Page 3 of Edge of Control

I’d been expecting to work simple jobs at first. Tracking down cheaters, investigating suspicious neighbors, hunting missing packages, that kind of shit.

Instead, I’d been called the same morning I first started with a case involving a gruesome murder. Stonewall Investigations had a strong reputation throughout the city. They specialized in crimes primarily perpetrated against the LGBTQ community, and so when a gay escort was found murdered in his own home, they were the first to be called, and I was the first to answer.

The photos from the crime scene currently filled my laptop screen. A man in nothing but a pink thong lay face down and ass up on a blood-soaked bed. His hands were tied behind his back like a pig about to be roasted. His neck had been slit open, which explained the blood. The lack of signs that he struggled made it seem like the man was unaware of the vicious end he was about to meet.

But the most unsettling aspect of it all wasn’t the blood or posing of the victim. It was the meticulously placed jet-black feathers in both of the man’s shoulders. Like dark wings sprouting out from the lifeless corpse. It must havebeen done after death since each feather had been individually implanted into the skin in neat rows that fanned outward. There wasn’t a drop of blood on any of them, either. The killer had taken great care to make sure the feathers stayed clean.

I’ve seen death before, but never like this, never arranged as if it were art. How many more nights could I face this darkness before it swallowed me whole?

A clap of thunder rolled through the building. I clicked through, opening the victim’s Facebook profile. It was relatively bare. The man was in his late twenties and didn’t appear to have a large social network. He listed his schooling as “the school for hard knocks” and his employment as a waiter at a pizza place in the Bronx. I had already gone to ask around about him, but apparently, the victim, Franky Montes, hadn’t worked there for over a year. The one person who had known him mentioned getting really badvibesfrom the guy, which didn’t tell me much, but I noted it down anyway. When asked to elaborate, the employee simply said Franky had haunted eyes and never laughed.

Not much to go off.

I stretched, kicking my feet out under the desk. The office was still pretty barren and would likely stay that way. I wasn’t one for decorating. For making spaces mine. I was too used to having to give places up to waste much time turning any of them into my own.

My cell phone rang, vibrating against the wooden desk. I recognized the number as one of the officers who’d initially called me about the case.

“This is Jace.”

“Hey, Jace. We have another crime scene.”

I wondered if this officer realized how brand-new I wasto this position. There could likely be a dozen other more seasoned investigators who could handle this case. “Same as the last one. It’s in an apartment near Dumbo. How soon can you get here?”

I stood up, grabbing my wallet and keys. “Send me the exact address. I’ll be there in fifteen, twenty tops.”

I would never get over the coppery, stomach-churning scent of dried blood. Especially not when it was nearly a gallon of it covering the otherwise clean white bedsheets, dripping down onto the beige carpet like scarlet rivers snaking through the fabric. The victim, named Ricky Walters, was positioned same as the last: head down, ass up. He also wore a thong, although it was light blue instead of pink.

And then there were the feathers. They sprouted out from his back as if he were seconds away from taking flight. I guessed that, in a way, he had.

“Twisted shit, huh?” Officer Caleb said. He stood near the door to the small bedroom. Again, there hadn’t been any sign of forced entry or struggle. Whoever had done this was invited in and took the victim by surprise.

I nodded as I snapped photos of the bloody bedroom.

“Neighbors didn’t hear anything?” I asked. I walked to the bedside table, where an uncapped bottle of lube sat next to a framed photo of the victim and his smiling parents.

“Nothing. But two bodies like this? I mean—you realize what we’re dealing with here, right?”

I nodded. “A twisted fuck.”

“A serial killer.”

The room chilled, as if it could somehow become any more devoid of life.

A serial killer.

And it was only my first week on the job.

Fuck.

I couldn’t let my insecurity about taking this case show through. Insecurity—lack of self-confidence. It was a disease that had infected me since I was a child. I lacked any kind of belief in myself. Sometimes there were days when I’d feel flashes of it, when I’d feel competent enough to handle a job at a sandwich shop, and then there were other days when I felt like I was drowning just to send a simple email. Maybe it was the way my mother raised me, spoke to me, chastised me. Or maybe it was simply in my DNA? I tried to fake it, which was likely what had landed me this job in the first place, but that didn’t mean I felt like I’d made it yet.

So what was the only option I had? To continue faking it. It wasn’t like I was going to give this job up. I needed the money, number one. And number two? I really wanted to help people.

…Maybe that should have been number one. But after almost finding myself out on the streets, money took a huge priority in my life. I didn’t want an excess of it. Just enough to get by. To maybe buy some things I liked on the side. Nothing crazy.

Either way, I had started this job, and now, I was determined to finish it.

That drive to complete things often worked against me throughout his life. I had the tendency to become obsessedwith seeing things through. Especially with my time on the police force. I’d latch on to situations like a salivating dog with a bone. If a criminal took off running, I would follow in pursuit for miles on end. As if I needed to prove to myself that I could, in fact, catch them. If I realized someone was withholding information, then I would interrogate the suspect until exhaustion had them collapsing on the table. It bled into my personal life as well. Any kind of projects I took on always had to be completed, even if it meant losing nights of sleep or forgoing lunch and dinner.

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