Chapter 26 Emilio
TWENTY-SIX
EMILIO
The scene within the house is chaotic. Ceramic shards crunch under my boots, littering both the living room and the bathroom floor.
Coffee has puddled and dried tacky across the hardwood.
Blood drags through the hallway in broken streaks and handprints, a morbid map of whatever hell this poor girl went through.
In the bathroom, a bottle of mouthwash has spilled across the tile, blue liquid mixing with dark pools of blood until it runs in thin ribbons into the grout.
The air is suffocatingly thick with a mix of the metallic stench of blood and mint.
The bathroom looks like a slaughterhouse.
Blood is everywhere—on the floor, speckled up the vanity, cast across the shower tile.
The pattern pulls the eye to the tub, to where she took her last breath.
She’s half in, half out—left leg hanging over the rim, while the rest of her is tangled in the shower curtain that came down with her.
In her right hand, caught tight between stiff fingers, is a white vinyl mask smeared with dried blood.
She most likely yanked it off during a struggle.
But why didn’t he grab it? Is there a reason he left it?
My brows furrow as I take in the rest of the bathroom.
But what stops me cold isn’t the body, the blood, or the mask…
It’s the message written on the wall.
The letters are still wet when I read them.
Eleven words—each one a slick, brutal cut—and they land in my gut like punches.
For a second, the room tilts and my hands go numb.
Those eleven little knives written in blood, wake something old and violent inside me.
The same blind fury I carried as a kid when my father beat my mother, then turned on me, is nearly the exact same rage I’m feeling reading these eleven fucking words smeared across the wall, and it makes my vision narrow to that smear of red and nothing else.
CSU threads around me, moving with careful choreography.
Cameras pop every few seconds as they photograph every piece of evidence.
I barely register when one ushers me out of the bathroom so they can collect the rest of the puzzle pieces that could hopefully help us catch the fucker that did this, starting with whatever they can hopefully get from the mask.
After swabbing the mask, they move to her fingernails.
They swab the nail beds and scrape under them.
Every scrap is handled, every droplet photographed, labeled, sealed.
They put numbers next to footprints, measure the smear patterns, and photograph the angle of the wounds.
After several minutes, a black bag is brought in and laid out across the floor.
My fists tighten as I watch them lift the girl out of the tub.
The shower curtain—tacky with blood where it clings to her skin—peels away as they wrestle the plastic from her.
The curtain comes off in one sticky sheet and is folded, catalogued, and bagged like everything else.
Everything necessary and valuable is tucked away for safekeeping—except for the message on the wall.
That still sits there, drying into the seams of the tile.
He’s full on taunting me now. Taunting her. This message only confirms my suspicion. A psychopath is after Raelynn, and it’s only a matter of time before he decides he’s psychologically tortured her enough, broken her down enough, that he finally moves in for the kill.
But the thought of him touching her, of her being next, makes something dark and violent rise in me.
My nails dig into my palms until I feel the sharp sting of skin breaking as anger surges through me.
My fists clench tighter, blood rushing hot behind my eyes as they zip the bag closed, sealing up another person within Raelynn’s circle.
The second the team wheels the body past, I turn on my heel and push through the doorway, the hinges rattling behind me.
The night air does absolutely nothing to cool the fire in me.
I pace, breathing hard, trying to keep myself grounded, but every breath only fans the flames higher.
I slam my fist into the stucco wall beside the door.
The crack of impact echoes across the yard.
Pain flashes up my arm, followed by the sting of torn skin, and I welcome it.
Blood wells up through my knuckles, running down to my wrist.
Kline’s voice drifts over the yard. He’s standing a few feet from the porch with the roommate who found the body.
The poor girl looks traumatized. Her McDonald’s uniform is rumpled, the name tag hanging sideways.
Tangled strands of strawberry blonde hair stick out of her bun.
Mascara runs down her freckled cheeks in messy black streaks, and her hands—stained red—are shaking so hard she can barely hold onto her phone.
There’s blood smeared across the front of her uniform from when she tried to help but then realized too late that her roommate was long gone before she got there.
Her swollen red eyes fix on me, then to the blood dripping from my knuckles, before dropping away, lip trembling. Kline angles himself to block her view of the door and whatever she might see behind me.
He murmurs, something comforting or reassuring, is my guess, and gives her bicep a gentle squeeze before glancing towards me. “Give me one minute,” he tells her softly. “I’ll be right back.” When she nods faintly, he gives her a small smile before stepping away.
He turns toward me and climbs the porch steps. His eyes sweep over me once, lingering on the blood spattering between my boots. My hand is already swelling, the skin split wide open, and my knuckles raw. The adrenaline in my veins has my heart pounding so hard I can hear it.
“Emilio,” he says—my name carrying both a warning and a question.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, even though I can’t bring myself to unclench my fists. He gives me a stern look, definitely not buying my lie. I am practically vibrating with unspent rage.
“You’re not fine. What is it?” he presses.
I drag my uninjured hand through my hair, the motion jerky. My breath shakes as I try to steady it. “He left another note,” I say finally, voice low, rough. “This time addressed to Rae.”
Kline’s face hardens. “What did it say? I’ve kind of been occupied out here since arriving on scene.”
“He’s taunting us,” I answer, jaw tight. “Said I won’t be able to save her. No one will, and that she’s his.”
“Fuck.” The word comes out on a breath, his jaw locking as he looks past me toward the house. “They’re going to want to talk to her,” he says after a beat. “You know that, right?”
“I know,” I mutter. I don’t want that for her. She’s been through enough. But now that she is being personally named, they’re going to want to wring every ounce of information out of her to understand why people she knows are dying and why she is being hunted.
He sighs and rests his hand on my shoulder. I know it’s meant to be comforting, but my muscles tense instead.
“Go,” he says, voice steady but soft. “I’ll handle shit with the detective. You need to be with her, make sure she’s safe and not alone. I’ll tell them she’ll come in tomorrow to give her statement. That’ll buy you some time.” He gives my shoulder a firm squeeze before pulling back.
I nod once. “Thanks.”
Kline’s mouth lifts in a half-smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You owe me, amigo,” he teases quietly. “Now get that hand wrapped and go see your girl.”
A dry laugh escapes me, more breath than sound.
I glance down at my hand. The skin is already swollen, streaked with blood that keeps dripping in steady drops to the porch.
I flex my fingers, wincing when the skin pulls, but the pain helps clear my head.
I honestly wasn’t expecting Kline to take over for me.
But I sure as fuck was appreciative of it.
Out by the curb, the block is painted in red and blue light.
Patrol units idle at both ends of the street to hold the perimeter, engines rumbling low.
Lights pulse over the dark windows of nearby houses.
A few neighbors stand behind the yellow tape, faces pale and drawn, whispering to each other.
Some record with their phones, screens glowing ghostly against their faces.
A news van creeps around the corner, slowing as it approaches the scene like a vulture spotting prey, their logo gleaming in the wash of headlights.
I ignore it all and start toward my cruiser.
Gravel crunches under my boots, every step pulling me farther from the house.
The message on the wall burns behind my eyes, refusing to fade.
I don’t care what this fucker thinks will happen.
I will not let him have her. I can save her.
I will be by her side, making sure she is safe, because it does not matter if the door is locked, if the city puts on a curfew, or you’re in public, he has proven nothing will fucking stop him.
Safety is a fucking illusion to a serial killer. Where there is a will, there is a way.
And he seems to always find a fucking way. I’m done with it. I’m done with this fucker.
I’ll stand at her side. I’ll break rules, burn bridges, risk my badge, whatever it fucking takes.
If it costs me everything to keep her safe, then so be it.
Let him come, let him test me. He’s picked the wrong woman to haunt and the wrong man to bait.
This bastard is playing a game he doesn’t understand.
A game I will make sure he fucking loses.
I swear to God, on my fucking life, he will not get her. Not while I’m still breathing.