Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 114820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 574(@200wpm)___ 459(@250wpm)___ 383(@300wpm)
Rus usually put a good deal of stock into what profilers said.
The first three victims, he bought it.
The last four, now five, he knew this whole show was for him.
Rus set about examining the room even though he knew, if his guy finally fucked up, Rus wouldn’t pick it up by looking around. It’d be discovered in forensics.
He still did it, just in case he saw something someone else might miss.
He was thorough.
As such, he stood gazing curiously at her clothes tossed in the corner that the team had left for him to see.
Not unusual. The victim’s personal effects were meaningless to her perpetrator.
Her purse had been tossed there too.
Again, there was something not right about it.
They were usually in a tidy, discarded bundle. This all seemed flung in one direction to get it out of the way.
It wasn’t a massive shift of MO, but Rus was attuned to everything.
He moved away from his perusal of the room because she’d been there too long. She needed to advance to her next violation, a full autopsy, before she was cleaned up and returned to hands and hearts who loved her.
This meant Rus didn’t further delay what he had to do next, even if it was the worst part.
He moved to the other side of the bed, the side he’d so far avoided.
Yeah.
This was what always punched him right in the gut.
And this was what made her his last.
From this angle, take away the plastic sheeting, the contusions and scrapes on her knees, ankles, and wrists, she looked like she was sleeping.
No damage to her face, not even a shadow of a bruise. No blood splatter. The duct tape, on which they’d found negligible residue from the fourth victim, giving indication it was what he used to keep them quiet, had been removed with no visible trace.
Always, the face clean and tranquil and waiting for him.
Since the fourth victim, waiting for, specifically, Rus.
As usual, she was a beautiful girl. His guess, early twenties. A long life ahead of her she would not lead. Career. Love. Marriage. Children. Birthdays. Holidays. Vacations. Graduations. Grandchildren. Retirement. Books she’d never read. Meals she’d never eat. Laughter she’d never share.
That was done, it was tragic. It added to the weight he carried, he’d wake up from dreams about it, his mind would wander to thoughts of it when he let his guard down.
But in the end, he could do nothing about it.
It was time to get on with what he might be able to do something about.
Taking a deep breath, he retrieved the nitrile gloves he’d tucked into his pocket, pulled them on and carefully pressed his fingers between the prayer position of her hands.
A chill glided over his skin.
He could feel the edges of the “gift” that the killer always wrapped in his victim’s palm, but the other wasn’t there.
It was always there.
From the fourth one, right there.
He felt around.
Nothing.
Carefully, he lifted her top hand, which shifted the weight of her head since her cheek was resting on them, and he peered in.
The crystal resting in her palm glinted, a pink one this time, but other than that…nothing.
He grabbed his phone, turned on the light, and kept her hand and head raised, leaning deeper, looking closer.
Not there.
With great care, he removed his hand, then slid his fingers between her and the sheeting.
He lifted.
It wasn’t there either.
His blood ran cold.
Now he knew what was off about this room, this girl, this murder.
Carefully, he rested her again to the plastic, turned off the light, shoved his phone in his back pocket, and snapping off the gloves, he strode out of the room right to Sheriff Harry Moran.
“I told you not to remove anything from the scene,” Rus stated.
Moran’s brows drew down. “We didn’t.”
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He’d given explicit instructions, and his team wouldn’t fuck that up.
“My boys?” he demanded.
“They didn’t either.”
“Nothing?” Rus pushed.
“Nothing,” Moran asserted.
“You’re sure of that?” Rus kept at him.
Moran was getting annoyed. “I’ve been here for twenty-two hours, Agent Lazarus. I was the first on the scene. Your guys came in, but I supervised. And when we sealed it, I personally sat in my cruiser all night and guarded it until your arrival. Nothing has been disturbed, and nothing has been removed.”
Rus was reminded that a year ago, this sleepy town in the Pacific Northwest had some high-profile trouble that was exacerbated by an inept sheriff.
One of the reasons Moran had his current position—the old was ousted, Moran was the new.
This meant Moran wasn’t dicking around.
“What’s going on?” Moran demanded.
“She’s good to be moved. Call your coroner. Bag the crystal. The personal effects. Then get her out of here. We’ll talk at the station.”
And with that, Rus moved to his rented SUV.
TWO
Lore
Rus folded himself in a chair in front of the desk as he watched the sheriff round it.