Page 22 of Secrets

Not thinking twice about it, I slip her soft hand in mine and bring it to my lips. My eyes stay connected with the sweet hues of hers, loving when her pupils expand just a fraction as I press a light kiss on her knuckles. When I release her, there’s a void in my chest. “That it was.”

“Until next time.” Elena swallows and nods before turning to disappear inside, leaving me with my heart in my throat and a pulse between my thighs.

* * *

My eyes scanover the screen one more time, double-checking I wrote the address down correctly this time. I also glance at the street view map and note the surroundings.

Normally, I would be irritated that I wasted a trip because someone forgot to update their address online, but thankfully, it turned into a happy little accident. One that I probably used up all my good karmic energy to receive. But I’m not complaining in the slightest.

My heart is still thrumming thinking about Elena and how her number is currently nestled in my phone. Twice, I’ve glanced at the black screen and have had to talk myself out of shooting her a quick text. I’m definitely not the type who holds back or plays it cool, but with her, I’m trying to do things a little different. Don’t ask me why, though, because I have no fucking clue. I just know this woman has me by the metaphorical throat, and I love it.

“How was your lunch?” I jerk upright from the sudden deep rumble behind me I recognize as my trainee.

I twirl around in my chair and beam up at him, bracing both hands on the armrest beside me to lift and sit criss-cross. Even without accomplishing any life-changing career breakthrough, my mood is equivalent to being on cloud nine. “Delightful, actually. Yours?”

His head tilts, and it’s only now I’m realizing how big it is. How it isn’t quite proportionate to the rest of his body. Kind of like a bobble head but not as noticeable. “Eventful.”

“Oh?”

Fikes nods. “Agent James stopped by looking for you, asked how everything was going. Then, was oddly curious about the college I went to. Somehow we ended up talking about my family, but were interrupted when he got a call about a body being discovered in the Savannah River.”

My eyes nearly bulge past what’s comfortable, curiosity over my uncle’s inquisition dissolving under the latter news. “Like a body? Or a body-body?”

One of his dark brows lifts. “If you mean, did we get notified because it aligns with the deaths this office is attempting to connect to one suspect? Then yes.”

I nearly jump out of my chair, ignoring the sharp pull of my hamstring from the quick movement. “Why didn’t you start with that, Fikes? Let’s go.”

Yanking my jacket from where I discarded it on my desk, I throw my arms through it and grab my bag. When I take a step past him, though, he stops me with his next string of words. “Well, the thing is, it’s notexactlylike the others. This one is different.”

“How so?” I shift to look at him, but he swivels and begins walking forward, forcing me to follow.

“While I was waiting for you to get back, I took the liberty of combing over the files of each victim that’s been found in the Savannah over the past twenty years. At first, I saw what everyone else had been seeing. A pattern, a connection, all of them displaying similar CODs and pre-mortem trauma—” he winces, though it feels strangely forced. “Or torture. But then I went through some of the more recent ones that had been discarded as random homicides linked to gang or cartel members.”

My nerves are on fire with the slow drawl of his voice. And much like a Jack-in-the-box, I’m literally on edge for when he’ll pop and get to the damn point. “And?”

“Well, in the past twelve years, if the cause of death and key characteristics didn’t align with that of what our singular suspect is known for—cigarette burn holes, missing appendages, the sliced cheeks—it was put into a different file. But because everyone is working so hard to connect them to a serial killer?—”

“Or Babin,” I interject, annoyance pricking my nerves that he’s not just saying it’smewho is connecting the murders to one person.

“They aren’t focusing on the random homicides,” he continues. “But the thing is, they also aren’t random. They, too, have very specific connections. Prominent patterns, in fact, and I’m honestly surprised no one noticed before now.”

I bite my tongue from venting to this poor kid about how rules, laws, and general laziness keeps a lot around here unnoticed, along with ignoring how his statement feels like a slug to my abilities. “So, what are you saying?”

He looks at me with a grim expression, one that I just know in my gut is about to complicate my life even more. “It’s in my humble opinion that there aretwopeople—two serial killers—that dump in the Savannah River.”

I swallow.Well, shit.

By the time the shop is closed for the day, it’s well after midnight. My body aches from dealing with Kline this morning, along with my impromptu drop off down at the river. I’ve pulled more than a few muscles and want nothing else but to soak in the bath for at least an hour to release the horrid knots.

With one last look around the store, I double-check the locks and that the security system is activated before retreating to the back and up the narrow stairs to my apartment.

Before I took over, the studio space was used as a storage facility with a greenhouse. I vaguely remember it once being clean and organized, but after my mother’s death—murder—it fell into disarray, boxes and trash littering every square inch. I’d often find myself hidden within the rubble, staring out the singular window facing the front of the shop to pass the time as my father worked downstairs.

I’d watch as patrons come in empty-handed, then leave with a bundle of flowers, their destination a mystery to me. Over time, I familiarized myself with frequent patrons, assigning them life stories to help ebb the curiosity of who they were buying the flowers for.

Even after what had happened, what I’d been forced to be a part of, I still wanted to believe the best in people. Wanted to imagine that not everyone hurt the ones they claimed to love. That not everyone was foul, or evil. I’d hoped in that decaying heart of mine that they were worthy of the beauty they took home. I think my mother would have wished that semblance of positivity on me.

Unfortunately, in my teens, I began to understand the conversations I overheard them having with my father. I came to the discovery that the majority of the men bought flowers for much more nefarious purposes. For some, it was an apology for their extramarital affairs or domestic abuse, while others were from Made men headed to notify the wives that their husbands were dead. An act sick in itself.

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