Page 17 of Unholy Bonds

“Did you find anything new?” Shayna, my photographer, asked as she sat down on my desk.

“Nothing, except they’re both immigrants whose parents settled here a few decades ago. What do you think?”

“I think you’re right, boss,” Shayna said.

“Hell, I hope I’m wrong this time because if I’m not, these won’t be the only two deaths,” I said with a frown. “But I know there’s a point where everything converges. I’ll have to find that soon before he kills again.”

“I know you’ll find it. Do you need anything from me?”

“Not today. I’m leaving to meet an old friend. She’s a behavioral psychiatrist with the FBI.”

“If you need anything, I’m here, boss.”

I nodded, grabbed the bunch of files from my locked drawer, and pushed them inside my backpack.

“You’re going out? Again?” Thatcher asked, sipping his iced tea.

He’d bring a container of it, which was specially prepared for him by his chef. He never missed an opportunity to show us how he existed on a different level from the rest of the vermin that inhabited the office.

Fuck him.

I wasn’t filthy rich, but I wasn’t dirt poor either. I just let him assume whatever he wanted.

“That’s my job. They don’t pay me to sit at my desk for a whole day.” Thatcher’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything as I entered the elevator. There was a smug smile on his lips that rubbed me the wrong way. I let out a growl when the elevator door closed.

“Fucking piece of shit. I want to say fuck it and kill you. Right here, right now.”

But fuck, I couldn’t.

“Ryden, here,” Laura waved when I walked into the coffee shop. “It’s been too long.”

I never spent more than a few minutes with her. I had to double-check my expressions and words when I was with her. She was a forensic psychiatrist, for fuck’s sake. It was her job to catch men like me.

“Hey, Laura, how’re you and the kids? How’s Jay?”

“They’re all good. How are you, Ryden?”

“I’m good. I need to pick your brain.”

“Yeah, the murders of the two girls. Go on,” she said, pushing a cup of coffee in my direction. “Medium caramel macchiato with an extra shot of espresso, right?”

“Do you have the pictures?” I handed them to her, and her face contorted. There was a slight wince before she composed herself. “What do the detectives think?” she asked as she pulled out the pictures, studying them carefully. “Brutal. Sloppy, but there’s no DNA evidence. So, the unsub is still being careful. How do you think these cases are related?”

“Here. The tattoo on the back of Sofia and Nikki’s necks.”

“I can barely see Sofia’s tattoo,” Laura said after she studied the photo for another minute. “But you’re right. This isn’t a coincidence.” Her eyes were somber as she studied both photos. “The unsub just started killing, but there’s a degree of meticulousness that’s amazing for a beginner. There’s no hesitation in the way he treats his victims. The scars, the physical abuse—it indicates a deep-seated rage. It also suggests premeditation. The unsub didn’t just wake up one day and want to go hunt teenage girls. It’s not a crime of passion. This is calculated,” she said. “This couldn’t be Daiken.”

“I thought as much.”

Her brows knotted together as she looked at the gruesome pictures again. “The lack of hesitation could be indicative of a high level of confidence… ego? Or a sense of righteousness in the killer’s mind. The killer’s emotions were… all over the place. They’re just exploring the boundaries of their capacity for violence. Experimenting. You’re right to worry about it. If Sofia and Nikki were killed by the same person, catching them now is the only way you’ll stop the unsub.”

“But without a pattern…” Even though it killed me to admit it, Detective Rosario was right.

“Without a pattern, it’ll be hard to apprehend him. Three or more. Three or more,” she said, tapping her fingers against the table. “I hate that part of the job.” Laura sighed. “I think it’s time you put it away. People are beginning to notice, and the nice barista has been glaring at us for ten minutes.”

I collected all the photos and shoved them back into my backpack.

“How do I convince the DPD to look further?” I asked with a frown.

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