Page 6 of Keep Me

He shakes his head and flips the open flap of the box over as if the answer suddenly appears. Addressed to the facility and nothing but a PO box as the return address, the box itself is little help.

“I don’t know, but they know you’re onto them. They won’t send us any more bodies and you”—he lifts his bushy eyebrows—“need to stop digging.”

“There’s a serial killer out there murdering women. Our women. They may stop sending us bodies, but they aren’t going to stop killing.”

“Then go to the police. Let them handle it.” He tries to push an authoritative tone, but I can hear the concern leaking through. He’s scared for me, but I’m sure the women being butchered were much more scared.

Clashing emotions and prerogatives battle in my mind. On one hand, I want justice. But on the other…

“If he’s involved, I’m not gonna hand the police enough to put him away for life on a silver platter.”

“Then let it go.” He sighs, sensing this is a losing argument. He knows me, and he knows the blood that runs in my veins, the DNA woven into my very being. I’m a Cortez, and I don’t back down.

1. God’s Gonna Cut You Down—John Grant. Play until end of chapter

Chapter 4

Nightmarish

Roan

There’s a barrel of a gun aimed between my eyes. It’s so close that they cross as I struggle to focus on it. I can smell old gunpowder around the muzzle. It’s the same scent my dad’s men carry with them, like rust and firecrackers.

My mouth is dry, my lips sealed shut so none of the screams bottled up in my throat escape. Men don’t cry. But Lochlan cries. He’s still a baby. The screams from his crib are audible all the way out here, and each wail makes me want to flinch. I can’t show my fear, though, so my right eye only twitches a little.

I should have never opened that door—

I slam out of my dream, finding myself where I always do: standing in front of my bedroom door. My knuckles ache, but when I look down, they aren’t bleeding. I tug my shirt, cold with sweat, over my head and throw it into the hamper before walking into the kitchen. There’s no point trying to go back to sleep, it never comes.

At least this time, I woke up before I broke my hand again.

Reggie

After receiving that package, Verano closed the institute “until the dust settles.” But we won’t ever know who’s kicking up all this fucking dust if I can’t be in the lab. I hate feeling like I am spinning my wheels and I could get out of the mud if only someone stopped holding me back.

The Keeper’s Café’s signature scent hits me with nostalgia, instantly taking me back to the hours I spent studying here during school—freshly brewed coffee, sea-weathered lumber, and old books. Originally the June Harbor lighthouse keeper’s cottage, the new owners kept the rustic look, restoring the original wood flooring and filling the space with antique arm chairs and desks.

There’s no public Wi-Fi, so most of the guests are reading quietly while Ella and Louis play in the background, her youthful, bright voice mingling with his raspy, rich one. Some people are on laptops or writing in journals, and the overall tone is studious and cozy. With the lack of internet and being on the outskirts of town, the patronage tends to be small but loyal.

I recognize George, an elderly man who always wears a sweater vest and slacks. His glasses are balanced precariously on the tip of his nose as he reads in an old, leather wingback chair. There’s Micky, a tattoo artist who comes here to sketch. His notebooks are spread out before him as he hunches over, his nose practically kissing the paper as he works attentively. There are several more faces I recognize but have never gotten to know.

As I step up to the counter to order, my head spins in the direction of the front door opening. Despite only coming here once in a blue moon since graduating, I know the man that walks in doesn’t belong here. He steps inside, his footsteps heavy in black-leather boots. He has the air of a rogue cowboy in a western, swinging through the saloon doors in a cloud of dust. I don't know him, but there's something about him that instantly sets alarm bells off in my head.

He plucks his sunglasses off, and I notice that the back of his hand is tattooed with vines of roses. His stormy blue eyes lock with mine, and I stand frozen for a second. But only a second, then I’m whipping my attention back to the barista, trying to ignore the burning sensation down my spine that is screaming trouble.

I commit his face to memory as I wait for my drink, feeling his gaze prick the back of my neck. I run his image through my mind—high cheekbones, strong brow, dark auburn hair and stubble—trying to remember where I might have seen him or something to explain the dark chill I got when I looked into his eyes.

I spot an open table in a corner with a view of the whole floor. Once my order is ready, I make a beeline straight for it. As I set up my computer and personal hotspot, I keep an eye on the stranger in my peripheral vision. He’s sitting in another leather chair next to George, pulling out his phone as the old man tries to make conversation. I sneer internally, offended on his behalf. What a jackass.

I take a deep breath and focus on what I came here for. I pull up DS Transport’s website to get their phone number again. As I dial and bring the phone to my ear, I look up. The stranger’s gaze locks with mine as if he has been staring at me the entire time. I narrow my eyes, making it clear he’s been caught, when an automated voice informs me the number I called has been disconnected.

The call drops, and my stomach along with it. The company was just a front. I knew that, but the confirmation still settles uneasily in my chest. We lost our only lead. My fingers hover over my keyboard, ready to continue, but I don’t know where to go from here. Frustrated, I ball my hands into tight fists until my nails bite into my palm.

Think, Reggie, think.

Okay, so if I can’t trace who is delivering the bodies…maybe I can trace who the bodies belong to. Not being part of law enforcement or government of any kind, the facility doesn’t have access to a lot of databases for identification. But missing persons cases are public.

I spend the next two hours scrolling through missing persons that match the victims and timeline, checking each potential for notes on tattoos. So far, it feels like I’m chasing a ghost.

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