Page 74 of Can You Take It?

“What’s wrong, Rick?” I hear Noah ask.

Wordlessly, I hold up the sixth report and shove it into his hands. I can’t even bring myself to say it out loud. The look on his face when he sees Luna’s name confirms what I already know—this shit just got way too personal.

Colton, who’s been watching silently, finally moves closer. His face is hard, but I can see the pain in his eyes—like he’s keeping it together for my sake. I know he’s feeling it too. Luna’s like a little sister to him, to all of us.

“Fuck,” Colton mutters. His eyes almost water up, but he blinks it away. We don’t have a body yet, so we can’t assume the worst. We have to stay level-headed, no matter how fucked up this is.

He steps back and studies the reports, forcing himself to stay calm. “So, the killer’s mocking us by sending you these letters,” Colton comments. “It’s classic serial killer behavior, taunting the cops, trying to prove they’re smarter than us.”

“But why target you?” Noah asks, still trying to wrap his head around it.

Colton speaks before I can. “Richard’s the lead investigator. This psycho’s putting up a challenge, trying to get under his skin, make him lose his cool. They want him off balance.”

I nod, putting it together in my head. The timing of the letters, the way they showed up just before each murder—

“The letters... they came a week or so before each murder. That means Luna is still alive.”

Saying it out loud gives me a sliver of hope. Luna’s still alive. She has to be. I cling to that thought like a lifeline, even as my brain keeps throwing worst-case scenarios at me.

Don’t be dead, Luna. Don’t be dead.

“This is my fault,” I say. “I should’ve fucking figured it out sooner.”

Colton and Noah look at me with concern, but they don’t say anything. They can’t. What is there to say? I was the one who missed the signs, who didn’t connect the dots. I should’ve pieced this together sooner. I’ve been sitting on these letters for months, and because of my fuck-up, Luna’s in danger. Maybe worse. No. Fuck that. She’s not dead. I refuse to believe it.

I clench my fists, letting the nails dig into my palms. It’s all I can do to stop myself from breaking something. But what good would that do?

Colton’s voice pulls me back from the edge. “It’s not your fault, Rick. Serial killers send mocking letters. They don’t write love notes.”

He’s right. It clicks in my brain like a switch flipping on. If this was meant to mock us, to get under my skin, then why the hell weren’t these letters made public? Why didn’t this sicko send them to the media, plaster them all over the news to show off? The more I think about it, the less it makes sense.

“Because they weren’t taunting us. They were trying to help, but they couldn’t come right out and say it.”

“So you’re saying whoever sent these letters... they knew about the murders but couldn’t stop them? Maybe they’re involved somehow but didn’t want the victims to die?”

“Or they knew who the killer was and couldn’t blow their cover,” I mutter. “Think about it. If they’re too close to the killer, they couldn’t risk exposing themselves. So they sent these letters instead, hoping we’d figure it out.”

Noah’s face hardens. “If this theory holds up, then Luna’s got a chance. But we need to move fast, Rick. This means whoever sent those letters is likely watching the killer’s every move. If we figure out who they are, we might get a lead on the bastard responsible.”

“Alright, Noah. Get these letters and the ones from the Billy Brooke case out to the media. Maybe someone out there recognizes something—a pattern, a phrase, anything. Hell at this point, I’m willing to take a long shot that someone might recognize the handwriting.”

He starts making the calls, and I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. It is not long before Emily's voice pulls my attention.

“Rick, I might have something.”

I whip my head around, seeing her finally pull her eyes up from the computer screen. “What is it?”

“I’ve got a possible location for Luna’s car. It’s not far from here.”

The hunt for Luna takes us to the outskirts of town, where the woods loom like a dark mystery waiting to unfold. Colton, Noah, and I, armed with a picture of Luna and the description of her car, approach the locals, hoping for a lead.

“Excuse me,” I ask a middle-aged woman walking her dog. “Have you seen a girl driving a car like this around here?” I show her the picture of Luna and the details of the car.

“No, sorry. I haven’t seen her. Is everything okay?” she asks, squinting at the image and shaking her head.

Noah jumps in. “It’s an emergency. We’re looking for her, and any information could help.”

The woman furrows her brows, concern replacing her initial confusion. “I’ll keep an eye out. Hope you find her.”

---