Chapter 14
GRAYSON
“What do we have?” I ask the deputy as I pull on my gloves.
“Another one, Detective. Decapitated head. Body in the recycling pile several feet away.”
I close my eyes. It’s been over a week with no movement.
I hate to say that we’ve been waiting for the killer to strike again, but we’ve had zero progress.
Shivering in the icy morning, I move through the recycling plant near Bunker Hill.
It’d figure we’re over the river this time, though it does say something.
The killer hasn’t left a body over here. Now that’s changed.
I duck under the crime scene tape. It’s jarring, being back at work after a couple of days checked out.
Aoife and I spent the whole weekend locked away in her condo.
We played games, she made an excessive amount of chicken nuggets, we ordered dessert from the downstairs restaurant—more than three times—and shared moments I never thought I’d have.
I left yesterday morning reluctant and hesitant to let her out of my sight.
I’m not sure what will happen going forward; I was too ashamed to ask.
I’ve struggled with my opinion of the mob way longer than I’ve known Aoife.
I’m not a stranger to pushing back against the system, so I’m not sure why I’m so bothered by their presence when the chief isn’t.
As Aoife told me stories of her family: going to the aquarium to visit the penguins, making waffles with all the toppings, and boxing lessons in the ring.
I realized why it bothers me. Why do these questionable organizations seem to have the strongest familial ties?
Yet, my family, considered your cliché wealthier family, doesn’t have these genuine moments.
I sigh, moving through the scene. The coroner’s arrived, so while they off-load their supplies, I approach the body.
It’s tossed outside the bays, piled high with aluminum, glass, plastics, paper—all pushed into mountainous scrap hills.
Two legs hide behind another dumpster, but the black pants and shirt, on what appears to be a male, stand out on the snow-dusted ground.
He’s muscular, the leather jacket eerily familiar.
I crouch down, inspecting the jagged cut.
Similar to the others. I glance at the fingernails—not too many defensive wounds.
A man of his size would put up a fight, wouldn’t he? All the victims would.
As the coroner approaches, I pull away.
“Detective,” one of the deputies says. “Head is this way.”
Reed squats over it, staring. I only make it partway there before the face reveals itself and nausea creeps up into my throat. Reed mutters “the Irish” as Ronan’s face, left cheek plastered in the snow, comes into full focus.
“Hell,” I say, moving faster and kneeling beside him. “Ronan …”
“You know him?” Reed asks.
“Not really. One of Aoife’s men.”
He snickers. “You mean used to be one of Aoife’s men.”
I side-eye him, standing. “I need to call her.”
“Not the best leader if she’s not keeping tabs on her men. His body’s been here awhile.”
My brow furrows as I rip my phone from my coat pocket. “The coroner just got here. We don’t know how long he’s been here.”
Reed shrugs. “I’m just saying. You’re awfully cozy with the Irish, Grayson. I’d think twice before letting her warm your bed.”
I ignore him and press Aoife’s contact information in my phone. I don’t need to think twice. I’ve thought through it ten times twice. While my mind riots at the idea of loving her, my heart is defiant. Which makes this phone call all the more painful.
“Hey, you!” Aoife answers, happy. It makes my stomach clench.
“Hey, I’m going to need you to come down to the recycling place at the Bunker Hill Industrial Park. I’m really sorry.”
She hesitates. “Why?”
“It’s Ronan …” I wince. How can I tell her?
“What do you mean?”
I wrestle in my silence for the right words.
“Grayson? Where’s Ronan?”
Even though I clear my throat, it still cracks. “He’s dead. Shit. I’m sorry.”
“I’ll be there in twelve minutes.”
The click as she hangs up is unsettling.
I’m not sure I expected a full-fledged breakdown, but I anticipated shock, anger, tears—her voice was cold, detached.
It takes several seconds for me to put my phone away and carry on with my job.
I do so until I hear the rumble of her Ducati exactly twelve minutes later.
Aoife rolls in, undeterred by the crime scene tape crisscrossing between dumpsters and bulldozers.
She steps off her bike, releasing her head from the helmet.
Her hair flutters around her face before falling onto her thick leather jacket.
The high collar frames her grave expression, and it’s impossible to dismiss.
She avoids eye contact with one of the deputies, almost sneering as he tries to stop her.
Crossing her arms, she searches the crowd of officers and police personnel until her gaze slams into Ronan’s body.
Her steps falter midstride, and she grinds to a halt.
Gaze focused on his body and his body alone, her chest rises and falls faster and faster until her feet move again, quicker this time.
She reaches the outskirts of where the body has been sectioned off with more tape and tiny white flags and chews the inside of her lip.
She fidgets but doesn’t avert her eyes from his body.
I wish I knew what she was thinking, what was occupying her thoughts. Selfishly, I want her to find comfort with me, or wish she’d turn around and allow me to look at her, actually look at her.
Aoife sways, and when she tries to ask the coroner something, a deputy finally shuts her down. When she stumbles back, I move toward her.
Icy snow crunches beneath my feet, and I struggle to maintain a natural pace as I approach her. “Aoife,” I breathe out. The bubbly personality I got to experience this weekend is now akin to my own somber torment.
Her brows pinch further when she turns to look at me. “Where’s his head?”
“You don’t need to see that.”
“I want to.” She shoulders past me, knocking my arm as she approaches Reed, who stands closest to it.
Reed blocks her view.
“Get out of my way,” she spits.
He glowers at her. “Lucky for me, I don’t answer to you. You have no authority here.”
“Get. Out. Of. My. Way.” She tries again, but before she can threaten Reed any further, the chief’s black SUV rolls to a stop at the edge of the cordoned-off lot. Several officers straighten.
He steps out, all heavy muscle and authority.
Broad shoulders taper into a thick torso, and I can’t help but wonder what his workout routine is like.
He’s covered in his dark overcoat, cap pulled low and shielding the scar across his left eye.
I don’t deal with him often, and when I do, it’s impossible to pretend to focus on anything but that scar.
It’s long, slashing from the top of his eyebrow diagonally across his lid and over his cheekbone where it fades into the hollow of his face.
Whatever happened to him, which I haven’t had the balls to ask, left his eye clouded over.
The iris is an opaque milky gray that doesn’t focus.
Everyone says that when he gives press conferences, his haunting stare into the camera reaches them through their screens.
I can’t help the tinge of unease that jumps on me as he limbers toward us. It’s rare for the chief to see a crime scene personally. Granted, this serial killer has garnered a pretty big name for himself in the past few weeks. Still, our sergeant, captain—I’d expect visits from them, not the chief.
His boots plow across the asphalt, and with the recycling plant shut down and the leering, questioning stares silencing the uniformed officers, it’s quiet. Well, until Reed offers a snigger to disrupt it all.
Aoife glares at him.
Chief Anderson stops in front of Aoife, Reed, and me. His blond hair is combed back, his good eye a rich terra-cotta color that seems unnatural. Neck veins pulse, but he crooks his head toward us, not taking his eyes off Aoife while he adjusts his black leather gloves over his hands.
She doesn’t blink at his scar.
Huh.
“Chief Anderson, I was just instructing Miss O’Donnell that her presence here isn’t required.” Reed touts his words in a formality he reserves for the upper hierarchy of the force, but I gotta hand it to him, he doesn’t even stutter.
“I’m not going anywhere. I want to verify it’s him.” Her eyes soften. “I need to know it’s Ronan.”
“Ronan?” Chief asks, and I snap my gaze to him. Why does he repeat that name so casually?
Reed notices too and shuffles on his feet.
Chief Anderson nods, and Aoife sidesteps Reed, rushing toward Ronan’s … well, Ronan. She stares at him, pinching her face into a grimace before it caves into a painful expression that she covers with her hands.
Her shoulders shake as she leans over.
I’m helpless, driven to her, but as I go to move, Reed slaps an arm over my chest. He stares with a distasteful smile at her, and something ignites in me.
Was this me? Relishing the death of those I felt went against the grain of traditional society.
Hell—who does that? It doesn’t matter that Aoife’s mob or that Ronan was, too.
One human lost his life, and another human has ruined all my good intentions.
Suddenly, she stands and swipes at her cold, runny nose.
Her gaze squints, her focus narrowing on Chief Anderson.
In three long strides, she closes the distance, boots ripping through the mind-grating crunch of ice.
While advancing, her hand slides behind her back, and in one fluid motion, before anyone can react, she tears her gun free from its holster.