Page 22 of Devotion

“All good,” I lie. “I’m gonna head out. Promise I’ll have the pics uploaded to the database first thing tomorrow morning.”

I don’t rush off because that would only raise more red flags, so my feet don’t move again until he relaxes a bit.

“Be careful,” he says with a dim smile.

“Will do.” I nod again, and then take off toward my car, fumbling with the keys. Every couple seconds, I glance over my shoulder before climbing behind the wheel. Even then, I check the backseat to make sure I’m alone.

More than ever, I’m certain I’m being watched, adding to the sense of reality not quite being, well,realthese days.

I turn the key in the ignition, and as I glance back toward the victim’s house, I’ve got a million questions. But the first?

What the hell have I done?

* * *

Pacing the floor of my apartment, I’m convinced my heart has never raced so fast. I can’t stop thinking about that scene, what it all means.

My thoughts slip back to the smooth, melodic voice of the caller a few nights ago, how he fooled me with his charm and conversation. All the while, I was entertaining a monster, playing right into his hand.

My steps pause, and I grip my hair, asking the million-dollar question—how does he know so much about me?

Where I work—bothjobs?

How to contact me?

It all just feels way too close.

My eyes flit toward the door, and my father’s words echo inside my head, reminding me to lock up. I’m there the next second, clicking the deadbolt into place. With trembling fingers, I reach for my phone, then shoot my supervisor for the hotline an email. Mostly, I’m wanting to know if we have a way to trace a call, or what the procedure is to look into a caller’s identity. They use credit cards to pay for the service, so there has to be a paper trail.

I’m only hopeful for a moment, but swiftly recall the words of my colleagues. On the many,manyoccasions we’ve discussed how The Widowmaker is likely calling in his own kills. We’ve suspected that he’s got some sort of network in place, protecting him, making him untraceable.

Untouchable.

I lower the phone and defeat sets in, but I decide to send the email anyway before dropping down onto the edge of my bed. I’ve accepted that I won’t likely hear back until tomorrow, but then a notification chimes, igniting hope that I might just make some headway with this today.

My brow furrows when I realize there isn’t a new email. However, thereisa new chat message.

Unknown: Did you enjoy your gift? It was customized just for you.

I stand from my bed, suddenly feeling faint as I stare at the message, realizing that I’d been wrong before.Thisis the fastest my heart’s ever raced.

I glance toward my door again, confirming that it is, in fact, locked. Then, I’m at my desk, booting up my computer, immediately logging into my email to pull up the chat.

Layla: Who is this?

Unknown: Have you already forgotten our chat the other night?

Suddenly sweating, I slip both arms out of my blazer before responding.

Layla: How are you contacting me? This is a private account.

Unknown: I have my ways. But you didn’t answer my question.

I type out a flippant response, but it only takes a second to realize this is a golden opportunity. One in which I might be able to dig out of his brain why, out of everyone linked to his case, he seems to be fixated on me.

Layla: What question?

Unknown: Did you enjoy my gift? You ordered a librarian. I delivered. Excellent choice, by the way.

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