Chapter 31
WALKER
Blake is vulnerable. Someone is terrorizing her. She trusted me enough to lower her guard. I should’ve had more self-control than that. She deserves more than a quick fuck in the conference room at the police station.
Blake doesn’t even know the truth. Levi, Santiago, and I never told her. If she knew, she’d never look at me the same again.
The line that I thought didn’t exist earlier becomes crystal clear, and I crossed it.
It’s as if Blake can feel the shift in my mood. Her hand falls on my shoulder, grabbing my attention, concern filling her features.
“Walk, are you okay?”
My eyes drop, and I spin away, sliding my belt through the loops on my jeans. Her hand drops away, and I lose her touch.
I try to convince myself that this is how it has to be.
I can’t look her in the eye. Not now. I don’t want to see the look on her face. “Get your things. We need to leave.”
If I look at her now, I’ll stay.
“Where are we going?” Her voice relays the hurt I’ve caused.
We finish dressing in silence. I’m done before she is and wait for her to tie her boots. She slips on her coat, or rather, Levi’s coat. Blake did some online shopping this morning, and until her purchases arrive, she’s borrowing whatever clothing of ours she can make work.
When she’s ready, I open the door and gesture for her to go ahead of me. Thankfully, Tessa and Ridge are still gone, but Jolene shoots me a knowing look as she sits dutifully at her desk. To my relief, she doesn’t comment. She gives us a polite goodbye and leaves it at that.
I shut the passenger door to my truck after Blake enters, then I climb in on the driver’s side.
Blake doesn’t waste a second trying to remedy the situation. “Are we going to talk about what we did?”
Unable to articulate the appropriate words, my lips remain shut as I pull out of the parking lot and head toward Falling Sky.
How do I tell her without hurting her? Is that even possible?
The cliché phrase sits in my throat. I try swallowing it down, but it won’t go away.
My only option is to rip off the band aid.
In my next life, I’m coming back as a rusty dumpster.
Staring straight ahead, I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. “This can’t happen again.”
The silence between us expands, pulling taut like a rubber band. When Blake opens her mouth again, the rubber band snaps. I’m left with a welt on my soul, and I deserve it.
“Did you not like it?” Her tone is timid, the complete opposite of Blake.
Regardless, her question throws me off. “I came, didn’t I?”
“That doesn’t always mean it was enjoyable,” she disputes.
“I liked it. I liked it a lot,” I answer honestly. “But Blake, you don’t know everything.”
I can feel her mood flip as her eyes attempt to bore a hole into the side of my face. “Are you saying I’m not smart enough for you?”
I grimace. “What? No.”
“Then what is it?” The sound of her hands slapping her lap resonates in the cab of my truck.
“I mean about me,” I amend.
“You think you’re some big mystery to me? Sorry to burst your bubble, but you’re not that complicated, Walker Maddox,” she claims belligerently, but she doesn’t stop there. “I know it’s been a while for you, but that’s the point of a relationship—to get to know the other person.”
She has a point, but that doesn’t change the facts.
She doesn’t know the truth.
And I’m not sure I can be the one to tell her.
Blake sighs, some of the fight leaving her bones. “What are you afraid of, Walk?”
What am I afraid of?
The answer is simple yet complex.
Losing her.
I assume I’m silent long enough that Blake’s patience wears out as soon as I maneuver my truck into Santiago’s driveway.
“Right. Roger that, Sheriff. Loud and clear,” she snaps as she hops out of the cab.
On instinct, I reach for her, but she dodges my hand. “Blake—” Her name leaves my mouth too late.
With her hand on the door, she uses her other to scold me. “Let me know when you get your head out of your ass.”
Shutting the door, she stomps off into the house.
Blake slams the front door hard enough to rattle the windows.
Resting my head along the back of the bench, I tell myself repeatedly that I did the right thing.
Every instinct in my body tells me to go after her. Instead, I sit in my truck like a coward.
Of all the fuck ups in the world…
I can feel sorry for myself at any time. Someone is threatening Blake.
Scrolling through the contacts in my phone, my thumb hovers over a particular name. We grew up more like brothers than cousins, even though we only saw each other in the summer, and if there’s anyone I trust with this case besides Levi and Santiago, it’s him.
After I tap his name, the phone only rings once before he picks up. “Special Agent Roman Cassidy.”
Despite everything going on, the corner of my mouth still twitches upward. “Still making people call you that?”
“Only when I know it’s you,” he quips back, then his tone shifts. “What’s going on?”
Silence grips me for a heartbeat.
“Walk, who died?”
“It’s a case.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Sharp as a tack as always.
I exhale through my nose. “No one else. Not yet.”
Roman lets out his own quiet breath on the other end. “Okay. Start at the beginning, and don’t leave anything out.”
I spend the next several minutes taking him through the details of Derek Holt, Reverend Ricks, the crime scenes, the notes—everything we’ve uncovered up to this point.
Roman doesn’t utter a word until I’m done. He just listens.
“Have you figured out why the reverend was targeted?” he asks.
I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “Not yet. One of my deputies is tracking down a judge for warrants on his phone and bank records.”
“Good,” he commends.
The rapid clicking of keys echoes through the phone.
He’s taking notes, possibly doing his own research as well.
Of course he is.
“Your killer is organized,” Roman deduces after a moment. “Patient and purpose-driven.”
I lean farther into my headrest. “I gathered that.”
“Forget the fires,” he instructs, ignoring my sarcasm.
“What do you mean?”
“You were right. The fires are the cleanup. He’s using them to destroy evidence and control the narrative,” he explains.
My fingers tighten around my phone. I didn’t realize until now how much I needed that confirmation.
“If I had to bet,” Roman continues, “white male in his forties. Maybe fifties.”
I frown. “Why?”
“Confidence,” Roman answers without hesitation. “He’s comfortable enough to stage scenes, communicate with law enforcement, and he keeps escalating. That kind of thing usually comes with age.”
“What do you think about the psychopathy?” I question.
Roman hums in thought. “He doesn’t profile as a psychopath.”
His answer surprises me.
“He isn’t killing because he enjoys it,” Roman analyzes. “He’s killing because he believes he’s right.”
My stomach sinks.
Somehow that feels worse.
Much worse.
“There was a clue in the first victim’s mouth, but not the second, right?” Roman questions.
“Correct,” I confirm.
“Maybe the location of the body is the clue for the second victim,” he suggests.
I’ll get Tessa on that.
“One more thing,” Roman adds. “People lie.”
I wait.
“Evidence and behavior don’t. Find where your victims actually died. I don’t think the original crime scenes are where you found them.”
Digging through the glove compartment, I fish out an uncapped pen and an old receipt from Main Street Diner. I jot the note from Roman on the back of the thermal paper.
“We’ll start looking.” Dropping the paper and pen onto the bench seat, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “What I still don’t have is motive.”
Roman is quiet for a moment.
“You do.”
My brows furrow. “No—”
“You just don’t recognize it yet.”
“Thanks, Obi-Wan,” I retort.
“I’m more like Qui-Gon Jinn.”
I huff a single laugh. Roman’s attempt to lighten the mood works for a half second, but then that moment ends.
“Do you want me out there?” Roman proposes. “I can have this transferred if you want another set of eyes.”
His offer doesn’t surprise me.
What does is the part of me that almost says yes.
“No,” I respond. “You just got settled in San Francisco.”
Roman sighs. “Walk…”
“I’m serious,” I affirm.
“Me too,” he counters. “If this goes sideways, I don’t care what city I’m assigned to, I’ll be there.”
I stare through the windshield toward Santiago’s house.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Another beat of silence.
“Something else is bothering you, Walk.”
I scoff. “No.”
“You’ve been lying to people your whole career, Sheriff Maddox, and I hope you’re better at it with others than you were just now.”
I don’t respond. I don’t have to. He knows me too well.
“What it is…” his voice softens, “don’t carry it by yourself.”
“Thanks, Rome.”
“Call me when you find the connection,” Roman requests.
“If,” I correct.
“Not if. When.”
The call ends before I can respond.
All I can do is hope he’s right.
Because if I don’t find the motive, this guy is going to get away with murder.