Page 18 of Follow Her Down
“Uh, listen,” I begin.“A word of caution since you’re new here.We’ve had some…incidents recently.Careful’s not a weakness.Stay vigilant, okay?”
What I don’t say is that the serial killer targets women who fit her demographic.The Missing Persons bulletin board at the front of the gas station is proof of that.
She stiffens at my words, like I’ve struck a nerve.“I can handle myself, Detective.”
“Never doubted it for a second.”I toss my empty cup in the trash.“But whatever you came here looking for, just make sure it doesn’t find you first.”
Something shifts in her expression.Surprise, maybe, like I’ve seen through her in a way she wasn’t expecting.
“I’m not looking for anything,” she says too evenly.“Just peace and quiet, remember?”
“Right.”I nod, heading for the door.“Good night, Ms.Vale.”
“Night, Detective.”
I walk out, committing everything I’ve already cataloged about her to memory.
Her name’s Sera Vale.Her hair dyed.Dark under the fluorescents, but the roots show signs of being much lighter.License plate on her beat-up Honda has Wyandotte County tags.No wedding ring, no tan line where one would be.Tattoo peeking from her work shirt collar, something angular and dark.Not decorative, but meaningful, like she’s branded herself with something she never wants to forget.
Eyes that have seen shit they shouldn’t have.That know things no one should know.
Very fuckable ass.
Back in my cruiser, I quickly punch her name into the database, but nothing comes up.No issued driver’s license.No priors.No credit history.No employment history.No social media footprint.No previous addresses.
Either she’s brand new to existence, or she’s cleaned house.Scrubbed herself from the system and changed her name.
I’m about to plug in her license plate number instead when the radio crackles.“Detective Crowe, you copy?”
“Go ahead.”
“Victim identification confirmed.Female, Caucasian, thirty-two.Name’s Margot Ellison.Sheriff wants you at the scene ASAP.”
My fingers freeze on the steering wheel.Margot.The name clicks instantly.
I look back at the gas station, where Sera is restocking the chips again.
Margot Ellison.The former Gas N’ Go clerk with the bright smile who’d lived here since high school.Got herself a new apartment, new boyfriend.Was reinventing herself, people said.Going back to school finally for her nursing degree.
The same Margot who’d filed a harassment complaint against Rick, the gas station manager, about a month back right after she quit.
Is Rick Red Hands?Is he capable of the kind of gruesome, ritualistic murders we’ve been finding?His car isn’t here in the parking lot, so where is he?
A sudden, inexplicable feeling of protectiveness floods my veins as I watch Sera through the store window.She’s a complete stranger, but I recognize a haunted soul when I see one.She could also be a potential next victim, of either Rick or Red Hands, or both if they’re one and the same.
She’s not mine.
But I’ll make sure no one else gets to pretend she’s theirs.
8
Eddie
You’dthinkI’dbeused to the smell of murder and the flies, their buzzing a low, persistent hum that vibrates in my molars, but I’m not.
Margot kneels on the floor, positioned center stage on a threadbare rug that may have been floral once, before it soaked up too much red.Her hands are clasped together around a burned rose as if in prayer, pleading with a god who didn’t show up.
“Jesus,” Deputy Miller mutters beside me, his voice choked.He’s young, still green enough for his stomach to rebel.He turns away, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth.“How do you get used to this?”
