Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Madison’s bedroom had been like the rest of her house. Cool and minimalistic.
Mari’s walls were darker than her living room, painted a deep sage green. Her bed was a brushed gold metal frame with several comforters stacked on top of each other, all mussed and kicked around.
There were more books on her nightstand, three in total. Moving closer, I checked the spines.
A Killer in Calabasas, The Man in the Backseat, and The Rise of Family Annihilators.
True crime.
I moved back out into the living room, checking out the books on the shelves.
Dozens and dozens of more true crime books.
Was that why she had a knife in her dresser and a bat by her front door? Her keys were sitting on the dining room table, and it looked like there was one of those extendable batons attached to the chain.
Aware of the threats all around.
Trying to be prepared.
I knew a lot of civilian men who were confused by or even off-put by modern women’s interest in true crime. As for me and most of the guys I knew on the force, ones who saw what happened to women day in and day out, we got it.
They consumed that content not to learn how to kill and get away with it, but because it gave them an idea of what to look out for, how to survive.
Things like perpetrators pretending to be hurt and asking for help. Or asking for help finding their lost pet.
We had a saying on the force, things we said to the women in our lives, regardless of how sexist it sounded: Men never ask women for help.
Sure, there were probably exceptions. But as a whole, it was a golden rule. Men asked other men for help. Predators asked women for help.
Mari was one of those true crime obsessed women. And her obsession might very well have had a part in helping her survive what should have been an unsurvivable attack.
We were at her house for hours, looking for any clues. Shoe or tire prints. Blood pointing in a direction. Seeing if any of the neighbors had a door camera.
We struck out on the first two, but the house on the corner did have a camera.
Unfortunately, it caught nothing.
No cars. No men on foot.
He must have come from the backyard. Which butted up to a row of trees, then the backyards of another neighborhood.
We’d exhaust the possibility for cameras in that direction, but I had to say I wasn’t hopeful. He’d never been caught on a camera before. What were the chances of it happening now?
“Do you think he plans to come back and finish the job?” Maggie asked as I made my way back down the driveway, ready to go home, shower, caffeinate, and get back to work. There was no hope of sleep with a lead like this.
“I honestly don’t know. Gonna have to talk to Gawen,” I said. “See if he can update the profile for us.”
“I’d be happy to sit on her house, if need be,” Maggie said.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, giving her a nod, and heading home to get cleaned up.
By the time the sun was high in the sky, I’d learned a lot about our survivor.
Mari Yates.
Twenty-six.
She was a physical therapist working at a smaller, niche wellness center geared toward the wealthy. I didn’t know her salary, but it had to be decent for her to own her own home already. Small as it might be, real estate wasn’t cheap in the area.
She wasn’t and had never been married, had no criminal history, not even a parking ticket, and had no known connection to Madison or Ashley, the previous victims.
I needed to dig further into that. But I wasn’t going to get far without Mari to speak to about it.
She would show up for a formal interview. I had to give her time.
Things felt urgent to me with finally having a damn lead on this case after so long. But I had to understand that things were likely going very slow for her. The hospital, finding a place to stay, telling her friends and family what happened, calling out of work.
She needed to sleep and recover.
I had to be understanding of that.
It was completely possible I wouldn’t see her for another day or two.
That didn’t mean I didn’t have things to work on. Researching the “spot” on the guy’s eye, the zip tie holder that was mentioned, calling around to the local hospitals and clinics.
“Vaughn,” a voice called a few hours later, making me glance up from my computer screen where I was looking at the device the survivor had mentioned for the zip ties.
“Yeah?” I asked even as I swiveled my chair around.
And there she was. Being led in by an officer.
Mari Yates.
Bruises covered with makeup, and with a determined look in her eye.