Page 23 of Can You Take It?

But she doesn’t offer a reason. Instead, without breaking eye contact, Izel abruptly turns away and storms into her room, the door slamming shut behind her.

Three cases are staring me down, but the Ghostface Striker is giving me the major side-eye. I toss the other files on my desk like they’re yesterday’s garbage and focus on the one that’s been keeping me up at night.

These kills, they’re random as hell. No specific time frame, no pattern that makes sense. Only thing tying them together is that the poor souls are all around the same age.

The meeting with Harper was a total bust. Liam and Izel played the pros to perfection, nothing out of the ordinary. Not a single crack in their work profile.

Noah bursts into the room, holding a folder like it’s the freaking Holy Grail. “Got the forensics report on the Slasher’s knife.”

I snatch the folder from him, flipping it open like it’s the answer to all my damn problems. The Slasher case has been gnawing at me for months, but I haven’t had a moment to sit down and really dig into it because the Ghostface Striker started his spree right after.

Jealousy hits me as I think about those movies where FBI agents seem to tackle one case at a time, with neat resolutions tied up in a two-hour runtime. Real life is a mess of overlapping horrors and deadlines.

“Tell me something good, Noah,” I mutter, scanning through the pages.

“The knife used is a rare one. It’s got a signature to it. The sicko’s got a taste for the exotic.”

I look up, locking eyes with Noah. “Exotic how?”

He grins, the kind of grin that says he’s onto something. “This blade isn’t something you find at your local store. It's a niche, like underground knife enthusiasts’ wet dream.”

“Underground knife enthusiasts?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Exactly. There are these sketchy online shops, forums, where people trade, sell, and drool over rare blades. It’s a whole subculture. And our Slasher seems to be a part of it.”

I lean back in my chair, nervously twirling my pen between my fingers. “Can we get into one of these forums? Find out where the hell this knife came from?”

Noah’s already nodding, his fingers flying across the keyboard as he pulls up a dark web browser. “I’ve got a few leads. These places aren’t exactly secure, but if we’re careful, we can get in and poke around.”

I watch as Noah navigates through the layers of encryption, eventually landing on a forum with a minimalist look, featuring a black background and red text. There’s a whole thread dedicated to rare blades, with pictures and detailed descriptions.

Noah clicks on one of the posts, and I see a blade that looks similar to the one used in our case. “There,” I say, pointing at the screen. “That’s the one, isn’t it?”

“Looks like it,” Noah agrees, his eyes scanning the post. “It’s custom-made. Only a few of these exist.”

“Who’s the seller?” I ask, leaning in closer.

Noah scrolls down to the seller’s profile. “Goes by ‘SteelSinner.’ Not much info here, but I might be able to trace the IP. Could take a while, though.”

“Do it. If this guy’s selling the same knife, he might know who bought it.”

As Noah gets to work on tracking down the seller, I pick up my phone and dial Emily. “I need you to follow up on something,” I say as soon as she picks up. “We’re looking into an underground knife forum, and I’ve got a lead on a seller. Iwant you to dig into any recent knife-related purchases near the slasher’s hunting grounds. Check pawn shops, specialty stores, anywhere this knife could’ve changed hands. I’ll send you the details.”

“On it,” she says, and I can hear her scribbling down notes. “Anything else?”

“Yeah,” I add, glancing back at the screen. “If you find anything, I want you to cross-reference it with anyone on our suspect list.”

She hangs up, and I turn back to Noah, who’s still working on the trace. “How’s it looking?”

“Slow, but I’m getting there,” he says, his eyes glued to the screen. “This guy’s careful, but not careful enough.”

I watch as the screen fills with code, lines and lines of it that I don’t fully understand, but I trust that Noah does. My gut tells me we’re onto something here. Whoever this ‘SteelSinner’ is, he’s got connections to the kind of sickos who get off on rare blades—and possibly our killer.

Noah heads out, leaving me with the pictures. As I’m poring over the details, my phone suddenly blares out an annoying ringtone. I snatch it up and glance at the caller ID – Detective Lucas Brown.

“What?” I bark into the phone.

“Sir, I’ve got something you need to see.”

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