a sickly grey haze as their eyes meet. His body is shaking as his eyes roll back. His white lips smacking together as he tries to speak.
Caleb clears his throat, and the madness that took over momentarily lifts from my senses, tugging me back to the room as I loosen my hold. Killing Rodney wouldn’t be much of a loss for the world, but I try to keep my kills to a minimum. Especially now while we are trying to keep a low profile.
“I believe you had something you wanted to say?” Caleb adds as he releases Rodney’s hands, sitting back in his chair and slipping off his black latex gloves.
“Sor…sorry,” Rodney croaks out. His body working overtime as he pants for air, slipping off the bench and onto the floor to get out of my reach.
“So, same time next week, Rod?”
“Urm, I think maybe I’ll leave it a little while…to properly heal,” he splutters, his frantic expression fraught with unease as he glances between me and my brother. I personally think the finger indents I’ve left in his skin add to the piece.
“Get Rodney wrapped up,” Caleb orders as he cleans down his station, the task second nature now.
The desire to tell him to go fuck himself and demand he do it instead is ready to burst from my lips, but this exchange needs tact, and my brother has far more of that at his disposal than I do, so I wordlessly do as he’s instructed.
I pull a length of the cellophane wrap from its holder, grabbing the bottle of green soap and some white roll to sanitise his skin and wipe away the excess ink. The man pissed me off, but letting a customer’s tattoo get infected is hardly good for business.
“I’ve got it sorted.” He grins awkwardly, taking a few steps towards the exit until his back is pressed up against the door, almost falling over his own feet as he scrambles to get the wad of notes from his jeans pocket.
“Suit yourself. Wash and cream it in about two hours,” Caleb instructs as he packs away his machine.
“See you next time, Rodney,” I add chipperly as he places the money on the side and grabs for the door handle with a shaking hand, all signs of my beast locked back in his cage—for now.
Watching a grown man shudder shouldn’t warm my twisted soul as much as it does, but what can I say—there’s a reason I’ve spent the past six years in an insane asylum.
Locking the door, I stuff the money into the coffee can above the sink and settle onto the old ratty pull-out sofa next to Caleb, watching as he dials Ezra’s number, hits the speaker button, and places it on the table between us.
He leans back and rests his feet on the table, one crossed over the other, one boot still keeping the TV company.
It rings twice before the call connects.
“Seems Ebony is heading back to Hells Haven. I hope you boys are ready for the reunion of the century.”
I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life. Our Dove is about to find out what happens when you cross the Knox brothers.