Chapter Thirty-One
“These are priceless, but you already know that,” Casey said, placing another letter on the growing stack.
“I knew you’d appreciate their historical significance,” Devin said, bringing the mug to his lips.
“I can’t wait to incorporate them into my article. I don’t know how I can ever thank you for all your help.”
“Being here with you now is thanks enough.” He rose to his feet. “I brought something for you.”
Casey laughed. “What other historical gemstones do you have for me?”
“Nothing historical, but something I hope you’ll enjoy.” Devin smiled.
He walked to the hall closet, pulled a paper bag from the pocket of his coat, and handed it to Casey before sitting back down on the couch.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Open it.”
She peeked inside the bag and stared.
“You brought me a donut?” she asked.
“Not just a donut,” Devin said, a smile tugging at his lips. “A Bismarck. Do you like them?”
Casey shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never had one. What are they?”
“Never had one?” Devin’s eyes widened. “They’re perfectly delicious jam-filled treasures sprinkled with sugar. The sugar coats your fingers as you make your way toward the molten heart of the masterpiece—deep indigo blueberry jam.”
Casey smiled. “I’m guessing Bismarcks are your favorite sweet.”
“Yes. I like ruby-red raspberry jam too, but the blueberry is my favorite. Do you like blueberry jam?”
“Uh… sure, it’s good. I’m not much of a jam person, but I love blueberries on my oatmeal or yogurt.”
“Let’s split this one. I wanted to buy two but the bakery only had one left.”
“The bakery was opened? I’m surprised it didn’t close early with the storm and all.”
For a split second, something flickered across Devin’s face, then it was gone so quickly she wondered if she’d imagined it.
“Maybe we could have another cup of tea and the Bismarck. Would you like that?”
“Sure. Do you want the Moroccan mint again?” Casey asked as she headed toward the kitchen.
“I’ll have the vanilla chai. I think that flavor will complement the blueberry filling instead of competing with it like the mint would. What do you think?”
“Yeah. That makes sense.”
Casey plugged in the kettle and took two plates from the cupboard. She sliced the pastry in half. Why is he excited about this soggy donut? His enthusiasm struck her as odd, but she’d always thought Devin was a little quirky.
“Here you go,” she said, setting the plate and steaming cup of tea on the table.
Devin picked up his half and took a big bite. He licked the dusting of sugar from his fingers before devouring the rest of the donut. His gaze drifted down to her half-eaten Bismarck. “Aren’t you going to try it at least? I did bring it for you, Casey.”
“Of course I am,” she said, bringing the donut to her lips.
“They’re best fresh out of the oven, but this one is still very good. I bought it at Elsa’s Bakery. Have you been there? It’s one of the best in town.” He licked at his fingers again.
“The one on Cedar Street, right?”
Devin nodded.
“No. I’ve passed by it many times, but haven’t been inside yet.”
“It’s too bad you’ve missed it.”
“I can always drop in sometime.”
Casey smiled.
Devin stared.
“The Bismarck was good. Thanks for sharing it with me,” she said as she rose to her feet.
She picked up his empty plate and padded to the kitchen. He kept going on about the different fillings the bakery carried as she placed the dishes in the dishwasher.
“And you did love it, right?”
“What?” Casey glanced over her shoulder.
“The Bismarck. You loved it.”
“Oh, sure. It was good.” If you like soggy grease.
“That’s perfect.”
Casey watched the snow falling outside the kitchen window. “It doesn’t look like the snow is slowing down. You better get going before the streets are impassable. I still have a lot of work to do. I’ll return the original letters in a few days. Is that okay?”
“You know, history is the thread that binds us,” Devin replied.
Casey stepped back into the living room and stopped beside the couch. “It is,” she said.
“That’s why I knew you would appreciate not just the stories but the illustrations about the early twentieth murders,” he said mildly. “Especially the unsolved stranglings in 1903. The thing people always miss is that they weren’t about control. They were about preservation.”
The moment stretched, thin and brittle. Devin kept talking about the ligature-mark illustrations of the victims, but Casey barely heard him.
The book. He told me he hadn’t put it on my desk.
That he never heard of it. A slow, sick burn spread through her chest. Devin hadn’t just lied to her.
He’d orchestrated what she saw, what she read, what she thought about when she was alone.
Her pulse thudded in her ears as the truth settled. He wanted me to find it.
Devin tilted his head, his eyes locked onto hers. “You went quiet.”
“I was just listening,” she murmured.
He rose to his feet. “When reading the narrative, you probably noticed how calm the killer seemed afterward,” he said, a small smile playing at his lips. “That part always sticks with people.”
Casey chewed the inside of her cheek. “Yeah, I did. Do you want another cup of tea?”
“You remind me of her sometimes.” His gaze drifted away.
“Who?”
“My sister.”
His sister? He told me he was an only child. Casey tightened her grip on the couch.
“She was perfect,” he said quietly. “Mother made sure I knew it. She read her stories, made her special treats, sang to her.”
His eyes lifted to hers. “She never did any of that for me.”
Casey glanced toward the desk across the room. She needed to get closer.
“Mother called Sarah her little princess,” he continued. “She said she had a light about her. Everyone agreed… even me.”
Casey nodded, calculating the distance to the revolver.
“She loved blueberry Bismarcks.” A wistful smile touched his lips. “Mother would bring them home, and Sarah would always share one with me. She also loved it when I made shadow puppets on the walls. She’d always laugh.”
Again, Casey nodded. She took another step. Then another.
Devin sighed. “I tried to protect her. Mother kept pulling her away from me. Like I was dangerous.”
He bent down and picked up the twine from the box. “I loved her first,” he went on, his voice losing its usual warmth, the words tumbling faster now. “Before Mother decided she needed all of her. Before she started locking doors. Before she started whispering that I was… wrong.”
He pulled the twine until it snapped taut between his fingers.
The rough fiber bit so deeply into his skin that his knuckles turned white, but he didn’t even flinch.
“I kept telling Mother she was hurting her by keeping her away from me.” His laugh came out thin and cracked. “But Mother never listened.”
His eyes met Casey’s. “So I quieted her.”
Silence swallowed the room. Realization crashed through Casey: the Christmas decorations, the upcoming gardening plans he said his mother had, the dinners he’d talked about. His mother has been dead the whole time.
“And your sister?” she whispered.
Devin smiled. “I just wanted her to stay.” His eyes locked onto hers. “My dark-haired princess. I kept her with me. Safe. Untouched. Forever.” His expression hardened. “That’s love, Casey. That’s what you do when someone belongs to you.”
Casey’s gaze kept darting from his face to his eyes to his movement as he slowly headed toward her.
“Your biker doesn’t know what real love is. He just knows lust.” Devin stopped in his tracks. “He made it difficult for me to come to you by having that ruffian watching you. Then he started spending every night with you. But I didn’t let that deter me, just like I never let Mother stop me.”
“Your sister was lucky to have you,” Casey croaked, the back of her throat bone-dry.
“I didn’t fail her,” he said softly. “I won’t fail you either.”
“You haven’t,” Casey whispered.
His friendly face vanished, replaced by a cold, steely glare as he quickly pulled out a pair of nitrile gloves from his pocket.
Casey moved on instinct. No thought. No fear. Just motion.
Devin lunged across the floor toward her, his hands outstretched.
She pushed back the panic, focusing on the desk drawer.
One of his hands gripped her shoulder and swung her around, her spine slamming into the edge of her desk.
She brought her knee up, driving it straight into his crotch.
A deep groan bought her a heartbeat of time.
She yanked the drawer open, her fingers locking around the cold grip of her gun.
“Don’t fight it, princess. It won’t hurt,” Devin said, his voice dripping ice.
She whipped the barrel up just as he reached her.
“No!” he roared. “You’re my favorite princess of them all.”
He grabbed her hair.
She pulled the trigger.
The sound was deafening in the enclosed space, leaving a sharp ring in her ears.
Devin jerked, a strangled grunt sound knocked out of him.
His feet tangled as he stumbled back, shock splintering his face.
He looked down, then up at her, mouth opening like he couldn’t understand what had just happened.
A dark stain began to spread on his shirt.
For a second, time seemed to freeze. Then he took a heavy step toward her. “You don’t understand, Casey. I picked you. I—”
Her finger squeezed the trigger a second time. The shot struck his thigh with a sickening smack. His leg folded beneath him, and he crumbled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, the rope slipping from his fingers.
Smoke curled from the barrel. Casey didn’t scream. She didn’t drop the gun. Her arms stayed locked, wrists steady, exactly the way she’d been taught. Her heart slammed so hard it felt like it might split her open, but she didn’t move, didn’t lower the revolver, or look away.
“Don’t,” she said, her voice shaking but fierce. “Don’t move.”
Devin’s eyes slid to her, fever-bright. Not angry. Hurt. Like she’d disappointed him.