Page 121 of The Catalyst

Yanking open the file cabinet, I search the names of each file. This will only work if Nigel’s mother has been in trouble with the law. She’ll have a record, even if it’s minor.

When I volunteered here four years ago, I thought it was weird that the files weren’t electronic and asked about it. I was told they couldn’t spare the funding to upgrade their systems from the retro file cabinets.

It makes things way easier for what we’re doing.

“Were Nigel’s parents legally married?” I ask as I scan through the “O” files.

“Yeah, why?”

“Because that means she couldn’t have tied the knot with the fuckface. She could’ve changed her name, but it’s hard to do unless it’s through getting married or divorced. Most judges don’t like to do it, and it requires a judge’s approval. In other words, her last name should still be O’Reilly.”

Then, I see the name in bold letters.

“Sophie O’Reilly!” I cheer as I pull the file out before tossing it on the nearby desk. Closing the drawer, I move over to it with the flashlight, and Oliver hovers over me.

She looks nothing like Aimee or Nigel. No dark hair or blue eyes. No O’Reilly features at all. Her naturally light blonde hair with stripes of gray spread throughout is a tangled mess with makeup smeared across her tanned, freckled skin, but it’s not a normal tan. It’s two-toned like she’s wearing a foundation that is too dark for her skin, and some of it has rubbed off. Her lips are paper thin, and her eyes are so dark they’re almost black. Her skin clings to the bones with very little flesh or muscle between the two, and she’s covered in some scars.

She looks dead on the inside, but not like Oliver. It’s not that she’s crazy, but more like she’s lost the will to live. I would pity her if I didn’t know what kind of environment she has allowed her children to live in. In my opinion, she is just as deserving of a bullet between her eyes as the man she lives with. Even abandoning her son is enough justification for me.

I scan the folder up and down each document.

“That’s her, except she didn’t look like a crack addict the last time I saw her,” Oliver says.

“Maybe he has her on drugs. That would explain how he was able to do everything he did to Aimee without her knowing.” I flip the page.

“Well, aren’t you just a regular detective?” he teases.

I laugh, slowly shaking my head. “My dad and I used to watch true crime shows together. Sometimes he’d take me with him on trips out of town to do psych evals on killers, pedophiles, and rapists. I learned a lot. I find criminal psychology to be absolutely fascinating,” I explain as I scan the pages for something useful.

Then, I feel Oliver’s breath on my neck before his tongue runs down the collar of my neck, and a shudder runs through my body. “Does that make me your first case study, crazy girl?” And the psychotic bastard reaches under my hoodie and palms my bare breast, his thumb running over my nipple.

A surprised moan falls from my lips as his cock grinds into my ass.

“Studying the inner workings of your twisted mind would take more time than the length of one person’s career,” I rasp as he pushes his hand into my pants and pinches my clit. Oh, fuck.

An evil chuckle rings against my neck as my head lulls to the side.

“I thought we only had five minutes,” I mewl as he yanks down the zipper of my hoody before tugging my tank top over my bare tits.

So much for time and place being a factor.

“Yeah. Five minutes.” Then, he presses a single finger inside me while forcing me over the desk, but Oliver leaves me enough space to move up onto my elbows.

“Five minutes for you to find what we need in those documents. If you do, I’ll reward you with an orgasm.” His teeth sink into my neck, and I grind down onto his talented fingers, whimpering for more. “Until then, I’m going to punish your tight pussy for getting me so fucking turned on.”

“I turned you on, huh?” I tease, but his fingers speed up in a torturous way yet won’t get me off.

“You psychoanalyzing and talking about this shit is hot as hell.”

He is completely unhinged, and I love it. I explained to him how Nigel’s mom was probably being forced to do drugs and whatexperienceI had that led me to such a conclusion, and he wants to jump my bones.

My eyes scan the page. “Tick. Tok. Tick. Tok,” he impersonates the sound of a ticking clock against my neck. I keep track of the sounds until I see it. “Tick. Tok.”

“There!” I moan and push the folder to the side. “Falcon Ridge Drive. It’s the same street as the church.”

Oliver chuckles in my ear before he removes himself from my body, leaving me with the loss. Fucking asshole. I should’ve expected as much from him.

Grabbing a pen from the holder on the desk, I jot down the address number on my wrist before throwing the documents back into the folder.

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