Page 35 of Can You Take It?

I lean forward, studying her reaction. “Where’s this workshop you used to go to for woodworking?”

Her gaze shifts, and I can tell she’s searching for a lie. “Were you not listening? It was a long time ago. I don’t remember.”

I sigh inwardly. It’s clear she’s not telling me everything. The way she’s avoiding my question, the hesitation in her voice—it’s all signs of someone hiding something.

It’s also becoming increasingly obvious that Izel wanted us to find Charles. If she didn’t lead us directly to him, then either she’s being threatened into silence or she’s a silent partner trying to cover her tracks. The way things are shaping up, she might be connected to the Slasher in some way, either by choice or under duress.

I decide to play it cool, keep things friendly. If she’s a victim, it won’t be long before she feels safe enough to open up. I’ve dealt with enough cases where people are scared or protecting someone to know that building trust is key. If she’s in danger or has something to hide, I need to be the one she can rely on. For now, I’ll keep the pressure off and let her think she’s got a friend in me.

I head straight for the coffee machine. This past week has been a dead end, and right now, I need that caffeine fix more than ever. The bitter, dark brew calms my nerves as I settle in at my desk.

Meanwhile, the local PD continues working with the forensics on Charles’s case. So far, there’s no clear link to The Slasher. So, I focus back on the Ghostface Striker. I pull up the sketch that Izel had helped us with, hoping for a miracle that might link us to the bastard. But there’s no match, and the silence ofthis psychopath is unsettling. It’s been a while since we’ve heard anything from him.

With a heavy sigh, I glance at my original reports on the unsub we profiled.

Just then, Wilson walks into my office, interrupting my thoughts. “Got an update on the Ghostface Striker?”

I give him a side-eye, a silent ‘here we go again’ in my expression. “What’s the deal, Wilson?”

He takes a deep breath. “We need a breakthrough. The city’s on edge, and we can’t afford more victims.”

I give him a look that says,You don’t say.

“I’m well aware of the urgency.”

Then, the inevitable question comes, the one I’ve been dreading. “Izel Montclair. She’s still a suspect, right?”

Izel – her name has been a constant shadow looming over this case. I’ve turned her life inside out, searching for something fishy, some connection to the kills. But so far, nothing. I can’t explain why, but the idea of releasing her doesn’t sit right with me.

I dodge the question, not ready to give up on her just yet. “I’m still working on it. Nothing’s definitive.”

He narrows his eyes, clearly not satisfied with my response. “Reynolds, this case is a pressure cooker. We need results. If you’ve got anything on Izel, you better share it.”

I hesitate, weighing my options carefully. I can’t tell Wilson about Charles being a lead that came from Izel. If I do, he might pull someone else to question her, and that could complicate things further. I don’t fully understand why I feel the need to protect her, but I do.

“There’s nothing concrete,” I finally reply, keeping my tone neutral. “Just routine checks and dead ends.”

Wilson eyes me suspiciously, but he nods. “Alright. But don’t sit on it too long. We need to crack this case.”

“I know,” I say, watching him leave before I turn back to my desk, troubled by the conflicting instincts driving me in Izel’s direction.

She’s not a prime suspect, but my instincts say otherwise. I’ve learned to trust my gut in this line of work. There’s something more to her, something that ties her to this case in ways I can’t yet comprehend. And I’ll be damned if I let it slip through my fingers.

But as much as I’m trying to stay focused on the investigation, there’s this... shift. This past week, something’s changed between us. It’s not the constant back-and-forth, the snide remarks or the way we used to rile each other up. Instead, we’ve fallen into something... easier.

I thought I’d have to fake my way through this, pretend I was earning her trust, but it’s getting harder to keep the distance, harder to lie to myself about what’s actually happening here.

Fuck, it’s not even about the case anymore, is it? I find myself wanting her to trust me—not because it’ll help me do my job, but because I actually care.

I take a deep breath and shift my attention to the board where the images of the victims stare back at me. The common connection between these girls isn’t something as simple as shared hobbies or online groups

Angie Swayer, the young artist who painted outside the lines, pushing boundaries with her provocative works.

Laura Dawson, the aspiring musician who belted out rebellious anthems, refusing to conform to the music industry’s standards.

Evelyn Price, the activist who fought passionately for her beliefs, even when it meant clashing with authority.

Olivia Davis, the only child who was nothing short of a pampered princess.

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