Page 10 of The Killer You Know

“It’d be hard not to.” I glance back at the house. “I take back what I said. I am definitely going to your reunion.”

“Good,” he says as he starts tapping into his phone. “That is, if any of my classmates survive that long.”

“What are you doing?” I ask as he finishes up a text message.

“I let CSI know I want those tire tracks sent to me along with the tracks from where Brittney was taken. I want to juxtapose them as soon as possible. We need to figure out if one person could have pulled off both feats.”

“Or a group of people,” I say. “Although it feels too ambitious if you ask me.”

“I agree. We need to shore up the timeline. Tomorrow we can speak with the sisters that were shot along with Vanessa.”

“And other than the fact Brittney and Robin were classmates, I want to look at any other ties they might have had.”

Daniel comes to mind once again, but I don’t say a word.

Jack and I drive back to Pine Ridge Falls with our thoughts fracturing in a thousand different directions.

We each head to our own cabins, texting along with Nikki all night as we dive into both cases at once. Both victims have prolific social media accounts across every platform and we wade our way through them one post at a time.

As the night deepens, it’s just the glow of my screen that lights up my cabin. Buddy snoozes next to me in bed while I search for anything that might help unravel these mysteries.

There’s a killer out there hoping I won’t.

But everything in me says I will.

8

Special Agent Jack Stone

With only three hours of sleep under my belt, the morning sun feels like an intrusion rather than a welcome.

The fact it’s hardly morning anymore is another thing I need to grapple with.

As soon as my lids cracked open, I shot a message to Mitch and asked if he could drop by my cabin.

There aren’t any new messages from Fallon or Nikki and for that I’m grateful. That means they’re probably still dead to the world. We were shooting texts in our group chat well past five in the morning, and seeing that it’s almost nine-thirty, that means I got roughly a whopping three hours of sleep.

I throw myself in the shower, and by the time I get out Jet has already let Mitch into the living room.

The Deckers were saviors to Jet and me after our family imploded. Mom went to prison for knocking back liquor stores and Dad went in for possession of heroin at exactly the same time. My older sister was living with friends at the time. Jet was already eighteen, no room for him in the foster system, and I was seventeen, about to age out myself. But a social worker linked us up with the Deckers who graciously offered to take us in. I finished out my senior year with their son Mitch at Aspen Heights High.

I figure he may have known the women who were targeted better than I did. Mitch and I had the same senior year; Jet was one year ahead of us and out of school at that point.

“Rough night? You look like crap,” Mitch says with a smile like only he can do.

Mitch is tall, dark hair, dark eyes, and always happy. I don’t see why not. There’s not a thing that’s ever gone wrong for the guy. He was an only child until he got saddled with my brother and me. My sister never really got into the Decker picture. She kept up the disappearing act and is hard to keep track of even to this day.

“Thank you,” I tell him with a scowl. “You want coffee?” I say, moving toward the kitchen, eager to help myself to a cup of joe.

“I brought it,” Mitch says, heading to the kitchen table where Jet is already sucking on a cup from the local coffee shop and there’s one for me, too.

“I hope it’s black, strong, and lethal,” I moan as I take one of the brown cardboard cups for myself and toast Mitch with it. “Thank you.”

Mitch looks sharp in a dark navy suit and red tie. Unlike Jet whose hair is mussed and eyes are rimmed with what looks like dark bruises.

Jet is tall, lanky, and sinewy, although with less muscles than should qualify. He’s been an alcoholic for as long as I can remember, and for a good portion of our teenage years, I was right there with him. I cleaned up when we landed at the Deckers’ house, but he snuck liquor and coke and whatever else he could find to continue with the destruction of his existence.

Cocaine was my thing for a while, too, and every now and again I’d love to have a few lines to get me through a rough patch. Last night would have been great.

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