Page 64 of The Wolves Come at Night
“Junior. But yes, this is hitting too close to home, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I bet.”
The silence was less strained now. “What do you think’s happening with that graveyard?” he asked. “Doesn’t it feel strange to you that both Carson and Georgia Wray were so close to a killer’s burial ground?”
“It does, absolutely. But honestly, now that we know Simeon Chase’s app was hacked? I think a case can be made that someone was luring them to that spot. It makes much more sense to me than it being some sort of coincidence.”
“So we have a killer who’s managed to murder four women, and kidnap a fifth.”
“Well…now we’re getting into the area I don’t feel comfortable speculating about. Until we get identifications on the bodies we dug up, and get an idea of how they died, we have no solid victimology. Without that, it’s nearly impossible to profile the killer. Nor figure out if these are his only kills. Was he kidnapping people all along? If so, and Georgia Wray was his target, why didn’t he kidnap her instead of shooting her dead on the mountain? How does Justin fit into all of this? Why go after someone so identifiable, like Georgia, and also go after Carson, who is a virtual nobody? We just don’t have enough data to assume anything right now.”
“You sound like the profilers we work with,” he said.
“Not a big leap why. I’m engaged to one, after all.”
“That’s right. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Dr. Baldwin, but I’ve read a lot of his work. He should write a book. His experience is invaluable.”
“I’ll tell him you said so.” She finished the last piece of donut, smiling to herself. Baldwin writing a book was a great idea. She could just envision him, stacks of papers around him, piles of books and case files on the desk, cursing and pulling at his hair as he tried to pull together some knotty philosophical thread. Maybe she could talk him into buying a cabin retreat, pull a Walden Pond. They could disappear into the wilderness, and emerge with the definitive text on hunting psychopaths, with a twist.
They could call it We Were Hunted.
Maybe that wasn’t such a cool idea after all.
“I wanted to be a profiler,” O’Roarke said quietly. “Applied and everything. Didn’t make the cut.”
She looked over at him. He was pleating the knee of his pants, staring out the window at the renovated Victorian and Craftsman houses that lined the street.
“It takes a certain kind of person, O’Roarke. You don’t have that darkness, I think. And that’s not a bad thing.”
“Hmm. Maybe. We’re all dark inside, though, aren’t we?”
“We’re all made up of dark and light. It’s the wolf we feed. Your wolf is light.”
“Yours isn’t?”
She didn’t know how to answer that. “We better get moving,” she replied instead, downing the last of the chai.
Ten minutes later, she pulled to the curb in front of Osborne’s house. The scene had been frozen, but she noticed both the construction dumpster and porta-potty were gone. They’d been thoroughly checked, but damn. She didn’t like it when material things changed around her scenes.
She told O’Roarke this as they stepped onto the porch. He frowned but didn’t say anything.
The inside of the house was much as she’d seen it before, but the lights were working again, which was helpful. The bloodstained flooring was still in place; the cleaners hadn’t been here yet. That was lucky. She had her photos from the day they’d discovered Osborne’s body, and she showed them to O’Roarke, swiping slowly, so he got the full effect. He’d seen all of this before, in the files he held in his right hand, but it helped to be on-site, she knew.
The renovation had been nearly complete before the home’s owner was murdered. Art leaned against the walls, guitar cases were stacked neatly in the dining room, and a full suitcase was open in the master bedroom. As soon as she released the scene, she knew Osborne’s family would empty out the place. He had only an aunt and uncle on his father’s side, it turned out, who lived out of state. Kid had given up everything to follow his dreams and the love of his life, and look where it got him.
Soon enough, the cleaners would remove the man’s life essence from the living room floor. New hardwood would be laid, the renovations would be finished, and the house would go on the market. The neighborhood was trendy; homes aggressively priced and recently renovated were scooped up quickly. The turnover was extreme; this area drew the dreamers, and so few succeeded. Five years from now, no one would remember that a young man was killed in this space, except those who knew him.
What a damn waste, she thought.
O’Roarke walked through the house slowly, looking in closets and drawers. He lingered in the kitchen, relatively empty save for a microwave, three plates, two cups and two glasses, and a set of silverware. The counters were a gorgeous leathered marble, but the sink hadn’t been set yet; the hole where it would go gaped at them accusingly. O’Roarke stood quietly, playing with what looked like a phone cord plugged into the wall.
“None of this works. Nothing in this place works with what’s happening.”
“I have to admit, I agree. Something feels off, but I can’t place it.”
“Roll with me here,” O’Roarke said, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms on his chest. “So Osborne is our serial killer—”
“Like we said, he’d have to have started pretty damn young.”
