Page 42 of Secrets

“Damn, the nail is definitely the worst part. What case did they call you for?” Being as I’m only ever contacted for profiles, or the fact that, up until a few weeks ago, I was knuckles deep in my Alexi addiction, I don’t really know what goes on outside my bubble.

“Some white collar shit. It was open and closed but I think the local department was nervous about retaliation. So they called us to pool resources.” She pushes out a big sigh and glances at my dark computer screen. “They still got you on the second killer?”

I grab my bag from my bottom drawer and stand, pushing in my chair. “Yeah, but I’ve already worked up a good profile. Now me and Fikes are looking deeper into cases. Seeing if there’s anything that was missed.”

Which, if I’m honest, knowing the unsub is a woman—if the goon can be believed—has complicated things. I’m well aware serial killers can be women, but the cuts on the bodies and methodology of the kills are clean and concise, with no signs of hesitation or emotional slip ups—things not often found in women serial killers.

Plus, the majority of the victims were over two hundred pounds. She’d have to be strong enough to carry them to the drop off location. Which, don’t get me wrong, is very possible, especially after watching Elena haul those heavy ass bags of compost like a newborn baby, but it is less likely that the unsub wouldn’t struggle. And there are no signs of that. No postmortem marks or bruising from victims being dropped.

Also, there’ve been no eye witnesses that have seen anyone carry anything down to the docks. Nothing. Nada. Which is already suspicious as shit considering all the bodies that have been found on that river. Part of that is likely because the community doesn’t mind the type of people who are being dumped, which is the key to how Fikes and I have worked up a profile.

The unsub—whether male or female—is likely anywhere between twenty-five to forty with a possible background in law enforcement, military service, private security, or even part of criminal organizations. The pattern, both the methods of killing and all victims being male with a criminal record, suggests the killer is mission oriented. Perhaps driven by either a father complex, a need to correct the justice system’s shortcomings, a self-appointed vigilante, or someone hired as a contracted killer.

If they’re for hire, it would explain a female’s ability to drop bodies—maybe she kills, and someone else cleans—but with nearly all the men having connections with the cartel, it makes it less likely. The cartel has no problem killing their own who make a mistake. Hell, they make a show of it, so it serves as a lesson to other members who toe the line. But, at the same time, I don’t think there’s a singular soul who would put out so many hits on the cartel’s guys. No one who is sane at least.

Alexi.

The voice I’ve shoved into the deepest corner of my brain whispers and I wince. Now, that, I could believe. But by doing so would mean I’m allowing myself to be dragged back into the Babin hole I’m working incredibly hard to dig myself out of.

So instead of making those connections in writing, I simply send the profile with what I know. The facts, completely unstained with my opinions.

And the most pungent facts are that the unsub is highly intelligent, able to control their emotions, and is incredibly calculating. They likely have antisocial personality disorder and are capable of a professional detachment that allows them to compartmentalize their crimes while living a perfectly normal life.

It’s up to the commissioner and my uncle how they want to proceed or what connections they want to make.

It’s not my problem.

At least, that’s what I remind myself as I follow Jenna to the Four, then again later, when I’m two seconds away from pouring over the cases another time, and once more when I have to call Elena to distract myself from my old obsession.

Guess it’s not as easy to go cold turkey as I thought.

A week. Seven days. Today. I’ll end the charade this afternoon and release myself of the hold the agent’s managed to attain on me. I must. I’ve let this go on for long enough.

“We’re almost there,”I promise, trying my hardest to conceal the fatigue in my voice. Before today, I would have considered myself relatively in shape, especially with my aerobatics lessons, but holy shit, this hill is really putting my annual bureau stress test to shame.

“I believe you told me that almost a mile ago, Agent.” The smile in her voice makes my chest light. “Are you doing alright? I wish you would allow me to carry something.”

“Absolutely not, Red.” Re-adjusting the sack digging into my shoulder, I straighten, throwing her a smile over my shoulder. “I’m doingwonderful. The sun is shining, the breeze is cool, I’ve got the most stunning woman next to me, and not a?—”

You know how in movies, when the protagonist is facing death, they end up watching their entire life play out? Or when someone is having an out-of-body experience during a traumatic event and stares from above as paramedics pull them from a crash? Well, I’m experiencing both phenomena as my ass starts rolling down the hill we just spent five-ever climbing, trying my best not to flail around like a fool while also attempting to somehow stop myself.

My name is a cry on Elena’s lips and if my tumble wasn’t abruptly halted by a nearby brush that I’m sure has claimed lives before with its prickly-as-shit branches, I’d appreciate the worry staining every syllable.

“Fuuuuuck.” I groan, leaning to the side in an attempt to take weight off the sack containing all our likely destroyed food, mentally cataloging the dozen places pain throbs in my body.

“Are you alright?” Elena calls, her voice clearer as she nears the scene of my dwindling pride and increasing embarrassment.

“Agent isn’t here right now. You are currently seeing an apparition. Please come back at a later time.”

Her laugh is a spicy balm to both my physical pain and deflated ego. “Don’t beat yourself up. That was a rather large hole you tripped over. In fact, it was almost a Jack and Jill situation. Here, let me help you up.”

Peeling one eye open, I find the sun beaming around Elena, making her glow like an angel. Her smile is empathic, though the corners are turned in a way that says she also finds this a tad funny. One hand is outstretched, while the other grips onto the old school basket I’d brought along that must have slipped from my grasp. The side is dripping red, which tells me the strawberry shortcake is definitely off our lunch menu.

Disappointment and annoyance slithers through me, slimy and slow. I take her hand and wince when I rise, little shots of pain ricocheting around the places I’m sure the branches punctured. “I’m so sorry.”

Her eyebrows draw together, creating the cutest little v. “For what?”

I huff, hating I have to release her hand to brush myself off. Sure enough, little beads of blood are beginning to form in three different places along my arms and there’s a nice scrape down my left shin. “Ruining lunch.”

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