Chapter 9
SAVANNAH
Taking a second bite of the berry Danish I purchased at the bakery a few blocks over, I hold in my satisfied moan. The sweet flavor is so addictive that I could eat ten of these.
Rechecking the time on my phone, I quicken my pace. Hunter didn’t give me an exact start time for my work at RHL every day, but I don’t want to show up too late.
I’m about a block away when my soul just about leaves my body, and my breakfast almost slips from my hands.
“Hey!” Slicer pops up next to me on the sidewalk.
“Oh my God.” Jumping to the side, I bump into someone and place my hand on my chest. “Uh. Hi?” My greeting comes out as a question.
We’re blocking part of the sidewalk, but I couldn’t care less. This doesn’t feel like a coincidence, but how would Slicer know where to find me?
“I haven’t seen you around lately.” His hands rest in his pockets, balled into fists as he inches closer to me.
“That’s because I haven’t been around.” I side-step him, aiming toward RHL, but it’s like everyone in Manhattan has decided to flood the sidewalk at this very moment.
Slicer keeps pace with me. “I’ve missed discussing true crime with you.”
With my eyes forward, I constantly track him in my peripheral view. “It’s only been a few days, Slicer.”
He changes the subject. “Hey, did you hear about that copycat serial killer? I heard about it on that podcast.”
A chill spreads over my back. “Uh huh,” I reply and take another bite of my pastry, hopefully coming off nonchalant.
“They found another body last night,” he adds as if it’s a fun fact. “But there’s still no ID.”
“That’s crazy,” I comment half-heartedly as I raise on my toes to see over the crowd and figure out what has everyone moving slower than molasses.
“Do you think it’s really a copycat or do you think police arrested the wrong guy?” Slicer moves closer at my side, so we’re shoulder to shoulder, and I lean my upper body to the right, keeping some space between us.
People are so dumb sometimes. They think everything they hear on TV or read in an article is fact, which is how misinformation spreads. If only more people had critical thinking skills…
“Copycat, for sure,” I retort a little too strongly as RHL finally comes into view.
Slicer’s response is lukewarm, as if he’s disappointed. “Yeah, me too.” He slips his hands into his apron pockets, looking anywhere but me. “Out of curiosity, what makes you think it’s a copycat?”
My focus is on getting away, so the answer is short and sweet. “The evidence.”
Slicer nods his head. “Ah. The evidence. Yes. The evidence against John Bartlett was pretty bad.” He frowns. “But he never confessed.”
I’ve heard people argue this point before, and it all boils down to one thing.
“Criminals don’t always confess. It’s not like it is in the movies.” My eyes search for an opening in the mass of people.
“Very true.” Slicer doesn’t notice my discomfort as his thumb drags over his bottom lip. “I wonder if the copycat got everything right?”
An ache forms in the bottom of my gut as I swallow hard. “What do you mean?”
“John the Baptist’s MO was very specific. I’m wondering if the copycat knows all of it.”
My hand flexes at my side, aching for the weight of my knife. “Maybe that’s how the police can tell it’s a copycat?”
Another inch toward me.
Another inch away.
Slicer’s lips turn down. “You’re being safe out here, right?”
“What?” Nausea stirs inside me.
“Are you being safe?” he repeats. “Ya know, like locking your doors and windows, carrying pepper spray, not walking alone at night?”
I don’t like where this is going…
A sliver of a space finally opens in front of me, and I don’t squander the opportunity. I squeeze through, causing some cursing and complaints in typical New York style.
“Wait! Savannah!”
Slicer’s voice is muffled enough to give me a single ray of hope that I’ll lose him in the throng of angry pedestrians.
Sweat gathers on the back of my neck, and my heart turns into a jackhammer.
The revolving door is less than a foot away when someone grasps my hand, tugging me backward. I throw my weight forward, barely making it into the next rotation.
My hand smacks against the glass, as does the other, and the person behind me shouts. “Fucking bitch!”
When I get through, I don’t turn around, and I don’t slow my pace. I beeline for the elevator and almost miss the man waiting for me at reception.
“Hey, hey.” Luke steps in my path, lifting his hands to get me to stop. “What’s going on? Where’s the fire?”
I halt just before his hands hit my chest. “Um. Nothing. I’m fine.”
He leans to the side, looking past me. “Who’s that?”
A quick glance backward shows Slicer standing outside the door, clutching his hand. “No one.”
Luke’s lips twist to the side. “He doesn’t seem like no one.”
“It’s fine.” I shake my head. “Don’t worry about it.”
Luke grabs my hand, the one that hit the glass, and I wince. His brows lower as he adjusts his hold, bringing my hand closer to his face. He pulls on the tips of my glove, removing the fabric carefully.
When it slips away, he tucks my glove into his suit pocket, revealing angry red skin around my knuckles with a bruise already taking shape.
His teeth grind as he studies my damaged skin, emphasizing the sharpness of his jaw. “I’ll kill him,” he growls.
“That’s not necessary,” I blurt out. “He’s not worth the possibility of prison.”
His hard eyes flick to mine. The darkness there should be frightening. It should make me want to run as far and as fast as possible in the opposite direction.
Instead, I want to get closer. There’s something there that makes me feel like I know him.
Something familiar.
Luke drops his voice lower, taking on a grit I haven’t heard before. “Anyone who hurts you shouldn’t be allowed to breathe.”
A lump forms in my throat as a tightness I didn’t realize I was carrying eases a fraction.
We stand there, staring into each other’s eyes. I’m sure people are staring, but I don’t want this moment to end. For the first time in years, my doubts and fears are quiet.
“Savannah Foster,” a burly voice calls my name from behind me.
My body jerks as if someone struck me in my side. Luke’s eyes slide to the side, looking past me.
I spin around toward the wrathful voice, and my entire body goes rigid.
The lovely Travis Huntley and his less annoying sidekick, Roman Cassidy, are here and making their way to the counter.
How did they know I would be here?
“You’re coming with us,” Agent Huntley informs me, because apparently, asking for consent is beneath him.
“Why?” I’m messing with a hornet’s nest, but I’m done with men who don’t care one bit about my comfort.
Luke maneuvers my body behind him, blocking me from the two agents. “Excuse me, who are you?”
“Agents Huntley and Cassidy,” I hear Huntley answer.
“I’d like to see your badges,” Luke demands. Huntley scoffs, but I assume he and Cassidy comply because Luke nods his head. “What can I help you two gentlemen with?”
“We’re here for Savannah Foster,” Huntley asserts.
My eyes slide to my side, and I realize that Blair has an exclusive front row seat to the entire show. She looks all too pleased with the performance. I’m sure she’d feel complete with a bowl of popcorn.
Cassidy takes a step to the side, enabling himself to talk to me. “Please, Miss Foster. We need your help. I think you might be the only one who can help us right now.”
Why me?
Luke spins, placing his hands on my upper arms. “Savannah, are you okay? What’s going on?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, contemplating the situation.
If Cassidy's thoughts are correct, do I owe it to the women in danger to help them? Maybe this is the universe’s way of telling me that I can balance the scales. I have enough blood on my hands to last a lifetime.
I know that if I go with them, then Luke will dig into my history, if he hasn’t already. He’ll find out who I really am, and I could never ask him to lie to his friends for me.
What’s more important? The lives of strangers or keeping my past a secret?
“I’ll be okay,” I assure Luke, then turn to Agent Cassidy. “How can I help?”
“What’s going on, Savannah? Are you in trouble?” Luke doesn’t release me.
Cupping his cheek, I try to ease the anxiety in his posture. “Everything is fine. Don’t worry. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
His lips flatten into a thin line. “I’m coming with you.”
“No,” I refuse. “Please, don’t.” Circling his wrists, I push his arms down.
Luke’s stare doesn’t leave my face.
“Thank you,” Cassidy says to me as Huntley glares at me like I’m the spawn of Satan.
Turning from Luke, I shake my head. “Don’t thank me just yet. I’m not even sure I can help you. Besides, I need to make a phone call.”
“We need to get going,” Huntley grumbles. “You can make your phone call from the car.” He turns on his heel and heads out of the building without waiting for Cassidy or me.
I feel Luke’s eyes on my back, but I don’t turn around. If I do, then I’ll do something stupid like run into his arms and never leave. Plus, I don’t think I could handle the look on his face.
Entering the cold, I pull my coat tighter around my body and realize that I only have one glove on.
At the SUV, Cassidy holds the rear passenger door open for me. I slide into the back seat while Huntley buckles his seatbelt in the driver’s seat. When Cassidy gets in the passenger seat, Huntley flips on his lights and merges into traffic.
The little card I dropped in my purse the other day is easy to find, and I dial the number.
“Hello?” The man I’m trying to reach answers.
“You’re going to regret taking me on as a client.” I blow out a breath.
“Well, if it isn’t Savannah Foster. What have you gotten yourself into now?” His tone is playful, but I don’t think it’ll stay that way for long.
“I didn’t take your advice.” My eyes flash up and briefly connect with Huntley’s in the rearview mirror. His face is hard. I would bet big money the angry look is etched permanently in his skull.
“You wore white after Labor Day,” he deadpans.
I squint. “What? That’s not what you said.”
“Joking,” he snorts. “Wait…Are you with Travis Huntley?”
“Yep.” I pop the P of my answer.
“I’ll meet you at the FBI field office.” I hear a rustle of fabric as if he’s changing his clothes.
“Sounds…Actually, one sec.” I tilt the receiver away from my mouth. “Where are we going?”
“Green Haven,” Cassidy replies.
My stomach hardens into a tight ball, and I stop breathing. The rushing of my blood resounds in my ears, and everything around me fades away.
“Did he just say Green Haven? As in Green Haven Correctional?” Rio’s question barely registers.
I can’t go to Green Haven. I won’t.
I can’t face the man I haven’t laid eyes on in years.
My father.