Page 21 of Reclaimed

“In that case, I’ll be up first. She loves me,” I goad.

Sutton, ever the protective father, turns that glare on me and clenches his jaw.

“Regret asking me for help?”

“Considering it,” Sutton mutters.

Silas and I heft up the next beam overhead.

“Either of you happen to hear anything going on up at XO’s recently?” I flick my gaze over the two of them while I wait for a response.

Sutton and Silas exchange a glance.

“We heard the sheriff made a visit,” Sutton says.

“And I saw you there at the club last week.”

“What do you know?” Silas widens his stance and shifts to face me head on.

“Isla said there’s a potential serial killer targeting dancers.”

“A likely serial killer,” Sutton intones around the silver screws in his mouth.

My fingers tighten around the wood. “Is she, I mean, are the dancers in danger?”

“It’s best everyone stays alert. We don’t have anything to go on. The profiler thinks he’s taking his time choosing and stalking his victim. Nothing suspicious was captured on the security cameras at any of the victim’s clubs, so we don’t have so much as a basic description to go on,” Silas sighs. “Hell, the suspect could be a woman.”

“No fucking way it’s a woman,” Sutton supplies.

“Well we don’t know that, do we, brother?” Silas fires back. “Could be a disgruntled employee.”

“Going around killing random people?”

“Or someone’s vindictive ex-girlfriend.”

“That’s extreme,” Sutton argues.

“All murder is extreme.”

“I still think it’s a man.”

“How’d they die?” A knot sticks in my throat. “Isla said there’s been five of them?”

“Strangulation.” Silas kicks a rock across the grass. “No other injury except one weird mark left on their thumb like a calling card of some sort.”

“What’s it look like?” I ask.

Sutton answers, “A long line, ‘bout two inches long with an X at the end of it.”

“Shit.” My stomach sours at the new information. “What else do you know?”

“Like I said, not much,” Silas answers. “They’re all female entertainers between the ages of twenty-five to thirty-five. They all lived alone, which gave thisperson,” he glares at his brother, “ample opportunity to attack. Oh, and they’re all blondes.”

Isla’s a blonde.

Sutton gives a sharp whistle. “Nix the serial killer talk. Nellie’s coming.”

Our heads swivel in the direction of the house to find Sutton’s seven-year-old daughter skipping across the lawn.

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