Chapter Seven #2
I curl my fingers around my find. It’s evidence. I should place it in an evidence bag. That would be the right thing to do. This probably has plenty of DNA on it to run matches.
As if any matches would appear for an animal.
“Yeah, I’m coming. We need to dust every inch of this place for fingerprints. The killer doesn’t seem that organized. I bet prints are all over.” I slip the giant claw into my jacket pocket and hope it isn’t too noticeable.
“Oh, this place will get turned inside out. There’s evidence here. We just have to find it.”
My jacket pocket begins to burn from his words alone. The cop inside me is screaming to do the right thing. Another part of me is louder, convincing me to protect this claw with my life.
I’ve never ignored my instincts, and I’m not going to now. This claw is important to me. I have to figure out why.
The scenery before me has me gagging again. The taxidermist doesn’t even compare to the violence this crime scene holds. To the right, we have a young male, probably in his twenties, and he is staked through his entire body, the spear piercing his skull.
Then, my attention lands on the woman who looks as if she has been flattened.
“That’s her,” I sigh. “That’s Fireopal. She was one of the case files I brought home. I wanted to look into her more. I know there have been a few sites that have been hacked lately, and I wanted to know if it was possible that it was her.”
“I think you might know the killer, Detective.”
“There’s no way I know a monster like this, Waylon. I know I’m new, but that’s one hell of an accusation.”
Waylon steps to the side and points to the wall. “It isn’t an accusation.”
“What are you”—I’m silenced by the message written on the wall—“talking about.” The words fall flat.
“Lula-lala-la-la-laa,
Sweet dreams.”
It’s written in Fireopal’s blood, specks of her brain sticking against the wall.
The familiar chill that someone knows me well enough to break into my home, kill anyone in my case files, and leave me a message written in blood, has me pressing my thighs together.
I know it’s wrong that my panties are wet with need and there’s a throb in my clit, pulsating with every wild thump of my heart. I can’t help what the unknown mystery does to me. It’s out of my control.
“Are you okay?” Waylon questions, pulling me from my inappropriate thoughts.
The image of the monster I saw hovering over me in bed, wondering if my imagination would be able to conjure him again. Unless he is real, and he is the one causing all of this commotion.
“I’m fine. Rattled. No one has ever left me a message at a crime scene before. I don’t know anyone here, Waylon. Except for who I work with, I haven’t had time to make friends, especially friends with a murderer.”
“Maybe it’s someone from New York? You worked there for a while, right? Maybe you pissed off too many people that you arrested and sent to prison.”
I didn’t think of that. I should have. There have been a handful of threats over the years.
One guy promised that when he got out, he would cut my throat for ruining a sculpture he was making out of human bodies.
Another threatened to kill me by sinking me to the bottom of the ocean by tying cement blocks to my feet.
It was a mafia tactic, one of the biggest syndicates used to get rid of bodies.
My partner and I, at the time, arrested the secondhand man of the O’Byrne family.
It was a giant bust for me—in a good way.
That was the arrest that set me up to be a detective.
“You’re thinking about that a little too long,” Waylon says with a quirked eyebrow.
“Well, I have years of arrests to remember. There are a few, but they are still in prison, Waylon. They won’t be getting out for a very long time.”
“What if they didn’t? What if they are calling the shots from prison?”
“Maybe. I don’t know how they would know where I am.
I suppose anything is possible. Usually, there are other threats though.
Threats that are more personal. This isn’t personal.
Someone knows I took her file. That’s the only connection.
I wasn’t friends with Fireopal. She was on my list to open an investigation on. ”
“I want you to walk this off. Go to Demi’s,” Sheriff says from behind me.
I spin around, groaning when he has his arms crossed with a ‘don’t argue with me’ expression on his face.
“Come on, Sheriff. You can’t be serious? I’m fine. I don’t know this person.”
“That you know of,” he adds. “We have the crime scene. Your expertise is welcome at the station later when we are done here. If the killer knows you, we will need to dig into your past. Do you have anything that you need to tell me now? Ever since you got to town, there have been deaths. There’s a connection there we can’t ignore, and you know it.
I know you want to argue with me about it.
” He holds up his hand to stop me from speaking.
“But you know I’m right. Get out of here, Sanchez. I’ll call you if we need you.”
“This is bullshit, Sheriff. I’m the only detective in this town. You need me.”
“And we plan on using you. I’m asking that you separate yourself for a few hours. Think about everyone you’ve ever met in your life and come to the station with a list.”
I grit my teeth together, fury welling up inside me like the sea during a catastrophic storm. Holstering my firearm, and without saying another word, I leave.
“?Qué maricada!” I hiss to myself, stepping over the destruction of the door to walk outside.
Zig runs up to me, sweating from canvassing the neighborhood. “What’s fucking ridiculous?” he asks, bending over to place his hands on his thighs.
“Jake kicked me off the case for now since the killer left me a message.”
Zig straightens, brows raise, and he wipes the sweat from his forehead with his forearm. “Come on, Sanchez. You know that’s the right call. You would have made the same one if you were calling the shots and you know it.”
“That’s what is more frustrating. I know he is right, but I’m pissed, Zig.
I feel like this person is coming after me somehow, and I don’t know why.
It’s my fault all these murders are happening.
Ever since I came here, this department has been slammed with chaos.
Maybe…” I exhale at the thought, but it needs to be said.
“Maybe I need to go back to New York. They have more manpower to handle something like that. You, Waylon, Jenkins, even the Sheriff, you’re exhausted. ”
“We’re doing our jobs. We’re happy to have you here, and if someone is messing with you, taunting you, or if you’re their next target, we want to be the ones protecting you.
You are one of us now, Lula. You’re Cove Police Department family.
We won’t risk your life just because this happened.
We’ve had serial killers before. Hell, that’s the reason the old sheriff quit, and Jake took over.
Granted, they were never caught, so maybe it’s the same guy. ”
I slap his arm and walk away, deciding to use the stroll home to clear my head. “You’re sweet, Zig. You and I know that isn’t the case, but thanks for making me feel better.”
“Sure, no problem. If you need me, call me.”
I turn, giving a small, forced smile and half salute, half wave. A light mist of rain begins to fall, and the clouds churn a darker shade of grey, a storm brewing like it does every day.
I’m starting to wonder if I made the right choice transferring here. All I have brought is trouble.
I’ve seen these types of cases before. The endings are all the same.
I’m going to be this man’s last victim.
He’s going to kill me.