Chapter Sixteen Grayson
Chapter Sixteen
Grayson
The rain started again in the middle of the night and hadn’t stopped. It fell in sheets that blurred the streets, muting the outside world so it was like I swam underwater.
I stood at the window and watched the weather. When the silence got to be too much, I left, driving around while the rest of the town still slept.
The wipers beat their steady rhythm. Swish-swosh. Swish-swosh. The sun was barely rising, and the roads were empty except for the occasional truck lumbering past. It was the type of weather that made everything feel unreal.
The building Schafer worked out of was a nondescript rental unit on the outskirts, far enough from Sweetwater Lake that no one in town would stumble across it by accident.
It wasn’t in the heart of Sweetwater itself—that would’ve been suicide in a sleepy place like this, where everyone noticed a new face or an unfamiliar car lingering too long.
But Schafer insisted on being close enough to monitor things firsthand. He wasn’t the type for remote work, not with his paranoia about digital trails and hacked signals.
“Eyes on the ground,” he’d grunt whenever I suggested setting him up in some anonymous server farm out of state.
“Can’t trust the wires.” So here we were, in this gray, blocky, windowless eyesore.
This place was more like a forgotten storage locker than an office, one that leaked almost no light and drew zero attention from the occasional passing trucker or farmer.
It didn’t matter how many times I drove out here; it always felt like walking into a tomb.
A fitting place for someone who also used the establishment to break the law.
Inside, the air was dry and smelled stale, and the faint buzzing from the fluorescent lights was like a gnat in your ear.
The linoleum was stained and yellowing, and my boots echoed as I made my way down the hallway toward Schafer’s rented office.
I didn’t bother knocking, just opened the door and went in.
He sat behind a scarred desk, his fingers rolling over the keyboard, the light from the computer screen illuminating his face.
It looked like he hadn’t slept in days, with his hair a wild fucking mess, dark circles under his eyes, and the stench of coffee and cigarette smoke filling the interior of the closet-size room.
But even if he looked like shit, I knew he was sharp as fuck.
“You’re late.” His voice was clipped as he kept his focus on the screen.
“Traffic,” I said without emotion and shut the door behind me.
“Sounds like a load of excuses.” He tossed a file onto his desk and gestured toward the chair across from him. “Sit.”
Normally I wouldn’t take shit from anyone, but Schafer was always like this, so I didn’t take it personally. The chair squeaked under me as I took a seat and leaned back, stretching my legs out.
For a moment he just stared at me, drumming his fingers against the manila folder, as if wondering where to start.
“Just spit it out,” I said in a monotone voice.
Finally, he flipped the folder open. Photographs slid across the desk toward me. I stared down at the black-and-white crime scene photos. I’d seen plenty of these images, some even more gruesome. They did nothing to me. There was no disgust. No empathy or emotions. They just . . . were.
“Another body,” Schafer said. “Same staging. Same mutilations.”
I kept my expression neutral. I already knew another body had been found. I’d been working with the FBI on it all week, and that was one reason I’d been pulled away from Violet. The fourth murder hadn’t made the news, and I hadn’t told her yet.
Even though I had feelings for her, ones that were fucking with my head, I had to remember she was part of this. I knew she had firsthand knowledge of what the fuck was going on. I just needed her to trust me enough to tell me everything.
The body had been positioned like the others. The chest cavity had been cut open, the heart removed, and the same markings carved into her flesh.
I forced myself to pick up one photo. A woman, early thirties maybe. Eyes vacant, mouth parted, chest splayed wide like an unwrapped gift. One specific organ missing. I’d already seen these photos. I’d been at the crime scene when they were taken.
The sigils etched into her ribs were unmistakable. Something I couldn’t name burned in my throat, but I didn’t let it show.
Schafer leaned back, folding his arms, the chair creaking under his weight. “I don’t know what you and your law enforcement crew have pieced together, but that’s for sure a ritual.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I said. I looked up at Schafer and tossed the picture back on his desk.
“Listen, I know you hired me to find out shit you can’t or won’t with the FBI, but man, I need some details.” When I didn’t answer, he exhaled and scrubbed a hand over his face.
My pulse thudded against my ribs, but my voice stayed level. I’d known Schafer for years, and although I trusted him enough to investigate for me, I didn’t know how deep that trust should go.
“We are dealing with the kind of shit that believes in human sacrifice.”
His eyes narrowed. “Cults.”
The word hung between us, heavy as stone. He wasn’t saying anything the public didn’t already know. But Schafer was a nasty fucker, because he wanted details.
He tapped the photo with one dirty fingernail. “Random or ritual-limited? Local or brought in? You want to be tight-lipped, fine, but I’m gonna keep asking, ’cause you don’t pay my ass not to.”
“Last victim was female. No known family. Mid-twenties to early thirties,” I said, giving him the bland version.
“Dumped near water. Assuming that’s because it’s ritualistic, maybe for cleansing.
” Schafer leaned in, all focus on me like a salivating dog.
“Minimal trace evidence. Clearly not random.”
“Not random,” he repeated, like he was rolling those words around in his mouth before getting off on them. “And the missing organ?”
I stared at him. We both knew what was gone. We both knew what that meant. “You read the report I gave you.”
“Reports don’t tell me intent,” he shot back. “Reports tell me angles and entry wounds. I need to know what kind of story they think they’re writing.”
“You are a sick motherfucker, Schafer. You know that?”
His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Closer to satisfaction. “Maybe I can spit out some ideas on how to predict the next act.”
“You want to spitball some predictions, then tell me what I want. Plates, access to street cams, all that shit I can do on the backend while the FBI does their own thing. I’m not a magician, Schafer. I need facts to piece together a theory.”
“Look at you trying to be all modest when we both know you’re an intelligent fucker. You notice people who don’t want to be noticed,” Schafer said and slid a small bag across the table. I pulled out a flash drive. “Encrypted, but it’s all the shit you asked for. You know the drill.”
I grunted my thanks and tucked the flash drive into my coat pocket.
Schafer studied me before the corner of his mouth twitched. “Tell me about your barista.”
Something in me ached painfully at the mention of Violet. “Looking up shit you shouldn’t be, Schafer.”
He shrugged. “I like to know all corners of a square I’m trying to figure out.”
I snorted and shook my head. “Whatever the hell that means.”
“I’m just wondering about the little barista whose house you keep visiting.” He reached for a fresh file without breaking eye contact. Paper rasped under his hand. “Surveillance cams have your vehicle parked down the street from her residence more than once since you came to town.”
I let silence be my answer. The buzz of the fluorescent lights continued to fill the room.
“So who is this dark-haired woman in her twenties, five four, one hundred and thirty pounds? She’s taken your attention away from the investigation, which never happens.”
He kept going, because men like Schafer never stop pushing once they smell blood. “If there’s a link to the murders, and her name is Violet Santos . . .” he said, offering me her full name like bait.
“She doesn’t concern you.” My voice dropped as my irritation rose. “I hire you—and pay you really fucking well, Schafer—to find out the specific information I ask for.”
He said nothing, just stared at me for a long moment, finally realizing I wasn’t one to be fucked with right now. He grabbed a photo. This one wasn’t a corpse. It was clearly taken by a long-lens camera. The image showed two figures standing in front of a dark SUV.
I knew what this image was, and the time stamp solidified that. When the SUV idled across from Violet’s house.
“You’re spreading yourself too thin,” he said, showing another image. This one was of me walking up to Violet’s house. “You know exactly what lane you should be in, and it’s not this one.”
I curled my hands into fists and ground my teeth. The indistinct sound that came from me was all possessive where Violet was concerned.
Schafer made a considering sound in his throat. “Protective fucker.” He laced his fingers, letting the silence hang until it had weight. “I’ve never seen you interested in anything but work. This is . . . interesting.”
He exhaled, knowing we’d reached a wall where this conversation was going. “I already gave you the plate info, but just to let you know, it’s the equivalent of a burner phone.”
“What else?” I asked.
He cocked his head, studying a point over my shoulder, as if he could see the storm beating against the building’s narrow windows. “It’s none of my business, but I’m gonna state the obvious that getting involved with a townie is bad news, man.”
I kept silent.
“Everything is on the drive. If you have questions, you know how to get in touch.”
I rose, the chair complaining again as it screeched across the floor.
Then, quieter, almost an afterthought, Schafer said, “Grayson?”
I paused in the doorway. “What?”
“Just watch yourself, yeah?” It wasn’t a threat. Strangely enough, I sensed he actually gave a shit.
“Sometimes the thing you’re chasing is the thing you should be running from,” he said without looking up. “Close the door on your way out.”