Page 71 of The Lost Bones
“Oh, it’s in there.” Nick swung the door to his lair open and then froze, his back stiff.
“What happened?” Mackenzie came up next to him.
The window in his office was open. A cool breeze was swirling around, causing papers to ruffle and float. An uncapped bottle of bourbon sat on the desk, an empty glass next to it.
“Did you leave the window open?” she asked.
Nick was pale. “Nope. Neither did I open that bottle.”
Mackenzie’s blood turned to ice. “Nick, someone’s after you…”
“What do they want?” he demanded. “Why would anyone climb through the window and open a bottle of bourbon?”
“To mess with your head! I don’t know!” Her own head was beginning to throb. “You should make sure nothing was taken. I’ll see you at the station.”
As she stepped outside, panic beat in her chest. A voice whispered through her. Nick had a point—what was their endgame with him?
After a shower, Mackenzie felt a lot clearer. When Nick arrived, she was at her desk, scrubbing in between the keys on the keyboard, her mind jumping from the barcoded women to his office being broken into. He looked contemplative. She could tell he was preoccupied by the events of the morning.
“Was anything taken?” she asked softly, almost too scared to hear the answer. Perhaps that was what they were after. Some evidence. Since it wasn’t possible to break into the Lakemore PD, this person was going after the detectives, hoping that they’d taken something home.
But if that were the case, why hadn’t similar things happened to Mackenzie herself?
“Because of the squad car outside my house,” she mumbled aloud.
“What?” Nick turned on his chair.
“Nothing. Um, maybe you should think about getting protection, Nick?”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah, yeah. I ran the number plates of those cars we saw at the house, and a lot of them are registered to King of the Road.”
“Well, Tag did boast about their clientele.”
“We need to talk to Jane Doe.” Nick checked his watch. “Or you need to. I heard she doesn’t respond to anyone else.”
“I saw what’s happening to those women.” The images filled her mouth with a bitter taste. “I understand why she’s having trouble trusting male authority figures. Do you want to talk about it?”
“Talk about what?” he asked innocently, fiddling with a cigarette.
“Nick.” She glared at him.
But they were interrupted by Andrew, who arrived with purpose in his stride and a glow on his face. He waved a file in his hands.
“I think I have something.” He beamed and handed them sheets of paper.
“What are we looking at?” Mackenzie asked.
“These are blogs I pulled from the internet that discuss the documentary you were in,” he explained excitedly. “I figured this killer must need some outlet for their obsession with you. Just watching you from afar isn’t enough. I scoured the net and there is one user who is active on all the blogs.”
Mack1987was highlighted with red circles on all the pages. Mackenzie was born in the year 1987. She glanced at Nick, who was already looking at her, having noticed the same thing.
“They’ve employed the same username on all the websites,” Andrew said.
“That doesn’t mean it’s the same person,” Nick pointed out.
“Which is why I analyzed the language—spelling, abbreviations, phrases, prepositions, punctuation. It’s definitelythe same person.”
Denial slammed into Mackenzie. She tried poking holes in his theory. “But this doesn’t mean that Mack1987is our killer.”
