Page 45 of The Perfect Deception

“Nothing to say,” Jay shoots back, his eyes darting away from mine.

“Bullshit. What are you trying to prove?” My heart races, frustration surges through me like electricity.

He stops before we step inside. “This could’ve easily been lover boy, but you refuse to confront the goddamn truth.” He shakes his head, disappointment and exasperation flashing across his face.

“Jay, you don’t understand?—”

“Yes, I do,” he interjects, his tone sharp. “He’s lying to you, and you’re not even curious aboutwhy.”

His words are like a slap in my face that makes my stomach turn. There is, I’m sure, a perfectly reasonable explanation to all of this, namely that Damien probably doesn’t want the world to know he was in foster care.

His image is very important to him, but what I can’t figure out is why he’d risk his life to keep that information secret. “Let’s just get to the crime scene.”

“Body first,” he grunts and heads to the kitchen where we’d been questioning Zeke DuBois just a few days ago about his time at Hope House.

Zeke’s body is face up with his eyes wide open and his lips closed, likely glued shut, and his throat is slit. “Where’s the blood?” It’s messy business, slitting a throat, yet the kitchen is clean.

“Upstairs is the primary crime scene,” one of the uniformed officers protecting the scene calls out.

I crouch down to get a closer look at Zeke, the way his face appears to be frozen in fear. “Who did this to you?” I whisper to no one, wondering if he knew his killer, if it was someone in those photographs. I slip my hands into a pair of gloves and test my theory about the glue, tugging on his bottom lip to see if his mouth would open easily. “Mouth is glued shut.”

“As if there was any doubt that this was our guy. Zeke was the clearest connection we had, and now he’s dead.” Jay folds his arms over his chest, glaring down at the body angrily. “We should’ve put him in protective custody.”

“On what basis? The brass would have never agreed to use resources on the flimsy connection we have.” If Zeke had told us what he knew about the other victims, we might’ve been able to swing it. “His refusal to tell us what this could be about is why this happened.” Shit. That’s it. “He might not have been involved in whatever this is about, but he knew and that’s why he's dead.” It’s all coming together but it still doesn’t get us closer to thewho, which is what we really need to know.

“You think he knew who it was before he got killed?”

I nod. “I got the impression he knew something. He was surprised but not as surprised as he should have been.” I should’ve seen it sooner, dammit. “I can see it clearly now.”

“What’s this?” Jay asks as he slips on some black vinyl gloves, lifting Zeke’s lifeless hand. “Probably was holding on to it whenhe died.” He tugs at the fingers, working gently until he frees the fabric. “Well, this is new.”

I gasp at the sight before me.

Blue. Silk. Panties.

Myblue silk panties.

I wore them on the night someone drugged me on the yacht. “Shit.” My head is pounding, and my vision starts to blur. Anyone could have those panties, but this, like too many other fucking things in this case, feels really personal.

“You okay?” Jay’s brows dip into a frown, his face full of concern.

I nod my head, but when I open my mouth, the words don’t come. I can’t tell him I was wearing those panties when I was drugged on the yacht. It’ll make me sound exactly how I feel, which is like I’m losing my fucking mind. “Yeah, yeah. I’m good.”

I need to focus. Just one breath at a time. I bite my lip, swallowing down the rising panic.

He lets out a grunt as he pushes up to a standing position. “At least Zeke came to us with those photos. The killer has to be in there somewhere.”

“Along with the other victims,” I say, my mind racing. “We need to track down the records from Hope House. They’ve got to be somewhere if they were a state-funded facility, right?”

“Record keeping was a mess back then, but we have to try,” Jay says. “Let’s head upstairs.”

I nod, but the discomfort in my belly twists further as we move up the stairs. The killer’s twisted game isn’t just about murdering these guys. It’s personal, aimed directly at me.

And where did he get my panties? If they are my panties.

As we pass Nate and his team, I catch a glimpse of his face. “It’s not pretty,” he warns.

“Is it ever?” I shoot back, trying to mask my anxiety with bravado, though my heart is beating like a wild horse.

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