Page 11 of Mason

“I never said I wasn’t a serial killer,” I murmur. “I just didn’t kill those fourteen women.”

Ironside’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his gaze. A shadow. A realization.

We understand each other perfectly now.

5

MASON

It’s a strange turn of events. Not altogether bad, just… unexpected.

I’ve seen and heard it all. I’ve dealt with liars, thieves, killers—the kind that can slit a throat and sit down for dinner like it’s just another Tuesday. But Ghost? He’s something else entirely. The way he dances around the fact that he was convicted on fourteen counts of kidnap and murder is almost impressive.

The only thing I know for sure? He’s a killer.

Everything else? That’s still up for debate.

Because the damned always find a way to justify their sins. Always.

Ghost leans back slightly, his posture deceptively relaxed, but his eyes—those dark, watchful eyes—don’t miss a thing. “So, what brings you here?”

His lips twitch, just slightly, like he already knows the answer. Like he’s enjoying this little game of give and take.

“Traffic violation,” I tell him, though we both know that’s bullshit.

He scoffs, a quiet, amused sound, and levels me with a look that strips through the act.

Ghost isn’t the kind of man you can lie to. He’s got that eerie ability to see people, like peeling back their skin and picking apart the bones of what makes them tick. If even half of what I’ve read about him is true, the man is a genius-level psychopath.

And that’s what makes him dangerous.

He could be a model, just stepped out of a high-end magazine, but there’s nothing pretty about him. Not really. There’s something carved into him, something cut into his face—the kind of hardness that comes from knowing what it means to take a life. His aura is dark, unsettling, magnetic. It wraps around him like smoke, pulling you in even when you know you should stay the hell away.

I don’t break the stare, but I switch gears. “Tell me why you think he’s innocent.”

His gaze flicks past me to where Clay Monroe sits, still perched on that bench, still pretending he isn’t watching us.

“I can spot a killer in a crowd before he even opens his mouth to speak.” Ghost’s voice is low, edged with an unreadable mask. “That kid? Not a killer. I don’t know many murderers who are afraid of roaches.”

I shake my head, rolling my eyes. “That’s your logic? He hates bugs, so he couldn’t have killed anyone?”

Ghost smirks like he knew I’d say that. Like he’s been two steps ahead of this conversation the whole time. “It’s not just that. There are too many flags. The kid’s smart. A tech wizard. And I’m willing to bet my last breath that he’s got something valuable—something someone wants. But a killer?” He shakes his head. “Nah. He’s being framed.”

“For murder? By who?”

Ghost tilts his head slightly. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”

I follow his gaze back to Clay. The kid is young, but there’s something about him that makes me uneasy. Something that sinks its teeth into me, makes me give a damn when I shouldn’t. Maybe it’s because Mia is about his age. Maybe because I look at him and see a kid on the edge of being swallowed whole, a kid who won’t make it out if the system gets its claws in too deep.

“He doesn’t know?” I murmur.

Ghost watches me carefully. “He has his suspicions. But he hasn’t shared them with anyone.”

I turn back toward him, and he tips his head slightly, his dark eyes glittering in the sharp afternoon light. “You see that knee?” he asks, and I follow his line of sight, noticing the subtle, rhythmic bounce of Clay’s leg. “That’s not nerves. That’s fear. A knee-jerk reaction. The kid is just waiting for someone to step up and shank him. He’s scared. He knows something. He’s just waiting for it to catch up to him.”

I shake my head and drag my gaze back to Ghost.

I didn’t come here to make conversation.

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