Page 9 of Killer Knows Best

Jack was a detective before he dove into federal waters, and I left my job as a criminal analyst at a security firm to head to Quantico in hopes of one day tracking down my missing sister, Erin. She’s been as easy to find as a ghost. And the real kicker is, she doesn’t want to be found. But I push all thoughts of my feral little sister out of my mind for now.

“So what’s the connection?” Jack asks, leaning into his laptop so hard he’s practically kissing it. “Sharon and Jane were self-medicating, dressed to impressed for a night on the town. I’m guessing they need a cash infusion to sponsor their bad habits. Delaney and Gwen were dressed to impressed in a high-end hotel room no less, waiting for someone.” He ticks his head to the side. “They were most likely hookers.”

“You think?” Nikki says, deadpan. “I guess you cracked the code.”

“It does take a genius.” Jack winks her way.

“Are you calling yourself a genius?” I tease.

He chuckles. “I just call ’em like I see ’em.” He winks my way as well and I avert my eyes. “Sorry to say it, but prostitution is one hell of a dangerous profession.”

Nikki chokes. “You’re saying they asked for it?”

“I’m saying they stepped into the deep end.” He nods to the screen where Delaney and Gwen lie splayed out before us. “Prostitutes are eighteen times more likely to be murdered than women in other professions.”

“Eighteen times?” Nikki looks oddly delighted by the fact as she holds back a laugh. “That’s an awfully specific number.”

“Statistics, honey,” Jack says, tapping away at his laptop. “You should look them up some time.”

Both Nikki and I explode with laughter. I’m not sure why but we needed the levity. And seeing that Jack decided to bring it, we weren’t about to refuse the offer.

“The families have been notified,” Hale says, scrolling through pictures from the crime scene taken from every angle. “The room was rented out to a man by the name of Rush Simmons. He’s the manager of a local metal band called Social Disorder. He’s already spoken to detectives and admitted to leasing the room for the night for a few of the band members. He did so by phone, never set foot on the property. He says he doesn’t know how the girls got a key or got in there. I have a feeling his story is about to change.”

“I’d like to be there when it does,” I say. “I’ll take that one.”

“I’ll take it with you,” Jack says. “I’m always up to watch someone squirm.”

Nikki nods. “I’ll have a full report on our college girls, majors, minors, boyfriends, friends, frenemies, and any extracurricular activities we might find exciting, right along with their schedules.”

Jack ticks his head to the side. “I have a feeling we know what those exciting extracurricular activities were.”

I nod. “And it confirms my theory. Extracurricular activities never end well.” I shrug over at him and Nikki. “I was never bigon any scholastic bells and whistles.” She shrugs. “Okay, so I may have rung a few bells.”

“And on that note—” Hale taps at his laptop until the screens go blank behind him. “Sounds like you three have a full day ahead of you. Your job is to get as much info on the girls as you can. Dig in every direction. I want whoever did this in handcuffs before they even think of touching another woman. I do not want this body count to rise, you got it?” he growls as if we were personally responsible for the body count to begin with, and I suppose some would argue we are in some way.

“Got it,” we say in unison.

I glance at my watch. “It’s seven-thirty in the morning.” I shake my head at Jack. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

His dimples recess just a touch to give him that boyish appeal despite the dark scruff taking over his cheeks.

“It’s too early for justice.” He nods. “Let’s hit breakfast first.”

Pizza be darned. We take off to do just that.

And Buddy seems pretty happy about it, too.

7

SPECIAL AGENT FALLON BAXTER

Bea’s Diner smells like home, most likely because my mother owns and runs the place.

The scent of sizzling bacon, freshly brewed coffee, and warm maple syrup greets Jack, Buddy, and me the second we walk through the door.

Fall has officially arrived, and my mother has gone all out with the decorations. Not that she needed an excuse. Overdecorating has been her MO long before I was born. Wreaths of colorful leaves hang from the windows, twinkle lights crisscross over the booths, and miniature pumpkins sit neatly on each table. It’s cozy, inviting—and everything you would expect from a small-town diner.

I spot Riley in the back and wave.

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