Page 58 of Can You Take It?

“What’s up, Rick?” Noah’s voice breaks through my thoughts.

I slam the letters down on my desk. “It’s been four months since I started receiving these damn letters,” I gesture at the letters. “They are soaked in blood, sent straight to me.”

Colton frowns, leaning in closer. “And you’re only telling us now?”

I slam the file shut. “What the hell was I supposed to say? I thought it was just some psycho fangirl. After I went on TV, made that public statement about the Ghostface Striker, I figured some sick fuck out there decided I was their new obsession.”

“And it’s not?”

“No, turns out,” I say, holding up one of Billy Brooke’s letters, “the detective working on Billy Brooke’s case, he got letters too—one for every damn victim. Fourteen girls, fourteen letters. And me? I’ve already received five.”

“Five letters?” Colton asks. “So, you’re saying—”

“I’m saying there’s another victim,” I cut in, holding up the latest letter—the one Izel handed me. “This is number six. And that means someone else is dead or about to be.”

Colton’s eyes narrow as he processes that. “If that’s the case, we might be dealing with a group of serial killers. All of them could be working in sync, sharing the thrill, the power. They’veprobably got roles—a leader, a planner, maybe even someone who handles the communication. And they’re fucking smart. No way one person could pull off something like this without slipping up.”

Noah nods, his brow furrowing as he thinks it through. “Makes sense. A single killer might leave a pattern we could track, but a group? They could switch up their methods, throw us off their scent. And with multiple hands on deck, they can cover each other’s tracks. One fucks up, the others step in to clean up the mess.”

“Right,” I add. “And if they’re smart enough to stay under the radar, they probably have resources. Access to clean blood, the ability to stay anonymous. They might be tech-savvy, masking their digital footprints, or they could have someone on the inside feeding them info.”

“Kind of like what happened with the Dnepropetrovsk maniacs,” Noah recalls. “They recorded their kills and shared them online. These guys might be doing something similar but on a bigger, more coordinated scale.”

“Exactly,” I say, leaning forward. “Think about it—each kill bolder than the last, a different MO every time. It’s like they’re upping the ante, attempting to one-up each other or prove they’re the top predator.”

Noah stands up, already reaching for his phone. “I’ll send all these letters to forensics, see if we can get anything new. Maybe we’ve been missing something because we weren’t looking at the bigger picture.”

I hand him the stack of letters. “Yeah, get them over there ASAP. If we’re dealing with a group, we need every fucking clue we can get. And Colton, keep digging into any possible connections between the victims. Start with Billy Brooke. If this is a group, there’s got to be something linking them—something we can use to break this thing wide open.”

I lean back in my chair, watching as my team jumps into action. This isn’t just about catching a killer anymore—it’s about dismantling an entire operation. And if these bastards think they can outsmart us, they’re in for a rude fucking awakening. This ends with us, not them.

I step through the door, kicking it shut behind me as I shrug off my jacket. The house is quiet, almost too quiet. The kind of silence that makes you realize just how shitty the day’s been. We’ve been chasing leads on this group of killers. I spent several hours going over profiles, looking at surveillance footage, and barely scratched the surface. Serial killers? One thing. But a group? That’s a whole new kind of headache.

And as if that wasn’t enough, there’s Ashley.

Ashley, who I should’ve let go weeks ago. Hell, maybe months. I let her stick around longer than anyone else ever does, not because I felt anything, but because it was easier than facing the inevitable. Easier than hurting her. But now Ashley’s done.

It wasn’t pretty, but it was done. Finally. On the way home, I realized how necessary it was. Keeping her around out of convenience wasn’t just unfair to her, it was unfair to me, too. I don’t need the distraction. Not when my head’s already spinning because of someone like Izel, who’s got me so tangled up, I don’t even know which way is up anymore.

I turn on the light, ready to just collapse somewhere, but I freeze. Izel’s sitting in the chair with her legs crossed. She is holding an envelope in her hand.

“What’s with that look?” I ask, tossing my jacket.

She frowns. “What look?”

“The scorned woman look,” I smirk, throwing in the jab. Usually, that kind of shit gets a reaction out of her.

But she doesn’t bite. Instead, she shakes the envelope in her hand, ignoring my comment entirely. “This came in the mail earlier.”

My eyebrows raise, waiting for her to elaborate. “And?”

She stands up and thrusts the envelope into my chest like she’s presenting damning evidence in court. I catch it just in time, staring down at the paper like it’s about to explode in my hands.

“It’s a thank you letter about a donation. Says you donated half a million dollars to an NGO based in Stockholm—an organization for lost and homeless girls.”

Izel watches me, waiting for some kind of reaction. When I don’t give her one, her frown deepens.

“You’re not going to say anything?”

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