Chapter 9
My work phone startles me awake, and I gasp. There’s a nasty crick in my neck, and my back’s stiff as a board. Happens every time I accidentally fall asleep working at my desk, so I should’ve known better. But calls ran late last night, and I guess I was more exhausted than I realized.
It takes a second, but I eventually find my phone behind a bowl of baby carrots.
“Yes. Hello?”
“Hey, sorry to bug you, kiddo. We’ve got another one.”
It takes my tired mind a second to catch Seargent Mack’s voice, and another to realize he’s interrupting yet another night’s sleep to photograph a crime scene.
“On my fucking day off?” I grumble, realizing too late that I said out loud what I meant to only say in my head.
“Well, my apologies for disrupting your beauty rest, Princess, but none of us are exactly happy to be here. But you signed up for this, right? Right. So, get your ass down here. ASAP.”
He hangs up, then a moment later, I’m receiving an address via text. I drop the phone to the desk and give it both middle fingers as I snarl at the screen.
Asshole.
I lift my hand to my hair, only to realize I’m still wearing my work hat. Setting the gold, glittering contraption aside, I force myself out of the chair, feeling my bones and muscles protest with every movement. Regret doesn’t even begin to explain how I feel about falling asleep in such a wonky position, but I’m guaranteed to do it again at least once next month.
I wash my face, toss on a pair of jeans, then a blazer, thinking that should dress things up a bit. After gathering my hair into a bun, I head out, making the drive from my house to the other side of town half asleep.
The moment I step inside the residence where the latest victim’s been found, I spot Mack, Martinez, and Stevens discussing the case beside the staircase. And based on the dirty look Mack’s just aimed my way, I’m guessing he’s still a little pissed about my comment before our call ended.
Too bad. I’m too tired to give a shit.
A small sigh leaves me when I spot Martinez walking over, not understanding the smirk on his face. But then he points, and I follow his gaze down to my chest.
“Long night?” he teases, staring at the crystal ball on the t-shirt I forgot to change out of.
I button my blazer, choosing to ignore his question in favor of asking one of my own. “What details have you guys sorted out so far?”
He seems disappointed that I’m not laughing with him when he shrugs, then begins walking me toward the body.
“Well, we got the tip the same way we get all the others—an anonymous male caller we can safely assume to be our guy. The Cyber Crimes Division is working on getting us info on the caller’s location, but we all know they won’t come up with shit. Whoever this dickwad is, he’s always got his bases covered, always one step ahead.”
“Or… maybe he doesn’t work alone?”
Martinez shrugs. “Maybe, but either way, he keeps winning. Over and over again.”
We walk toward the body, and I’ve already got my camera strapped around my neck, ready to go. He steps back and lets me work, silently observing while I snap photo after photo of the victim, her surroundings.
I’m uncertain whether it’s significant that she’s the first woman who’s been targeted. Maybe, until now, it’s simply been more convenient to select men, and this is just a fluke, but it feels like a detail worth filing away for later.
For the first time ever, I’m finding it difficult to focus on the victim’s eyes. Hers are strikingly blue and eerie. I’ve become numb to the thousand-yard-stare of the deceased, but her gaze is… haunting.
I make quick work of photographing her, capturing the blood slathered in her dark hair, her slashed throat, the web carved into her torso. The camera flashes again when I capture an image of one of her hands. From the looks of it, two of her fingers are broken, as if they’ve been stepped on. It’s likely impossible to tell, but I’m almost willing to bet this happened after the kill, unintentionally.
A scene of the killer flashes in my head. I imagine him meaning to step around her body once he’s finished cutting, accidentally catching her fingers underneath the heel of his shoe. It’s all that makes sense from my limited expertise. It’s just that there’s never any sign of forced entry at the scenes, never much sign of struggle or self-defense.
So, why break her fingers and deviate from his usual M.O.?
The shutter clicks again, another flash, then I move on to observe her environment. My first stop is a tall, wooden bookcase in the corner near the sofa. There’s a photograph of the victim standing between a man and woman I assume are her parents. She shares features with both, so it feels like a safe bet. There are other photos—images of people she loves, a collage of those who will mourn this loss.
She’s a collector of random things, but the largest collection is an array of cat figurines that take up an entire shelf on their own. A thin layer of dust coats the surfaces, drawing my attention to a rectangular space that’s notably cleaner than the rest of the area. It could be that the victim recently moved something.
Or… it could mean The Widowmaker’s taken a trinket.
I snap the picture, and then a few others before moving back to the body. Stooping beside her, I capture the web carved into her torso, but something’s… strange. I squint my eyes, tilting my head, then snap another pic before calling Detective Stevens over.
“What’s up?”
I point at the artwork before answering. “Am I losing it, or does the web look like it’s in the shape of a heart this time?”
Stevens frowns, then does the same squinty-eyed head tilt I’d just done. “Shit. You’re right. Looks like this sicko might be getting sentimental on us.”
Shaking his head, he walks off, but I’m not nearly as dismissive. There are too many deviations tonight. From the broken fingers, to the victim being female, and now this. There’s a definite message here, and I might be the only one with the intuition to notice.
But that’s when I spot it. The piece that might just make this all fit together, might just bring to light why tonight’s kill feels different.
I stand to full height again, nearly forgetting where I am, nearly disturbing the crime scene to reach for the woman’s keys. But at the last second, I stop myself, leaning in instead for a closer look at something attached to her keychain.
It’s a swipe card.
For an employee at the local public library.
“Shit.” The whispered word leaves my mouth as I stagger back, finally getting the full scope of what first looked like random details, that now seem like more.
That now seem like a… message.
One meant specifically for me.
My eyes flit toward the woman, taking note of her dark hair, blue eyes, and the fact that she appears to be taller than average. It all feels so familiar. Then again, it should.
Because, although I didn’t realize it at the time… I’m the one who marked her.
My feet are moving swiftly, backing me away from the victim as her eyes seem to be fixed right on mine. Like she knows what I’ve done.
A loud gasp leaves me when I slam into a body, and a set of hands catch me around my waist.
“Whoa, hey, you okay?”
I glance over my shoulder at Martinez, answering his question with a nod. But I’m still in a daze as the puzzle comes into full view.
“I—yeah. I’m actually done, though, so I’m gonna take off.” My hands shake as I remove my camera from around my neck and place it back in my bag.
I’m frantic enough that I’ve earned the curious look currently set on Martinez’s face. “You’re sure? You seem, I don’t know, spooked.”
Spooked.
That’s a good fucking word for it.
“All good,” I lie. “I’m gonna head out. Promise I’ll have the pics uploaded to the database first thing tomorrow morning.”
I don’t rush off because that would only raise more red flags, so my feet don’t move again until he relaxes a bit.
“Be careful,” he says with a dim smile.
“Will do.” I nod again, and then take off toward my car, fumbling with the keys. Every couple seconds, I glance over my shoulder before climbing behind the wheel. Even then, I check the backseat to make sure I’m alone.
More than ever, I’m certain I’m being watched, adding to the sense of reality not quite being, well, real these days.
I turn the key in the ignition, and as I glance back toward the victim’s house, I’ve got a million questions. But the first?
What the hell have I done?
* * *
Pacing the floor of my apartment, I’m convinced my heart has never raced so fast. I can’t stop thinking about that scene, what it all means.
My thoughts slip back to the smooth, melodic voice of the caller a few nights ago, how he fooled me with his charm and conversation. All the while, I was entertaining a monster, playing right into his hand.
My steps pause, and I grip my hair, asking the million-dollar question—how does he know so much about me?
Where I work—both jobs?
How to contact me?
It all just feels way too close.
My eyes flit toward the door, and my father’s words echo inside my head, reminding me to lock up. I’m there the next second, clicking the deadbolt into place. With trembling fingers, I reach for my phone, then shoot my supervisor for the hotline an email. Mostly, I’m wanting to know if we have a way to trace a call, or what the procedure is to look into a caller’s identity. They use credit cards to pay for the service, so there has to be a paper trail.
I’m only hopeful for a moment, but swiftly recall the words of my colleagues. On the many, many occasions we’ve discussed how The Widowmaker is likely calling in his own kills. We’ve suspected that he’s got some sort of network in place, protecting him, making him untraceable.
Untouchable.
I lower the phone and defeat sets in, but I decide to send the email anyway before dropping down onto the edge of my bed. I’ve accepted that I won’t likely hear back until tomorrow, but then a notification chimes, igniting hope that I might just make some headway with this today.
My brow furrows when I realize there isn’t a new email. However, there is a new chat message.
Unknown: Did you enjoy your gift? It was customized just for you.
I stand from my bed, suddenly feeling faint as I stare at the message, realizing that I’d been wrong before. This is the fastest my heart’s ever raced.
I glance toward my door again, confirming that it is, in fact, locked. Then, I’m at my desk, booting up my computer, immediately logging into my email to pull up the chat.
Layla: Who is this?
Unknown: Have you already forgotten our chat the other night?
Suddenly sweating, I slip both arms out of my blazer before responding.
Layla: How are you contacting me? This is a private account.
Unknown: I have my ways. But you didn’t answer my question.
I type out a flippant response, but it only takes a second to realize this is a golden opportunity. One in which I might be able to dig out of his brain why, out of everyone linked to his case, he seems to be fixated on me.
Layla: What question?
Unknown: Did you enjoy my gift? You ordered a librarian. I delivered. Excellent choice, by the way.
Despite these words being on my computer screen, right there in black and white, I hear his voice—deep and silken. I close my eyes to rid my thoughts of it.
Layla: You’re toeing a fine line, aren’t you? I’m assuming you know I work with the police department. I could easily have you hauled off to spend the rest of your life behind bars. Is that what you want?
Okay, so the thin thread of tolerance I managed to weave into this conversation has clearly snapped.
Unknown: You’d never let that happen.
The response is jarring, and I narrow my eyes at the screen, surprised by his arrogance.
Layla: Proverbs 16:18
The dots begin to bounce, indicating that he’s already typing.
Unknown: Oooh, a church girl. Does this mean you’ll pray for my damned soul?
I squirm in my seat when his comment brings a memory to mind. One where my father ripped me from the public school system only to shove me into the most intense, expensive Catholic school he could find. All with hopes that they could fix all that’s broken inside me,I’m guessing.
But thousands of dollars spent on tuition later… I’m not so sure it helped.
Layla: In case you don’t own a bible, that scripture reads: “Pride cometh before the fall.”
Unknown: And I believe the Good Book also states that, “My power is made perfect in weakness.”
Layla: Problem is that verse references God, and you’re not Him.
Unknown: All depends on who you ask.
I hear his voice again, imagining what the man who’s just spoken might look like. I’ve already gathered that he’s tall—six-foot-four, to be exact—based on our chat. But his confidence suggests that he’s likely handsome, someone who’s literally gotten away with murder, perhaps due in part to his good looks giving him the appearance of being a non-threat.
I quickly shake the thought of him being attractive from my head, realizing that I’ve already given him too much of my time, entertained him too long.
Layla: Why don’t you tell me where you are? I’ll pay you a visit, and we can have this conversation face-to-face?
I know he’s too smart to take any sort of bait I might offer, but my moral compass will have it no other way. I have to at least try.
Unknown: Tempting, but I’ve got plans today. Plans that don’t involve you showing up on my doorstep with the entire SWAT team behind you.
Layla: It’d be remiss of me not to try reasoning with you. It’s clear you don’t exactly value human life, so there’s no point making a case for your future victims. But maybe you’ll stop what you’re doing to save yourself? Because you do know you’ll get caught if you keep this up, don’t you?
Unknown: Careful. You almost sound concerned for me.
I shake off his implication, ignoring the comment altogether.
Layla: You’ll end up in prison. Or worse.
Unknown: I suppose that’s up to your God, now isn’t it?
Layla: Matthew 26:52. “For they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.”
Unknown: Unfortunately, there’s a flaw in your logic. That is, if you’re referencing this scripture with hopes of appealing to my rational side.
Layla: A flaw?
Unknown: Yes. I’m not afraid of death.
Layla: Why? Because you’ve made it your profession?
Unknown: Profession. Passion. My fucking love language.
A chill races down my spine as his voice stampedes into my head. Loud and clear as though he’s standing right in this room, the warmth of his lips pressed to my ear. Startled, I lean away from my keyboard, the vibration of my heart beating against my palm when I place it over my chest.
Unknown: Take care of yourself, Madam Divina. You’ll hear from me again soon.